#also side note apparently plonker actually is a real word

[clever-naming-convention]

Grian is once again going to outlive his team

[elphenfan]

The Great Bakerstreet Bake Off - Chapter 6

No, this hasn’t been forgotten. Quite the opposite and we’re definitely moving in this chapter :)

Recipe for the day (sorta)

So…what did all this behaviour add up to?

That was the question that John mulled over the next few days. It wasn’t a question easily answered, though, by the simple fact of who was the cause of the question.

On the one hand, there were several different things that had been done which fell decidedly outside the norm. It wasn’t just the fact that they were baking together or even that Sherlock had decided baking programmes couldn’t be watched without being plastered up against a poor army doctor. It was the amount of seemingly unintentional touches, the accidental almost-kiss and the patience that doesn’t normally exist outside running experiments.

On the other, however, none of it had happened until they had started baking and that had only started because of a bet, hadn’t it? Furthermore, the things that had changed had stayed very firmly confined to the times connected in some way with baking.

The trouble with that was that it meant it could as well be the brunette performing some form of experiment on his flatmate. He had no real idea what that experiment would be but then he wasn’t the genius in the house, was he?

But then that past week had happened. That past week which had included not only Sherlock being mindful of John in general, but mindful and caring of his hand and what he could manage, going so far as to choose a bake that they could make with only three functioning hands between them.

As if that wasn’t enough, the downright impossible had happened; Sherlock had turned down a case. A case that was interesting, which he would normally have jumped at, he had turned down and turned down quite emphatically and for what? A day spent together with John, baking.

He hadn’t even called Lestrade back when they’d finished baking to say that he was available then. instead he’d stayed with John, trying their bake and fussing around to make sure that baking hadn’t worsened the few blisters that had appeared on his hand.

Despite that, and it was quite a major that, especially given it was Sherlock, John was still a bit reluctant to think of it as definitive indication. He knew he was being overly cautious and suspicious but he couldn’t really help it.

The thing that had definitively pushed it over into the territory of ‘intentional and genuine’ in the doctor’s mind was the combination of the consideration and care with the fact that he had made heart-shaped bakes not once, but twice. One or the other on its own he wouldn’t dare call it but in combination, he felt like he could nourish a tentative hope.

His resolve was strengthened by the fact that the care to his hand continued well after there was no real need for it. There was no other indication but there didn’t need to be.

Wednesday was a quiet day at the surgery but John still came home late, just twenty minutes to the start of the show, due to a few incidents on the tube, to find the coffee table cleared and stocked with not only the by then customary selection but with a few bits and pieces that looked decidedly homemade. Homemade but quite a far cry from the misshapen lumps supposed to be scones from a few weeks previous.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, looking quite nonchalant as he toyed with his violin but his eyes honed in on John the moment he was through the door, then followed his gaze to the coffee table before returning to stare at the doctor.

“When will you learn that taking the tube home when it’s pouring down will only add approximately 18 minutes to your journey?” he asked by way of greeting. He made no comment on the things he’d obviously made which John found a bit odd, given his normal tendencies.

It didn’t take a genius to work out the brunette had thought he wouldn’t make it in time.

“Pouring down is the status quo of the British weather, Sherlock, and I’m hardly going to walk the whole way when it’s bucketing, am I?”

“You’ve got a reasonably durable coat.”

John shrugged off said coat which was dripping water onto the floor. ‘Reasonably durable’ was apparently a way of saying ‘not really capable of withstanding the heavens opening’.

“I’ve also got shoes with a crack in the soles that I only found out about this morning when I stepped in a puddle.” He toed off said shoes and made straight for the sofa. “So, you can perhaps see why I wasn’t all too keen on walking the entire way back home, overcrowded tube or not. Now, as much as I enjoy it when you decide to play your violin, I’d rather watch the Bake Off with you.”

He smiled warmly. “Come on. It’s about to start. You made all the preparations, you can’t really back out now.”

The lanky body practically propelled itself out of the chair, stopped briefly to deposit the instrument and then moved quickly over to the sofa, almost falling onto it. “I had no intention to,” he said softly, smiling.

“Right.” John smiled back. “It’s…what is it this week? I forget.”

The answer came promptly. “Botanical week.”

“Ah. That might explain why I didn’t remember. Sounds like a girl’s tea party, serving her dollies ‘cakes’ that are bunches of plucked dandelions.”

