Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Biscuits (Part 4)

Sherlock smiles sheepishly. "I forgot about it."

Turning the slab to examine all of its charred, crusty angles:

"It's amazing you managed to cook it until it caught fire, yet it still didn't rise."

Protectively, Sherlock snatches the loaf from her hands and stamps on the bin pedal.

The lid closes on the failed bread with a snap.

"Can we just focus on the one that did rise? And, I if I do say so myself, it rose rather well."

"It did indeed rise very well." Y/N concedes because she knows when to stop bullying him just before she's gone too far. Hoping he can feel her genuine admiration, she takes his arm and gives it an excited little shake. "We should have it with something. Something worthy of its excellence. Of its quality and its magnificence."

"Well, now you're just being silly." But his lip twitches with a pleased smile.

...

While Y/N scrubbed and chipped the burnt bits out of the oven, Sherlock cooked dinner, as he often does.

This time, however, when she tries to engage him in conversation, his replies are vague and preoccupied, and when Y/N removes her head from the oven to confront him, she finds his nose deep in a cookbook she doesn't remember seeing on their shelf.

There's a crinkle of concentration building between his dark eyebrows, and their entire spice cupboard has been emptied out onto the counter and compartmentalised into several groups. He's tied an apron protectively around his middle to guard the clean shirt he changed into.

It is patterned with black and white stripes and is a foot too short. Y/N is almost certain Mrs Holmes had bought it for him back in his days of high school Food Tech. She would tease him about it—

—if he didn't look like he's putting genuine effort into what he's doing.

And if he hadn't carefully set the table with their best flatware.  

As she takes her first bite, Y/N catches a glimpse of bluey-green as Sherlock's eyes dart from his plate.

He's gauging her expression, waiting for her judgement and, when she makes an enraptured humming sound, he grins.

Both their plates cleared, Y/N stands to start washing up, stretching her arms up over her head like a content cat. "That was brilliant, Sherlock, thank you."

"You didn't think it was too salty?"

Y/N shakes her head, meaning it. "It was perfect." She grins, giving his cheek a kiss as she leans over to take his plate. "You're turning into quite the little housewife." 

It makes his whole face go red.

They played Scrabble that evening and argued over whether "sceen" is a word. A quick call to Mycroft had settled that it wasn't. Afterwards, as always, when night has well and truly set in and the curtains are pulled, Y/N puts on a movie Sherlock insists he will hate.

And, as always, she catches him watching it from the corner of his eyes as he pretends to read a book. 

...

Sherlock cooked every day after that, his new cookbook becoming thick with spatters of butter and sauce between the pages, and wrinkly where he'd spilled various liquids onto the paper by accident.

He presents each dish hesitantly, obviously waiting for Y/N's approval, then spends the rest of the meal revelling in her enjoyment.

Y/N lies in on Saturday, but even then she's still up before Sherlock.

He stumbles into the kitchen wrapped in his duvet at around noon.

Reading on the side of the sofa closest to the window, Y/N peeks over her book periodically, watching her flatmate amusedly as he struggles to make a bowl of cornflakes while half asleep.

There's a clinking of metal on glass as he tries to fish the wad of cream out of the neck of the bottle with a spoon, then a crunching as he flattens the flakes down into the milk. They are then covered with blueberries from the fridge:

His daily ritual.

A little while later, he pads into the living room, more awake now, and sheds his duvet, ditching it in his armchair. 

Y/N finds herself curiously disappointed that he remembered to put pyjamas on underneath it. She decides not to look into that too closely.

She'd thought he'd flop down into his chair along with the duvet—like a bird in a giant, feathery nest—but is surprised when, instead, he perches next to her on the sofa.

The cushion dips with his weight. "Y/N."

She can feel his eyes boring into the side of her head expectantly.

He is fully awake now, and pops a blueberry into his mouth.

"Y/N."

"What is it? I'm reading."

"No, you're not, I saw you watching me."

"I wasn't watching you, you were distracting me."

He nudges her arm. "Y/N." When she ignores him he nudges her again. "Y/N."

"What?"

"Can I ask you to do something?"

"Anything you need."

"It's ridiculous, I'll warn you."

"I'm used to that; you're a ridiculous man."

From his pyjama pocket, smothering the blade with his hand, he holds out some scissors.

They're the delicate, silver, pointy ones from the bathroom.

"Can you cut my hair?"

"What?"

"My hair. It's too long. Look."

Submitting to defeat, Y/N closes her book and turns to face him.

He perks up, pleased he's finally won her attention. "See?" He blows a huff of air upwards into his fringe.

It is indeed an inch or two past his eyes.

"What about that guy you usually go to? What's his name? Mr Canned Soup?

"Mr Candicci. And it's not that he can't do it, it's that he won't. Come on, we've got nothing better to do today."

"Sherlock, I don't know how to cut hair. Well, I've seen people do it but I think it's one of those things that look easy but actually aren't. Like crochet."

"Come on, we can do it in the bathroom."

"Excuse you?"

"I'll sit on the side of the bath. The floor's easier to sweep." He furrows his brows. "What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing. Why can't you go to another barber?"

His nose wrinkles as if he smells something bad. "I'd have to speak to new people."

Y/N rolls her eyes. "Oh yeah, why did I even ask?"