BEFORE

John arrived back to Baker Street that evening to a delicious smell. He cautiously opened the door to his apartment and slowly peaked inside.

He was not expecting what he saw.

Sherlock was stirring a pot on the stove and looking at a cookbook while humming quietly to himself. He bent down and opened the oven to check on the food, letting an amazing aroma drift to where John was standing wide eyes and open mouthed.

"Woah," John said quietly. Sherlock jumped and slammed his hands on the oven.

"Bloody hell John!" he exploded, "You could have told me you were in here!" He held his red hand and carried it to the freezer. John didn't comprehend what was happening, he was staring at the good in the oven. Sherlock returned with ice on this palm and a scowl look on his face. John was shaken into reality.

"Oh, oh I'm so sorry," he blurted.

"Hm" Sherlock grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the smoking hit meat onto the table.

"What is that?" John asked.

"Filet mignon and butternut squash. There's a light vegetable soup cooling on the stove." Sherlock replied as if it was as obvious as the color of the sky.

John began to laugh. "You actually did all this with a cookbook? I'm impressed, I truly am. Sherlock this looks amazing."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "It does, doesn't it."

They pulled chairs up to the table and Sherlock served soup in fancy China that hadn't been touched in years. John never knew Sherlock could cook, let alone follow directions. And when he said he was impressed, he truly was. He looked proudly at the awkward man standing before him in Mrs Hudson's old apron. And in that moment, sitting silently waiting for his soup to cool, he knew that he loved him.

•••

John sat back in his chair, stuffed with good food and across from good company.

"One more thing," Sherlock hinted, standing up.

"There's more?" John asked, patting his stomach. "I'm not sure I'm ready for more."

"I think you'll change your mind," Sherlock explained, "its a special surprise."

He reached into the fridge and pulled out two pieces of cloudless chocolate cake drizzled in caramel sauce. Johns smile spread all across his face.

"You know me too well," he joked as Sherlock set the plate in front of him.

Sherlock shrugged. "Do you like it?"

John mumbled through a full mouth, "Umhmm!"

"Good, good," Sherlock nodded.

Johns eyes widened at he put his fork down slowly. "You didn't- there isn't- poison?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock erupted with laughter. "No no there's no poison! I just want you too like it! But do watch out for your coffee."

John smiled and laughed at himself. Of course it wasn't poisoned. But, with Sherlock, necessary precautions must be taken. He and Sherlock began to eat again, and devoured the remaining cake.

John stood up and began to clear the table, in which Sherlock quickly followed. They began to work together to wash the dishes, John on the sink and Sherlock drying.

"We're a good team, you and I," John thought out loud.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled. "I agree." he stated simply.

They locked eyes for a moment, until John cast his gaze down to his restless feet. His heart began to beat fast and his body swelled. He raised his eyes and could tell that Sherlock was the same. They stood close, for the kitchen was small. There hands lay flat at there sides, but Sherlocks began to move sneakily into Johns. John could barely breathe, these moments were only in his dreams. But when he stared again into Sherlocks eyes, he knew that this was the most real he had ever felt.

The kiss came slow, but it was long. John felt Sherlock smile on his lips. Sherlocks free hand moved up Johns back and pushed him closer. John pulled away to take a breath and rested his forehead on Sherlocks.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Sherlock squeezed his hand and let go. They parted and went to there separate rooms, with nothing but the other in mind.

Mrs Hudson cleaned the kitchen again that night.

AFTER

Sherlocks heels clicked as he continued to walk down the busy street. There were thousands of people about, pushing and running and always in a rush. But not Sherlock. He focused his mind on the street and where his feet where taking him, not on anything or anybody. He tried to forget everything, but he couldn't.
Words ran through his head on repeat and he couldn't control them. They picked up speed and volume.
JOHN. DEAD. LOVE. YOU. DEAD. HOW. SHOT. THANK YOU. DINNER. DEAD.
They didn't stop. The amount of different words increased every second, each with a particular meaning that he didn't have time to understand. They just kept coming.

His eyes blurred and he walked fast with no purpose or direction. If a red light stopped him he turned the corner. He tried to walk straight for as long as he could.

Slowly, the amount of people diminished, and soon the streets Sherlock had found were empty. He could run now. He ran as fast and he could and tried to leave the voices behind but they wouldn't stay back. The faster he ran the louder they were.
JOHN. DEAD. LOVE.

He tripped and fell into the sidewalk. He lay on his back and cradled the hand that broke his fall. And he began to cry.

He hadn't truly cried since John had died. He would sob silently, but he never made a sound. Not now though. His feeling crashed down on him all at once and his mind shut down. The words turned from screams into statements, statements into whispers, and eventually to nothing. Sherlock opened his red swollen eyes and heard nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees. He was peaceful there. He closed his eyes and dreamed of where John was and how pretty it must be. But he couldn't think for long, for the sound of crunching leaves made him snap his head to the right. A curious old woman hobbled up to him. She had seen him in her bedroom window and wanted to investigate the crumpled broken man on the sidewalk.

"Are you okay," her voice cracked. "You don't look very good."

All Sherlock could offer was the shake of his head.

The old woman looked puzzled. "Would you like some tea? You can come in if you'd like."

But Sherlock shook his head again. The old woman respected his privacy and went back to her house, leaving the silent man alone and forgotten on the deserted street.