The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach

Sherlock was spread across the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought, going through his mind palace, muttering to himself. John walked into the living room, staring at the taller man who was sprawled on the sofa, rather inelegantly.

"I'm heading out Sherlock, not that you're bothered, or even listening." John frowned, zipping up his parker, shoving his hands in his pockets, fishing for his keys before heading out the door.

As soon as the door slammed shut Sherlock bolted upright, checking the house to make sure John had really gone out.

He had been wandering his palace looking for a particular cooking programme he had been watching with John; well John had been paying more attention than Sherlock had, they normally put the television on after dinner whilst they did their own thing. John had been reading the paper and Sherlock had spent the time relaxing on the sofa with a glass of wine, but had been paying enough attention to remember a particular recipe which even caught John's attention, he had heard John lower his paper.

Sherlock now stood in the empty house, searching through the cupboards, looking for the ingredient he had hidden in advance; preparation is the key to success. Upon opening the fridge Sherlock realise he had forgotten some important components, especially the wine, he had ended up finishing the last bottle with John the night before.

He wrote himself a list of things he needed, he had seen John write shopping lists and he didn't really want to waste time going through his mind palace again, it would attract too much attention in a public place, and make him stick out even more than he already did.

The consulting detective grabbed his coat and keys before rushing to the door, just as John had. He headed straight to the Tesco Express which wasn't far, and would save time, he only had a maximum of two hours to prepare this meal, judging from John's expression before he left wherever he was going it was something he wasn't comfortable about; if Sherlock wasn't busy he would have followed the doctor, but once John got back Sherlock would deduce the possibilities.

Holmes reached the shop, heading straight to the alcohol section, although it was limited he picked out a white wine to cook with and another for the purpose of drinking, it was also one of John's favourites.

Giddy over John's wine, pull yourself together.

Sherlock shook his head, he frowned, shaking his head, replacing it with a smile as he carried on collecting the other items on his list, fumbling around with his shopping, almost dropping the wine. Suddenly a basket was shoved in front of him and he turned to see Mrs Hudson standing behind him, smiling.

"Mr Holmes, what a pleasant surprise." The tall man took the basket, placing his items into it. "I didn't expect to see you here; I thought John was the one who did the shopping."

"I was going to surprise John by cooking him dinner for once," he admitted. Mrs Hudson looked at him in disbelief, the corner of his lips curling into a smile. "If you'll excuse me, I need to press on, time is not on my side." He quickly headed to the chilled section before running to the check out, leaving Mrs Hudson is a state of shock.

Sherlock practically ran home, he was so far behind. Once inside the flat Sherlock tipped the content of the bags out onto the counter, opening one of the wines and poured himself a glass before finding a sharp knife and a chopping board, starting with the vegetables, he began to cut the onions, his brain fired up, distracting him.

Cut the onion, this will break cells; Amino acid sulfoxides form sulfenic acids. Enzymes that were kept separate mix with the sulfenic acids to produce propanethiol S-oxide, a sulfur compound. This reacts with tears to form sulfuric acid. The sulfuric acid burns, stimulating eyes to release more tears to wash the irritant away; conclusion stop the gases from reaching eyes…or alternatively be a man and cut the onions quickly.

Holmes was momentarily distracted by the pain that surged through his index finger, the knife had slipped, splitting the skin and drawing blood. He threw the knife on the counter placing his mouth over the small wound, heading to the bathroom to find John's medical kit, looking for a plaster or a bandage.

Once he had tended to his wound Sherlock headed back to the kitchen, reaching for the knife and with some sudden burst of skill, chopped the onions up finely before placing them in a ban of hot butter, quickly washing the board and knife so there was no acid that would make him cry, before crushing garlic and adding it to the pan, letting the onions soften in the butter before cutting the chicken into bite size pieces; taking a large swig of wine as he did, out of the bottle too, very unusual. Once the chicken was added to the pan he threw the knife and chopping board into the sink, he'd clean them later. The risotto rice was added to the pan as soon as the chicken had begun to brown, Sherlock prepared the stock in some boiling water.

Holmes stopped, looking down at the pans in front of him, quickly entering his mind palace to figure out what came next; shouting out once he found what he was looking for, grabbing a large wine glass from the cupboard and, using the cheaper wine, and poured two glasses of it into the pan, listening to it sizzle. The smell was intoxicating and Sherlock found himself leaning over the pan, taking deep breathes of the evaporating wine.

The sound of his phone ringing distracted him and he reluctantly turned away from the pan, heading to pick it up. Mycroft's name flashed up on his screen, he let it ring off before sending a message that simple said:

Cooking dinner. S

The wine had now been evaporated and he added a ladle of stock to the pan, stirring occasionally. As he was adding another ladle of stock, some of the liquid in the pan spat out, hitting his hand, the slight sting of the boiling liquid on his hand caused him to jump slightly and the stock in the ladle sloshed down his trousers. Holmes to curse under his breath, pouring what was left in the ladle into the pan before peeling his trousers off, hanging them over the back of the chair, scrubbing them with a damp cloth.

