I'M BACK! Sorry, it's been ages guys. Just a short one I'm afraid, but I'd thought you'd like a cliffhanger ;))))

Just you wait. I'm mentally building up the best date ever...

"Sherlock. What in god's bloody name are you doing?!"

Mrs Hudson's words seemed to slip through both of Sherlock's ears. But it was in fact, her tone that set him off.

"Cooking."

"You don't cook. Or at least I bloody hope you don't or I'll have wasted many hundreds of precious time catering for you, young man."

"You didn't waste that time. You don't do anything else." Sherlock snarled

"Sherlock Holmes, if you think my life revolves around your menu plan you can pack your bags."

"No. Not around my menu plan. Just around... me."

"The fact I haven't found the strength in me to punch you yet bewilders me sometimes."

"Well. To be fair you did tie me up and throw me in the boot of your sports car. Which, by the way, is a little 'mutton dressed as lamb' wouldn't you think?"

"I'll ignore that. What are you cooking... or burning, it seems?"

"... Shit."

Sherlock rushed to the oven and pulled out a charred, unidentifiable dish.

"What was it supposed to be?" said Mrs Hudson

"Lasagne"

"You hate pasta."

"Yes, but that's not pasta. It's lasagne."

"Well, it was."

"I don't want your sarcasm" grumbled Sherlock

"Sherlock, I think that was the most hypocritical shit I've ever heard come out of your damned mouth."

Startled by the unexpected and abnormal use of swear words, Sherlock decided it was best not to fight the sarcasm with sarcasm and opted eventually for an half-hearted apology. This was met with a simple nod from Mrs Hudson side and they eventually both called it a truce.

"So, why the sudden interest in cooking," said Mrs Hudosn cheerfully

"Um, Molly-"

"Ah! I knew there was something between the two of you... though I must say, I was surprised you would ever get over John"

"What? I mean, no. She... er... lost a family member."

"Oh no! That poor girl. I mean as if she didn't have enough problems"

"Problems?"

"Sherlock. Her friends are dead people."

"Bullshit"

Mrs Hudson put her hands up in the air and shrugged. Then all of a sudden had a mood swing and shot her shoulder back down again.

"Oh. But who died?"

"Her father." Sherlock fibbed

"What?! My gosh. That poor girl must be distraught"

"HER FATher... the... cat. Her cats who she called... her father."

Although this was effectively the worst lie Sherlock had ever managed to cough up. Mrs Hudson proceeded:

"You see. Lonely."

"OK! Time to go. I'm sure you've got some terribly time-consuming hoovering to be doing now."

"I know what you're doing, Sherlock"

"Ah, so you can read between the lines then."

With a roll of her eyes and a mutter about her kitchen burning down, Mrs Husdon left Sherlock to the excruciating torment that went by the name of cooking. With the lasagna proving to be unsuccessful, Sherlock opted for another dish. Which in the end, turned out more crispy and inedible than the last.

Who gives half a shit about cooking, anyway. I'd rather eat something that tasted good than having to chow down on something disgusting but that people put 'effort' into Sherlock thought to himself

~oOoOoOo~

Molly trotted over to the tantalising door of 221B Baker Street. The polished black paint reflected the stars that watched over the cloudless skies of London that night and the heavy, gold knocker felt cold to the touch. Molly lifted it. And as she did, a note fell at her feet. It was a licence plate number that had been lightly scribbled with a fountain pen. Undoubtedly Sherlock's handwriting. Looking at it quizzically, Molly stumbled backwards down the steps again and she heard the discernable roaring of a London taxi engine. Surely enough, the license plate matched the one on Sherlock's note. Had it been anyone else, Molly would never had gotten into the taxi. But it wasn't anyone. It was Sherlock. And she trusted him