“Good to see you’ve got no preconceptions.”

“All I’m saying is that I am not baking anything that’s mainly petals.”

“Guess my plan for sprinkling rose petals all over a wedding cake is out the window, then.”

John made a sound between a choke and a laugh. “Like we’d ever be able to eat that, never mind bake it.”

“Who said we’d eat it on our own?”

Don’t go there, Sherlock. Don’t go getting my hopes up for something that’s never going to happen. “People will talk if we ask them to help out with eating the remains of a wedding cake. Everyone knows what a traditional wedding cake tastes like.”

“People do little else.” With that, Sherlock tilted sideways until he was in his customary place snuggled up against John’s side and turned on the TV. “Now you’ve made us miss the intro.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” John knew better than to point out that nothing important was said during the cold open; when Sherlock had decided that something was worthy of his attention, he gave it completely.

“It’s alright. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to tape it for us.”

Why all the blooming fuss about us missing the show, then? the doctor groused internally though he thought he might know the reason.

As the talk about the signature challenge, a citrus meringue pie, started up, John settled himself in a little bit better. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, though, his eyes fixed on the screen. You could almost hear him take mental notes, though it didn’t mean he’d settled on that bake.

“Hang on, Italian meringue? French? I thought meringue was meringue. What’s the difference?”

“For those two? What the consistency of the sugar added is. For French, it’s granulated sugar and for Italian, it’s sugar syrup. As for the Swiss that she – “

“That’s Jane.”

“That she is making, that is a French meringue done over a ban marie, a water bath. Well, more or less that.”

“Well, ta for assuming I don’t know what a ban marie is, plonker. We, no, I used the ban marie on our very first bake together, if you remember. Actually, as I recall, you were the one who wanted to melt the chocolate in the microwave oven.”

“Live and learn, John.”

“Funny how you always say stuff like that when you’re the one in the wrong.”

“Mmh,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “Go back to drooling over that lipstick-woman and pretending it’s over the cakes.”

“It is over the cakes. Some of those look downright amazing. She’s really not my type.” There was a snort. “She’s not!”

Sherlock looked up from his position snuggled against John’s side. “True,” he conceded, smiling a smile that made John’s stomach do an odd but pleasant tumble. “You’ve gotten far better taste in the time I’ve known you.”

“Thanks. I suppose you’ll be taking credit for that one as well, then?” John said with an answering smile, trying to ignore his suddenly thumping heart.

The smile only widened. “Of course.”

“Right.”

There was a pause as they just sat looking at each other.

A noise from the TV broke the moment.

“Do you…do you want to watch the judging of the pies?” John knew his voice was shaking ever so slightly.

Sherlock nodded, the bobbing coming quickly.

John couldn’t help smiling when Tom got first place in the technical challenge.

“I knew it. I bloody well knew it.”

“Not exactly a hard-won deduction.”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock. We are not doing a three-tiered cake of any sort, let alone with blooming flowers on or in it.”

“Interesting choice of word. What, scared you can’t pull it off?”

John hesitated but not because he was unsure of whether he could do a tiered cake or not. He was fairly certain that he could, even if it wasn’t exactly up to snuff. What he was contemplating instead was a thought he’d toyed with all evening; to snake his arm out and rest the elbow on the back of the sofa in a way that would effectively put his arm around Sherlock without touching him.

The risk was minimal, really, when he thought about it. If the detective noticed, it could be chalked up to just happening to rest his arm there and besides, Sherlock was hardly in a position to complained, practically snuggled up against the shorter man as he was.

So why was John hesitating?

You’re scared of the next step that’s going to come if this goes right, an inner voice told him. Nothing fancy about it, you’re just scared because if you muck it up, you might end up losing your best friend.

But he was given, for Sherlock, some rather major signals that advances wouldn’t be turned down, wasn’t he? Was he?

Not that, idiot. How many girlfriends have you had that have clearly wanted you as a romantic partner only for that to go south? And they were not infuriating, mercurial, insecure, brilliant, gorgeous madmen who’d probably never had a romantic partner in his life.

He realized he still hadn’t answered the question but he had thankfully not paused long enough to rouse suspicion.

Stretching a bit in an attempt to make the arm movement seem somewhat more natural, he answered, “No more scared than you – and no, that doesn’t mean it’s another bet. We’re not baking that. If nothing else, we haven’t got the tools or the materials.” His arm had landed exactly where he wanted it to.