Eventually all the stock had been added to the pan and Sherlock had time to relax, sipping at his wine as he watched it bubble, still stirring every so often. His eyes darted to the time and he almost choked on his wine when he realised the time; John would be home within the next half hour. Sherlock turned the heat to low, turning the oven on and placed the garlic bread into it, setting a timer.

The consulting detective looked at himself in the mirror, grabbing his razor, yes he would shave; he wanted to look smart. After his quick shave he ran to his wardrobe, looking for a clean top and trousers, heading back into the bathroom to put some after shave on. Sherlock left a couple of the shirt buttons open to reveal his chest. He stopped, looking at himself in horror.

Why on earth would you want to show your chest off, this is John for godsake!

Sherlock shook his head, as if to try and shake the small voice in the back of his head which was screaming at him. Holmes slammed his fists down onto the sink.

Look at you, getting all hot and bothered over what to wear for John, pull it together Sherlock.

He quickly splashed his face with some cold water, heading back to the kitchen, grabbing his half full glass of wine and necking the rest of it, taking a deep breath.

Sherlock check the risotto, stirring it well, before grabbing a teaspoon and tasting what he had created. To his surprise it was delicious, he added some seasoning before covering the pan with a tea towel, but kept the heat on low as he began to set the table.

The table was set beautifully, with the laced table cloth, their best set of tableware out and of course a lit candle in the middle; Sherlock couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, for his first time cooking alone, he had done a good job. Sherlock lit some more candles placing them around the kitchen and dining area, lighting the last one as the timber for the garlic bread went off.

Sherlock froze when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door, quickly launching himself to the light switch, flicking it off and waiting behind the door, holding his breath. John walked in, freezing in the doorway. His eyes wondering around the dark flat before his eyes rested on the dining area, surrounded in Mood lighting.

Holmes pushed the door slowly so it closed, John's gazed fixed on the set table. The taller man reached for John's parker, sliding it off his shoulders, the smaller man shivering slightly, either at the chill in the air, or the contact Sherlock's fingers had made with his neck.

"I made dinner," Sherlock whispered, gently pushing the doctor towards the dinner table, pulling a chair out for him and John sat, turning to face Holmes with a bemused look.

Sherlock plated the food up in the kitchen; he could feel John's eyes on him the whole time. He carried the food to the table, giving the first plate to John, pouring him a large glass of cool white wine, tending to himself afterwards. John picked up his fork, scooping up some of the risotto; Sherlock's heart was jumping about in his chest, hoping, praying that John liked it. He held his breath as John placed the fork in his mouth, watching him eat, quickly taking a sip of wine.

"Sherlock, this is amazing." John managed, snapping out of his shock, taking another forkful. The brown haired man relaxed, smiling at John, who smiled back at him, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks.

"I'm glad you like it, there is plenty if you want more." The two of them ate in silence for a few minutes, the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat broke the silence and John looked up. "Can I ask you something?" Holmes asked, putting his knife and fork down. The question obviously worried John in one way or another because he reached for his glass of wine, taking a rather large sip.

"Depends upon the question," Watson replied, continuing to eat. Sherlock noted the way the doctor's hands were slightly shaking.

"Is everything alright?" John swallowed, looking up at Sherlock.

"Y-yes, everything is fine, I-i just needed fresh air," John blushed, quickly continuing to eat; Sherlock did the same, but his eyes stayed fixed on the man in front of him.

After another 10 minutes of eating they had finished, John patting his stomach in satisfaction, and was now onto his third glass of wine, which seemed to be helping, calming him down. Sherlock cleared the table, fetching the pudding, dark chocolate mousse with raspberries, of course the mousse wasn't homemade, but he had made the effort of adding the fruit.

John was fast to finish his mousse, scraping every last bit out of the glass jar it had come in.

"Thank you Sherlock, I needed that."

"My pleasure John, You're the only person I would make dinner for, you're the only one worth my effort," Sherlock said, winking at John.

His pupils dilated, the twitch in his finger signalling a change in his heart rate. Breathing, unsteady.

John reached for his wine, downing what was left in his glass. Sherlock suddenly reached for John's hand, stroking the back of John's hand with his finger, watching the doctor's reaction.

"John, I-"

Both men jumped slightly when Sherlock's phone began to ring, at first Holmes ignored it, but as it continued to ring he reluctantly stood up, walking over to the flashing phone.

"Yes?" he snapped. The conversation was brief but halfway through his eyes lit up, and he turned to John, smiling. He ended the call, turning to John.

"We have a job." John sighed.

"Is it a job worth your time?" Sherlock hadn't actually asked, Lestrade had just said he would like the two of them to accompany him to a crime scene.

