"I'm home," John called as he stumbled through the door, closing it against the wind.

"You're wet," Sherlock replied from the couch.

"Well, yes, it is raining." John set the bags he was carrying on the kitchen table and stripped off his soaking coat. Sherlock came forward and leaned against the doorframe.

"John, I haven't needed milk in weeks."

"This is food, Sherlock, maybe you've heard of it," John quipped. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Irritable, soaked, mud stains on your shoes… you walked to the grocery, didn't you? John, you're a doctor, surely you know prolonged exposure to this sort of weather will make you ill," he said, his tone half mocking. John scowled at him, but he ignored it and pressed on. "Flour, butter, chocolate chips - you're making biscuits. You aren't particularly fond of biscuits, which can only mean you're making them for someone else."

"Yes, Sherlock, I am making biscuits for someone other than myself. You're brilliant. Now unless you're going to help, perhaps you have books to pour over or something?"

Sherlock shrugged and went back to his laptop. John immediately regretted snapping at him, but went about making the biscuits.

The truth was, he was making them for him.

Sherlock rarely ate, and that worried him. He'd stay up for days with nothing to eat but a scrap of toast here and there, living off tea and nicotine patches. He wrote it off as unnecessary, just like sleep. John cared about him to much to watch him go to waste.

John sat on the couch beside Sherlock, who was typing frantically on his laptop and didn't seem to notice.

"Er, Sherlock…" he started, cautious of the man's temper.

"Hmm, yes, what is it?" he answered without looking up.

"I, er, I made you some biscuits." Sherlock closed his laptop.

"Ah, so they were for me. Look, that's very nice of you, but I'm not hungry."

"Eat. You don't do it nearly enough."

"Now, John, I -" Watson placed a finger over Holmes' lips. Grasping his chin, he pried his mouth open and shoved in a piece of one of the biscuits.

"Eat," he said firmly. Sherlock chewed and swallowed, fixing the doctor with an odd look.

"John, why do you care so much?"

He sat staring at his lap for a long moment. Without warning, John leaned up and kissed him, the taste of chocolate still lingering on the detective's lips.

"…Ah."

"Yeah…"

"John, as I've previously told you, I'm not usually interested in anyone sexually -"

"Yes, I know, I – I was out of line, I'm sorry -"

"No, no, the thing is… normally, I'm not. But you seem to be an exception, which interests me. I've actually been wondering about it since you moved in with me. Only a fool would be my flatmate for longer than a week… unless he cared enough to stay." Sherlock placed a hand on the back of Watson's neck and carefully, experimentally, brought their lips together. He pressed in closer, closing his eyes. John wanted nothing more than to lie on their sofa and kiss Sherlock Holmes for hours, but before he could be distracted by… whatever it was Sherlock was doing with his left hand, he extricated himself from the tangle of limbs they'd become.

"Please, at least eat another biscuit?"