Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Biscuits

...

"I got what you asked for. They didn't have chocolate chips so I just bought a bar you could break up." Y/N peeled off her shoes and kicked them to the back of the rack, her feet glad to be rid of them.

The scene awaiting her turned out to be not very strange at all; she found Sherlock crouched by the hearth, impassively feeding the fire with chips of kindling and balls of scrap paper. He lit up when he saw Y/N, and watched her cross the room to flop down at his side. "Thank you."

"Here, I got you this, too." Y/N fished about her Bag For Life until her hand closed on the familiar shape of a Cadbury's Cream Egg, and tossed it to her flatmate. He dropped the splinter of pine he'd been watching the fire mouth at, a smile breaking his face in two.

"Thank you," he said again, and immediately began picking at the foil. "How was work?"

"It was meh. How was...whatever you've been doing here?" Her eyes combed the flat quickly, and found nothing out of place. Although, it is entirely possible he's ruined some other part of it she hasn't been to yet, like one of their bedrooms or the bathroom, or—for some reason—the little hallway leading to Y/N's half of the apartment.

Sherlock used his teeth to gently lever open the two halves of his Cream Egg, and watched the goo inside pool on the lower shell as he eased them apart. "Mycroft came over for tea at noon and tried to get me to play chess—again—but I couldn't remember what all the pieces do. I kept calling the knights 'horses' and he stormed off." A smirk was twitching the corner of his lip as he lapped up some of his Cream Egg's innards with his pink tongue.

"So what's all this for?" Y/N nudged the bag by her foot with a sock-covered toe.

"I'm going to try baking," Sherlock dropped the remaining half of his chocolate—licked clean—in his mouth and stood with a swift unfurling of limbs, plucking the bag up with him.

Y/N followed him as he stalked to the kitchen and started hunting around for various things. She'd never seen him attempt anything more complex than spaghetti bolognese, now that she thinks about it; if he wants good food he'll either go out and find some or summon it to the flat. Surely, though, he must have baked as a boy? A mental image of Mrs Holmes scolding a miniature Sherlock for dunking his hands in the flour slipped before Y/N's mind's eye and she had to bite her lip. "What are you baking?"

"I thought I'd start with biscuits and see how it goes."

Easy enough, Y/N shrugged. All the same: "Can I watch?"

Probably remembering how she'd had to wipe away tears at the sight of his sorry excuse for a scarf: "Don't you have something better to do?"

"Something better than watching you destroy the flat over some biscuits? No."

Sherlock's head was deep in a cupboard as he hunted for the scales, but Y/N knew he was glowering. "I'm not going to destroy anything; they're biscuits, how difficult could they be?"

"When you die, that's what I'm going to tell the newspapers your last words were."

"Shut up." He'd emerged from the cupboard now, a stained set of weighing scales in one hand. They were one of those old type ones with a wide dish sat atop a squat, clock-looking thing. He tested it a few times; pushing the dish down to make sure the hand swung around then settled back on the big, bold ZERO.

Y/N watched as he removed the ingredients from the bag, and a few things from other shelves and cabinets.

After he'd washed his hands, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and Y/N whistled teasingly, which made his cheekbones go unexpectedly pink.