John woke up on Tuesday to the twin smells of freshly ground and brewed coffee and frying bacon. His mouth was watering before his brain was even fully awake and a second deep breath told his brain that there were eggs cooking as well. His stomach rumbled, already ahead of the game, but then John came fully awake and realized that Sherlock was not in bed, and this meant he was in the kitchen.

Cooking.

There was a war between trepidation and surprise, because he was fairly certain Sherlock would not deliberately try to poison them, but he was equally as certain his partner wouldn't see the harm in trying some interesting and toxic chemical combination in the place of, for example, table salt.

But the smells were too enticing and tempted John out of bed. He searched for his old housecoat and, when he could not find it, he pulled a jumper on over the t-shirt in which he'd slept and then padded out of the bedroom, into the kitchen.

The missing bathrobe was immediately located, since Sherlock had appropriated it in place of his normal dressing gown for unknown reasons, but John didn't mind, because he liked the snug and warm way the detective looked in the faded navy blue terrycloth.

Sherlock smiled at him and greeted him good morning with a kiss and a cup of coffee. Prepared just the way he liked his first cup, John noted when he took a sip: one milk, one sugar. He let the warmth and steam and scent waft over him for a moment, watching in something close to awe as Sherlock served up eggs on toast and bacon and passed John the plate, waving him into a seat at the table.

"You made breakfast," John said.

Sherlock snorted.

"Brilliant deduction, John, as always," he replied, rolling his eyes.

John grinned.

"Pass me a fork and knife?" he requested and Sherlock fished these out of the drawer, handing them over. John looked down at the food in front of him – it seemed properly cooked, and smelled not only edible, but delectable. His stomach rumbled again, urging him to hurry up and eat already.

"I could get used to this," John commented lightly, taking a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock deposited himself in the chair next to John, pushing his own mug of black coffee out of the way to make room for his plate.

"You may have to," Sherlock agreed.

John grinned, tucking in. He did, indeed, get used to it very quickly, and didn't point out that the regular breakfasts comprising more than a hurried bowl of cereal helped Sherlock put on a couple more healthy pounds over time. He never let himself get complacent, however, and as much as he grew accustomed to having breakfasts cooked for him with astonishing regularity, he never once stopped appreciating it.

(End)

A/N: Hooray! I hope you all enjoyed that multi-chapter fluffiness with some not fluffiness. Yes, John's nightmare was just a nightmare, nothing with a meaning or premonition. As a vivid dreamer myself (with a lot of nightmares, um, not so yay), I know they sometimes mean something and sometimes don't.

I'm away for 5 days as of tomorrow, that's Wednesday, until Sunday, for a conference, so there will be no updates and probably no writing while I'm gone. It makes me sad. But I will pick up again when I get back. I promise I'm working on the sequel to Blue, at least figuring out what the hell happens in it, and I'm working on another multi-chapter angsty fic that was a request from a reader. So you will be without updates for the rest of the week, but I'm not abandoning you by any means.

Thanks a million to everyone who reviews and favourites, but especially reviews, because they're like oxygen and I love them. You guys keep me going. :D SM.