“That can be arranged.”

“No. Just please, no.” He briefly considered pleading that his hand was not healed enough but knew that wouldn’t really go over too well. “Look, if you really want to do a showstopper, and I can understand why you’d want to, we’ll do the next one, yeah?”

“The next two.”

“I’m not going to argue with you like you’re a kid begging for another go on the dodgems, Sherlock.”

“Dodgems are boring.”

“Sherlock.”

“The next two.”

“Oh, alright, fine. The next two are going to be the showstoppers – “ he held up a finger “ – providing, no, listen, providing that they don’t go absolutely nuts with the brief. They are getting progressively more difficult.”

“That’s rather the point, John. In any case, they’re not the only ones who have advanced, are they?”

John smiled. “True,” he conceded.

His smile broadened when Sherlock settled back against him, the wiggling pushing at the back cushion enough for John’s arm to slip further and land firmly across the detective’s back instead of just hovering just around it. There was no indication of discomfort. If John was to call it, he would actually say it was quite the opposite.

Another tick in the ‘intentional and genuine’ box, I should think.

“No way.”

“John, you’re being ridiculous.”

They were standing in a somewhat crowded supermarket Saturday morning.

“It’s not being ridiculous not wanting to ruin an otherwise possibly good bake with a taste that brings bake some rather unpleasant memories.”

“They were a bit off, that was all.”

“’Orange with fingers’ is not something that can be described merely as a bit off. We are not using oranges and we are not arguing here!”

“You’re the one who’s raising his voice in the middle of the fruit and veg, not me.”

“No, but you’re the one who insisted on coming with me, only to hover behind me like some stupid scarecrow and put things in the trolley we don’t need.”

“Having a bit of a domestic, are you?” came a sweet voice from behind them. They turned to find a smallish middle-aged-going-on-old woman with a hairdo more commonly seen in the eighties and clothing more suited for a young woman smiling at them.

“None of your business,” Sherlock snapped.

The woman’s smile wavered slightly at the brusqueness but she persevered. “I’m so sorry, too nosy for my own good, I know. My husband’s always telling me, ‘Bez’, he says…oh, listen to me prattling on.” She fiddled with her earring. “All I wanted to say was it’s so sweet to see two young people comfortable enough with each other to have a small, boring row in the supermarket over trivialities – just like the rest of us.”

With that, she turned and headed back to her equally smallish husband, complete with sensible jumpers and glasses.

“The thought of being ‘just like’ her is quite frankly appalling,” Sherlock commented, his face and subsequently voice very close to John’s. “The most interesting thing about her is the fact that she’s involved with not one but two of her bosses, both significantly younger than her.”

“Does the husband know?” John couldn’t help asking.

“Only about one of them. He feels proud of her.”

In a strange way, I get why. “Each to their own.”

“Still doesn’t give her the right to interfere where she isn’t wanted.”

“She was just attempting to diffuse an apparent situation, Sherlock.”

The brunette snorted. “She was being nosy and attempting to boost her own confidence by assuring herself that what she does is what everyone else does.”

We were arguing, you have to grant her that and it’s not the best place to – oi, don’t just try to sneak the oranges in when I’m distracted.”

“Fine. We’ll let your irrational, sudden aversion to oranges be this time. What else do you suggest, then? Lime and coconut?” The suggestion had a sharp tinge to it.

“Oh, come off it.” If he didn’t know better, John might suspect a tiny slip of jealousy. Whatever the case, he couldn’t help smiling. I wasn’t thinking of copying any of the pies in there, actually.”

“Oh? What, then?”

“What, you can’t guess it?”

“I cannot pull deductions out of thin air. That’s guesswork. I don’t deal in guesswork.”

“I thought we could use some mangos,” John suggested, reaching for the fruit as he spoke. “If we’re going to make a citrus meringue pie, we need to make a curd and…well, I happen to like mango. We could puree it.”

“We could still make a three-tier sunflower cake.”

“We could but,” and John’s smile turned into something of a smirk, “either you’re eating all of it yourself or you’re going around the Yard with the leftovers.”

“Mango meringue pie it is.”

“Okay, which recipe have you deemed worthy of your time for this one, then? Another Berry one?”

“No.”

John got out the pie tin with the loose base they’d also ended up picking up while out shopping. The argument had been that it would be much easier to get the pie out of such a tin instead of a regular one.

“Fair enough. Might be good to use someone else’s recipe for a change. Who, then?”

