Sherlock didn't try to burn everything. Honestly, it wasn't his fault. Food just had a grudge against him.
The first time, John Watson was annoyed. The second time, he might go so far as to say he was angry. But the third time... he was livid.
"What the hell is this? Again? How do you manage to set the fire alarm off, without fail, once a week?" He exclaimed as soon as Sherlock frantically opened the door, using a magazine to attempt to clear out some of the smoke.
He thrust the magazine into John's arms and sprinted back into the smoky mess. "Help me with this, would you?" He coughed through the smoke, waving two newspapers at the same time.
John looked around. The flat was tiny, with books and articles littering the floor. From what John could make out through the smoke, they seemed to be incredibly dull works, including one book discussing the various kinds of tobacco ash.
Sherlock looked at John pointedly a moment later, and said as though it pained him greatly to make it out, "please?"
John began waving the magazine around. Why am I helping this prat? I should be screaming, not thrashing some magazine like an idiot? His internal battle raged on. Still, Sherlock seemed to be intelligent enough, (some of these books were rather heavy,) even if he wasn't going to be on 'Britain's Next Top Baker,' anytime soon, and he was good looking enough.
"This is very nice of you. I am sorry, and I don't say that very often." Sherlock said slowly, hesitating on every word as though they had to be forced out of him.
John smiled weakly. It was still very early in the morning, and he wasn't quite ready to forgive the failed cook. "Just... please don't try to make biscuits again."
Sherlock let out what seemed to be a rare smile. If he managed to meet an attractive, witty boy every time he set off the fire alarm, he decided that he would have to make biscuits more often.