"No!"

"What's the big deal, John?" Sherlock whined.

John looked sternly at him, "No, Sherlock, there is no way I'm letting you help me cook."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" John stepped away from the kitchen counter.

"Yes, why not? Didn't you hear me? It's a simple question."

"Don't you remember the last time you tried to cook with me?" John answered.

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing what John had brought up. "Oh, that was hardly my fault."

"Hardly your fault?" John boomed, "So it was my fault that you had a greased foot hanging over the stove-"

"It was an experiment, John," Sherlock interjected.

"It fell into the stove's fire," John continued, pointing towards the stove as if he hadn't been interrupted, "nearly burning the flat to a crisp. It would have, too, if it wasn't for my quick thinking."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please, John, everyone knows that a grease fire must be covered to reduce the flames. It's common knowledge."

John glared, then turned his back towards Sherlock, who tried, once again.

"I still don't see what that little accident has to do with-"

"Sherlock, I'm making dinner by myself, and that's final," John scolded.

Sherlock considered making a rebuttal, but held back and retreated to the living room. John would come to. He plopped into his chair, sulking with his skull and began playing his violin. Various noises came from the kitchen, John banged the dishes around, cussing as he dropped one on his toes.

From outside, there came a warm breeze that refreshed the mug apartment. John had opened the windows, it being a beautiful August day. Sherlock hadn't agreed, and he made the argument that the world's stupidity would flow in. They remained open, John's stubbornness making sure that Sherlock's pessimism wouldn't suffocate their small living space, in every meaning of the word.

Sherlock was playing a mysterious tune on his beloved violin, neither happy nor sad. John thought it slightly reflected Sherlock's personality. He was an interesting person, to say the least. When it came to odd things, he would be all over the matter, deducing away until he located the answer he was searching for. However, he was very sluggish when it came to everyday things, like dressing, eating or cleaning up. Or…cooking?

"Sherlock?" John called from the kitchen. Sherlock continued his melody.

"Sherlock!" No response. John pounded out of the kitchen, snatched Sherlock's bow out of his hands, and laid it on the coffee table. Sherlock peered at John through narrowing eyes. He knew not to touch Sherlock's violin.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked in a low, unstable voice.

"Why did you want to help me with dinner?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock began plucking the strings with his fingers.

"Because you've never gotten the milk, much less want to cook an entire meal. In fact, I cook every meal you don't eat out for."

"Why is this upsetting you? I should think you'd be happy about my willingness."

John wasn't satisfied. "But there must be a reason you suddenly want to help." He wanted to believe Sherlock just wanted to help, for once, but he couldn't bring himself to it.

Sherlock stared blankly at nothingness, still plucking various chords on his instrument. Finally he spoke. "There's a case Lestrade put me on and I need to experiment on the effects-"

"Of course!" John rolled his eyes, walking back into the kitchen, his suspicious confirmed. "There always is something in it for you, why did I expect any different? You can never just help with the work, like normal flat mates, and I suspect you never will." Sherlock followed him, leaving his violin on his chair.

"John, this is for science and education, I just need one portion of food and a drop of poison."

"No, no! You don't need anything, you aren't using the food I bought and prepared just to spoil it."

"But John I need to know exactly how much poison it should have taken to kill our victim. He may have had strong immunity to poison, and if he did then the murderer would have had to be close enough to him to know it. A family member… or a doctor perhaps?" Sherlock began thinking out the possibilities.

"Well it's a shame you're not going to test that theory, you can only have my food if you're going to eat it. Plus you don't have poison anyway."

"Do I not?" Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, glass vial filled with a green liquid. Sherlock smiled at John's expression. "Silly me."

"Where on Earth did you get poison, Sherlock?" John fumed.

"An old friend, he owed me a favor."

"Well next time don't try to trick me into helping you. Solve your own cases."

Sherlock made yet another deduction. "You're still upset about that? That was ages ago."

"That was three days ago Sherlock. You made a big fuss at two in the morning insisting I come with you only to run throughout London and find out your suspect wasn't even in England at the time of the crime. I hadn't gotten a proper night's rest in ages, and that tacked another one onto my restless nights. So yes, I'm still upset about that, and I'm still exhausted. That's why it would be nice if my flat mate would do something for once."

John turned to grab pepper for his meal. It was on the top shelf, so he grabbed one of the dining room chairs for him to be able to reach it, nudging Sherlock aside.

Sherlock offered to help, "I can-"

"I've got it!" John hissed and climbed onto the chair. His short arms and legs were not helping in the least, his fingernails scratching the side of the pepper container. John leaning over the chair, almost getting a hold on the pepper when gravity got a hold of it and the chair suddenly tipped too much. John struggled, wildly swinging his arms trying to regain balance, but all for nothing. John's chair collapsed to the ground and he followed shortly after, closing his eyes and bracing for the impact.

But the impact never came. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking down at him, holding in a laugh. Sherlock had caught him before he hit his head and John was now resting in Sherlock's arms.

"You should be more careful John," Sherlock chimed. He set John down next to him and grabbed the pepper without even perching on his toes. Sherlock handed the pepper to John, who was glaring at him.

"Are you sure I can't help you cook?"

Thanks for reading my fluff 3
oh, poor short John