“No one. We’re not following a specific recipe.”

“What?” John stopped his rummage through the fridge for the eggs, having pushed aside a few experiments that had thankfully been put in jars this time, to look up at his friend with a frown. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve made shortcrust pastry before.”

“We haven’t made curd before. We haven’t made meringue before. Both are things that can be mucked very easily. Look, do you want this one to go wrong? Is that it?”

“What? No!” Sherlock looked hurt as well as indignant. “Of course not!”

“Oh, really? Cause it sure sounds like it – or is the great Sherlock Holmes arrogant enough to think that once he’s had a few passable bakes he can just freestyle everything?”

“It’s not freestyling.”

“Really? What is it, then?”

The doctor could feel his annoyance building. This was supposed to be something they did together, something that they put time and effort into and all of a sudden, Sherlock had decided to be cavalier and laissez-faire about it; about a thing where he’d previously lavished attention and care, not just on the bake but on John, too.

The implications of the new attitude weren’t something the blonde liked at all.

“I was going to find separate recipes for each one!”

“You what?”

Pale eyes skittered around, not meeting John’s, and of all things, Sherlock bit the inside of his lip ever so slightly. “I…I don’t want us to fail baking. I want to make a perfect pie.” He met John’s gaze. “But I couldn’t find one that was with mango at all so I thought that maybe if we took the shortcrust we knew worked and then got good separate recipes on the curd and the meringue, we could be far more certain of a good bake!”

That made John pause. “You’re…you’re not just backpedalling, are you? Not just trying to placate me?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said, emphatic.

That was…incredibly sweet and suddenly the doctor felt an idiot. Right…okay, right. That…makes sense, a whole lot of sense. Thank you.” He reached out and grabbed a bony hand, squeezing it.

“Thank you,” he repeated, smiling up at the other.

Sherlock, however, was looking at their hands. There was a visible swallow.

“Sherlock?” They’d held hands before, although unintentionally, at least on John’s part. He hadn’t gone too far by doing this, had he?

“You’re welcome,” the brunette said eventually. He slowly tugged his hand back but it didn’t seem to be out of discomfort. “I... I found this for the mango curd.”

He dug into his trouser pocket for his phone, unlocked it and showed it to his flatmate.

John leaned closer to see, thinking that the time might be right for reading glasses after all, and scanned the recipe.

“Alright. That looks rather doable,” he admitted. “It’s just for a normal lemon curd, though, with just the juice. Are you sure we can transfer that to a mango?”

“If we puree it properly and then add some more butter, we can do it.”

“We’ve never done even regular curd before.”

Sherlock smiled. “But isn’t doing something new where we excel?” he asked, voice strangely soft.

John swallowed. The air suddenly seemed somewhat stifling. “True,” he answered, equally softly.

He wanted so much to just close the gap and kiss Sherlock, finally feel if those lips were as plush and soft as they appeared, soppy as that sounded.

His moment was gone before he mustered the courage; Sherlock had turned to continue pulling out the things they’d need for the bake. There was some definite colour dotting those high cheekbones again.

“So…we’re to blind bake this one, too, right? That’s what the contestants did, right?”

“If we want to minimize the risk of a soggy bottom, it would seem the smart choice.”

“Don’t go knocking the soggy bottoms, they can be a lot of fun,” John said completely straight-faced as he got the eggs and the butter out and put them on the table. He thought he heard a small snigger but he wasn’t sure.

“Bugger.”

“What now?”

“How are we supposed to puree it? We don’t have a blender.”

“Ah.” Curls bobbed as Sherlock dipped down to pull something out from a shelf. “Will a hand blender do?” he asked, holding it up almost triumphantly.

“When did we get that?”

“Months ago; I needed to see if eyeballs – “

“Sherlock, what did I say about discussing things like that when we’re baking?”

“You’ve said nothing of the sort. You said I shouldn’t mention entrails at the dinner table – and to forestall you asking, no, I never used it.”

“Good.” John reached for it, letting himself enjoy the feel of their hands touching briefly. “Which meringue type are you going for, by the way? Swiss?”

“French, I think.”

“That seems awfully simple for you, no offense.”

Conversation was postponed while John turned on the hand blender and blitzed the chopped-up mango in the bowl.

“No need to make it overly complicated just for its own sake.”

“Oh? So, I’m not worth impressing, am I?”

