A/N: A very short, very silly Sherlock/John general fic, because I wanted to try my hand again at filling a Livejournal prompt. From the sherlockbbc_fic meme, the prompt was: Sherlock is angry at Mycroft because Mycroft doesn't bake any more. He wants those scones, damn it!
Humor is still pretty new to me, and this was written fairly quickly, so I'd appreciate feedback or potential corrections. Enjoy the random, and check out my other Sherlock/John fics if you like this one!
My Kingdom for a Scone
When you live with the St. Bart's chemistry lab's equivalent of a mad scientist, it's nigh-guaranteed that you will walk in, one day, on what the denizens of said lab have officially designated "scary shit." John Watson had been prepped for this by many people—Stamford, to begin with, and then a few others who'd cornered him after the word had spread that Sherlock Holmes had moved in with John Watson.
After nearly a month of living together, John has reached the conclusion he's seen it all. The severed head in the fridge—still there. Eyeballs in the microwave—also still there. Fingers in jam jars—left corner of the fridge's top shelf. Even as a medical doctor, it's a bit unnerving.
Unnerving, though, is not nearly a strong enough word to describe the sight of Sherlock Holmes in an apron. No, John's not even sure there are words for that.
It's what he finds when he comes home from a decidedly normal day at work, one that had gone smoothly, no interruptions from Scotland Yard personnel come to whisk him off to a crime scene. Sarah had seemed fairly happy about that. The normalcy of any one day, he now finds, can be undermined so quickly by a sight such as this.
Sherlock is standing in the flat's tiny kitchen, in a decidedly frilly pink apron, flour smeared on his cheek and even, it looks like, in his hair. He's holding a bowl in one hand, whisking with the other, and John has to drop his briefcase to the floor in order to get his attention. Sherlock looks up, annoyed, evidently more at being interrupted than being found out. No, he seems perfectly content to be baking.
John ups the scary shit tally by one (they seem to have reached the upper vicinity of the five hundred range by now) and walks to the threshold of the kitchen. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Baking, John; I'd have thought you could work that one out."
He ignores the barb—it's strange how easily he's taken to Sherlock belittling the intelligence of others, even himself—and rephrases. "I can see that you're baking. The question is why are you baking?"
"Because there won't be any scones at Christmas."
"It's the middle of October."
"Which leaves nearly ten weeks to work out the recipe. He's hidden it all these years."
"Wait—this is something to do with Mycroft?" He names the only man he knows likely to show up at a Holmes family dinner. "Mycroft has a scone recipe you're desperate to get at?"
"Really, John, try to keep up," Sherlock intones, seemingly aggravated at how long it's taking John to catch on, though John's fairly certain he has a right to be confounded. "Every year at Christmas, Mycroft brings his scones. He's decided it's best not to this year, given his diet. This means, of course, that I have the opportunity this year, pleasing Mummy and therefore ending the feud."
"The two of you arguing over a scones recipe is what upset her?"
"She insists we're being childish. That either he should give me the recipe or I should find my own, if Mycroft refuses. She never said I couldn't try and work it out myself."
The manic glint in his flatmate's eye is… well, unsettling, to say the least, and damned creepy, to say the most. John backs away a step, before asking, "And the apron?"
John nods, before taking another step back, and then another, until he finds his way to the chair and sits, pushing the Union Jack cushion aside. When he's sure Sherlock is too absorbed in the baking to look up, he snaps a picture with his phone and sends it to Mycroft, adding below it, Current kitchen situation. Please advise.
He receives a text back in less than two minutes.
Trying to work out the scones recipe, undoubtedly.
He can go into practically any store if he'd like to find it. They're from Tesco. Premade.
John finds himself smirking. He doesn't reply, but gets another text from Mycroft a minute or two later.
You're not going to tell him, are you?
John glances back at the kitchen, where Sherlock stands kneading dough, then back to his phone, where he has a picture of the world's only consulting detective in a pink frilly apron.
No. I think the lot down at the Yard will get a good laugh out of this.