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Good, Hot Breakfast

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John awoke on his birthday to the smell of cooking bacon.

Momentarily afraid that Sherlock had taken to cooking the body parts he managed to wheedle out of Molly, he bolted up out of bed and pulled his dressing gown on.

Once he realised Sherlock wasn’t that irresponsible, he relaxed. However he went downstairs, though—relaxed or on edge—Sherlock would know what he’d thought in his half-asleep state. He went downstairs nonetheless, hoping Sherlock at least had the foresight to make coffee.

When he reached the lower landing, the sizzling of bacon frying reached his ears. Curiosity piqued, John made his way to the kitchen and was shocked to find Sherlock standing at the stove, doing just that—frying bacon.

“You cook?” The question slipped out of John’s mouth before he could stop himself.

“It’s about time you’re awake. I thought I would have to go get you up,” Sherlock answered instead, glancing up from the pan with one of his Sherlock-grins. “And yes, obviously. How do you think I survived outside of takeaway and eating out? That gets expensive.” Sherlock looked back to the sizzling pan. John scoffed; he knew an excuse when he heard one.

“I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t shanghai Angelo to cook for you,” he commented, sitting at the—mysteriously clear—kitchen table. Almost as soon as his backside touched the chair, Sherlock was setting a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of toast coated in butter and jam in front of him. John glanced up from under his brows at his flat mate, suddenly slightly wary.

“Angelo had—and has, of course—a restaurant to tend to. That, and had Mycroft done so, I would have never forgiven him.” Sherlock offered him a wry smile. John picked up the mug of coffee and sipped at it.

“Really hope you didn’t drug this one,” he commented mildly. It was obvious he was thinking of their case at Baskerville, and Sherlock was too.

“Do you trust me so little?” Sherlock pouted—he honest-to-God pouted—and set a hand at his hip. “I wouldn’t do that.” The stove gave a particularly vicious crackle. “Today, anyways.” Sherlock turned back to prod at the bacon, and John watched as he slid all six strips onto a waiting plate.

What was today? His brow furrowed as he picked up a slice of toast, only belatedly noticing that there were six pieces on the plate: three coated in his strawberry jam and three coated in Sherlock’s grape jam. Then it dawned on him. Oh. Today was July seventh.

“Wow, looks like I really am getting special treatment today.” John nibbled thoughtfully at his toast. “No experiments or anything. I—thank you.” He glanced away from his flat mate for a brief moment.

“Of course,” was the simple response he got. Leave it to Sherlock. John would have pressed him for more, but decided to leave it at that; Sherlock was cooking and John didn’t want to distract him.

The silence lasted a bit longer, only broken by the various noises from Sherlock’s cooking—the gentle scrape of a spatula against stainless steel and the occasional faint hiss of something, a fresh egg or a ladle of batter John couldn’t quite tell, hitting the metal—and the soft sound of John’s mug clinking against the abused wood of the table.

“Are you making pancakes?” John asked mildly at one point, fiddling with the handle of his half-full mug. Sherlock nodded once, but otherwise ignored him.

Finally, a plate that seemed to be piled to the ceiling with food was set in front of him.

“Sherlock, I—” John eyed the bacon, glanced over the scrambled eggs, and poked at the pancakes with his fork. After a moment, he loaded the fork with scrambled eggs. “I can’t eat all of this.” He held the fork out with a grin and watched an answering smile spread across Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, I know you can’t eat all of this.” He paused a moment. “Technically you could, but you won’t,” Sherlock corrected himself, and took the fork from John’s grasp, smile spreading wider. “I made enough for two people.” He tucked the forkful of egg into his mouth.

“Perfect.” John couldn’t help a wide smile.

“Happy birthday, John.”