“Impress? No.” John’s heart didn’t have time to sink. “Amaze? Most definitely.”

With that, he turned his attention back to the oven and pulled out the tin so he could remove the baking parchment with the beans and then put the pastry back in for its final bake pre-curd.

He straightened back up to find John cutting the butter into cubes before he turned his attention back to the pot.

“Is it just the yolks?”

The doctor shook his head. “The recipe you found said to use whole eggs so that’s what I’m doing. Got the preserving sugar, the mango and the eggs in here but damned if I know whether it’s thickening or not. I think we might have been better off just using some mango juice, if I’m honest.”

“Is it harder to stir than when you started?” Sherlock asked, moving closer.

“I think so, actually, if I – oi, you keep a bit of distance when I’ve got anything hot on here. It was your fault last time.”

“I have to be close to the oven if I’m to watch the pastry, John – if you’re that worried, you could have bought a portable stove.”

“And have the whole fire brigade in here again? Ta, I think I’ll pass.” Deeming the concoction had indeed started to thicken, he slowly started adding the butter, stirring throughout. He was cheered by the fact that it started to look right, if nothing else.

“You’re such a worry wart.” Sherlock bent to check on the pastry again and, apparently deeming it sufficiently baked, took it out and left it on the table to cool a bit.

“With an overgrown toddler in the house, I have to be to survive.”

Sherlock merely shrugged in response. “Remember that there should be some thickening agent in that, too,” he commented, his back to John as he separated the eggs and put the egg whites into a clean bowl. We don’t want it wobbling or the moisture seeping into the meringue.”

“Yeah, cheers, I remember that.” He hadn’t but Sherlock didn’t need to know. “You just whisk the meringue properly, please.”

Sherlock sniffed and turned on the electric whisk. The noise drowned out pretty much everything else but the whisk was thankfully rather effective and the mix was quickly stiff enough to risk putting the bowl over, of course, John’s head.

“I ought to throw this right over you,” the blonde groused, holding up his pot of only slightly cooled curd for emphasis before he poured it into the pastry case. “What if it hadn’t been stiff enough?”

“You can tell if it’s not ready as soon as you start tilting the bowl. You were never in any danger.”

Satisfied with a job well done, Sherlock started up the whisk again and began to slowly add first the caster sugar and then the icing sugar.

When it was thick and glossy, he stopped the whisk again and straightened up.

“Right. That’s all done for – why are you staring at me, John?”

Because you’ve managed to get small globs of meringue all over your bloody face, John thought and, without thinking, reached out a hand and wiped off a white dot sitting on Sherlock’s cheek just beside his nose.

A giggle escaped him at the completely nonplussed look on Sherlock’s face. It didn’t stop them from continuing to stare at each other, the tension back in the room.

Then, as it wobbled and threatened to overbalance in his other hand, he remembered the pie.

“Hang on, just give me a moment to put this in and I’ll kiss you.”

He quickly bent down so he could slide the pie in and close the oven door. When he straightened up again, it was to find Sherlock blinking at him as though the hard drive was trying to reboot but kept encountering an error.

John felt his smile return. For all the sweetness and care and hints that he’d shown through the weeks, such a blunt declaration was not only unexpected but slightly difficult to comprehend.

I do hope he didn’t expect his advances to have gone appreciated but otherwise unrequited. Bloody hell, that would be horrible but also make a whole lot of sense.

Pushing that uncomfortable thought very firmly out of his mind, John made sure he was still smiling softly and moved closer. He brought a hand up and gently cupped one cheek, giving Sherlock time to pull away, if he wanted to.

Instead those pale eyes stared down, a flicker of hope in the depth of them.

John leant up and pressed his lips against his those of his flatmate, noting in the back of his mind that they were indeed soft but not quite as soft as he’d imagined. It didn’t mean they didn’t feel wonderful to finally kiss.

Sherlock was unresponsive but only for a moment. Then he might a strange, strangled noise and pressed back. One hand came up to grab hold of John’s shoulder, presumably for balance and support. The other still held the electric whisk.

John started to pull back, not wanting to go faster than his detective was comfortable with, but he was followed and his lips were claimed again, this time in a flurry of shorter kisses, each landing slightly differently, as though Sherlock was trying to catalogue the feel and taste of the doctor’s lips in every possible detail. John certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

He could have happily stayed there, being kissed and kissing in turn, but after a few minutes Sherlock pulled back.