"Come John, a job is a job, and I need fresh air."

- x -

This murder was just like any other boring and somewhat pointless case to Holmes, it only took him a brief look at the scene and body before he came to the conclusion that there were more than 2 people involved in the murder, the house that the body was in wasn't actually his and that the crime scene was actually that of a break in and the man who was dead had been part of a three man team; therefore the three of them must have had a dispute about something and it had ended with the man been stabbed and left for dead.

As Holmes walked around the house he realised that the owners of the house must have gone away due to the fact there was no evidence to suggest the house had been lived in recently, dust had begun to collect upon objects and the heating and water systems had been shut off completely; but a neighbour must have a spare key because there was no post.

"I'm done here inspector," Holmes said to Lestrade "Check any CCTV footage of the surrounding area, look out for three people and then you can find the killers," he instructed before turning to Watson who had been examining the body quietly as Sherlock did what he did best and jumped slightly when Sherlock bent down to Johns level. "Finished?" He asked John, smiling at him.

"Yes, I am, I was just…um…" he trailed off as he looked up at the consulting detective, the amount of wine he had had over dinner was making him feel slightly dizzy, and he wobbled as he stood up.

"Home," Sherlock stepped aside to let John pass as the smaller man nodded, both heading for the door.

"Where is your evidence Holmes?" Sherlock stopped in his tracks, spinning on his heels to face the man, his fists clenched. John looked at his colleague, he knew Sherlock was going through one of his periods of extreme ennui, and this case wasn't exactly interesting to Sherlock, plus it had interrupted their dinner.

"The evidence is all around you Anderson, maybe if you used your eyes to look at the crime scene instead of mentally undressing Sergeant Donovan you would have come to the same conclusion," John snapped before Sherlock had a chance to comment. The room fell silent, John wasn't usually the one to snap; maybe Sherlock's habits were rubbing off onto him...or it was the influence of wine.

"Are you telling me you came to the same conclusion as Sherlock?" Anderson questioned.

"Yes, he did, because, unlike you Anderson, John actually has a high level intelligence," Sherlock stated. The corner of John's lips curled into a small smile, it was rare for Sherlock to comment on anyone's intellectual capabilities, and in his eyes everyone's mind and intelligence were inferior. "Anyway, John and I have business to attend to; come John." Sherlock turned walking towards the door, pulling the smaller man behind him.

John took a deep breath of fresh air once outside, turning to Holmes, who did the same thing.

"Walk or taxi?" John asked. Sherlock didn't reply, but heading in the direction of the park; looked like they were walking back to Baker Street.

The journey home was passed in silence, only the odd comment about the weather or the crime scene broke the silence; John still smiling about Sherlock's compliment, whether or not he meant it was a different story, but for now John imagined he meant it, of course the alcohol in their systems wasn't exactly helping.

John's heart leapt out of his chest when Sherlock reached for his hand, holding it in his, entwining their fingers, giving John's hand a small squeeze.

"Does this make you uncomfortable?" Holmes suddenly asked, smiling down at the red faced man, who blushed more, unable to find his voice, but he shook his head, holding onto Sherlock's hand, stroking the back of it.

Don't get your hopes up, after all he is drunk and you are taking advantage of him.

Sherlock squeezed the man's hand again before letting go, shoving his hands in his pocket, offering Watson a sheepish smile.

When they arrived back at Baker Street both men stripped from their coats and shoes, heading to the living room where the half full bottle of wine greeted them. Sherlock picked the bottle up, turning to John.

"That's handy, enough wine left for a glass each." Sherlock poured the wine into glasses before slouching on the sofa, resting his head on the back of it, closing his eyes, tapping his lap, indicating he wanted John to join him. John sat on the floor between Sherlock's legs, resting his head on the cushion.

With his free hand, Sherlock began to stroke John's hairline with his index and middle finger, slowly. John let out a sigh, relaxing.

"I could fall asleep like this," he murmured, taking a sip of wine.

"Or you could fall asleep up here with me." He tucked John's hair behind his ear, to see if he was blushing, and he was, his ears pink and heated. Sherlock put his wine down, snaking his arms under the man's armpits, dragging him onto the sofa. John adjusted himself so that his head was resting on Sherlock's lap and the rest of his body lay across the sofa. "Now sleep," Sherlock instructed.

"What about my wine?" John asked, reaching to pick up his glass which was still full compared to Sherlock's glass.

"Say aahh." John opened his mouth before Sherlock poured what was left in his glass into John's mouth, catching a drop of the wine that had missed John's mouth. "And I shall finish your wine, which solves that problem. Now sleep."

John closed his eyes as Sherlock began to stroke his forehead.

"Goodnight Sherlock." Holmes lent down and placed a light kiss upon the smaller man's forehead where he was stroking.

"Goodnight John."

(Please let me know what you think ^^ more to come) x