“Cake,” he said softly, the smile adorning his face as soft as his voice and the look in his eyes.

“What?” For John, for a moment he was speaking right gibberish. Then it dawned. “Oh, right. The pie!”

They scrambled to get it out of the oven and check whether the filling had set. Thankfully, it had and they got it out completely.

“So…you’re the meringue expert, how do you want to put it on? In the shape of flowers or something?”

“Meringue always look good when you manage to get that golden colouring to it so…just tops, I suppose.”

“Right. I’ll get the piping bag for you.”

“Hold on,” and before John could move away, Sherlock leaned in to press another kiss to his lips. He pulled back almost immediately but John didn’t mind. Too much, at least.

“You’re not going to keep that to just when we’re baking, too, are you?” he asked as the fished for the bag, hoping his thumping heart wouldn’t betray his nervousness at the question.

“Not unless they are unwelcome at other times.”

“Like hell they are.” John grinned and shook his head. “You daft, wonderful sod, why couldn’t you just have come out and asked instead or something?”

He half-expected Sherlock to brush it off somehow. What he got instead was a look of uncertainty before the brunette looked down, focusing on the piping of the meringue with a telling intensity.

“Sherlock?”

“Still need to get this finished.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’ll go flat if we leave it and then it’s unusable.” Despite everything, the meringue came out in perfectly formed, swirled tops.

“Sherlock, would you stop and look at me? Please?”

Pale eyes slowly lifted but the hands didn’t stop their work. Then the eyes lowered again. “I didn’t want you to go.”

“Go? What do you mean, go?”

“Leave.”

“Why would I leave?”

“You’re not stupid, John, why do you think?” There was a pause. “If I…tested the waters, I could see what you were comfortable with without you catching on.”

“Did you ever expect me to? You didn’t, did you?” Silence was as good as an answer. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“What was I supposed to think?” The words were spoken very quietly. “You haven’t exactly given any hints or picked up on what I was doing.”

John moved in close again and brought his good hand up to once again gently cup the cheek furthest from him, vaguely noting that there was still meringue on it. “I know. I’m a bit dense at times and I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the other cheek. “I got there in the end, though, didn’t I?” he whispered.

Finally, Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his gaze searching, scrutinizing. John let him, hoping that he’d see something that would reassure him sufficiently.

It seemed like he did for a small smile slowly bloomed across the defined features and he leaned into the hand gently pressed against his cheek.

They stayed like that for a moment or two.

“We still need to get the pie into the oven.”

“Hm? Oh, right, yes.” John turned his eyes towards the pie, halfway covered in swirled meringue tops. “You’ve got a knack for piping and all that stuff, I must say. Really wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Chemistry requires precision and a steady hand.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why there’s corrosion spots and small blackened areas all over this kitchen, then?”

“No, that’s just artistic flair.”

“Right.” John pressed another small kiss to Sherlock’s face before he withdrew, tongue darting out ever so briefly to catch a small glob of meringue. He was pleased to see the small shudder that caused.

“That really does look amazing.”

“Yes, John, so you’ve said. Around five times by now – and you’ve taken several pictures. Would you just cut into it already?”

“What was that about patience?”

“I said ‘precision’, not ‘patience’.”

“Ah. Of course – silly me, really.”

“John.”

“Alright already, I’m cutting the damn pie.”

He felt a hand on his thigh as he cut two slices, feeling oddly pleased that it looked good inside, too.

It tasted quite great, as well, and he said so, mouth full of pie. He got an orange-and-white smile for his effort.

“I think we can safely call this bake a success,” was Sherlock’s only comment after he’d swallowed, “don’t you think?”

“Definitely. Roaring success – ah, no. We’re not signing up for the Bake Off, Sherlock. We’re not.”

“We did all of this without following a recipe.”

“Without following a specific recipe, you mean, there’s a difference.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“Yeah, that figures. Can we just…can we try and master a few more things first?”

“Oh, alright. If you insist.”

John leant in and stole a kiss. “I do.”

I could end it here. Not that I want to or don’t have more to tell but if there’s no one who wants to read more, then this isn’t a bad place to end.

See, @thebluecarbuncle, we got to the citrus meringue pie. Hope it lives up somewhat to what you wanted.

Tagging:@mandysimo13 @willowgrovecreates @sherlock-and-john-getting-it-on @one-thousand-splendid-stars Did I forget anyone? I don’t think so

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5