#johnovan

Leaning her weight against the workspace, Sally fights against the urge to sigh.

"Sally?" John says carefully. She doesn't turn around, but he knows she's listening. "You know I don't expect you to cook and clean and all that without pitching in myself. You do know that, right?"

Sally rubs fingertips against the pressure of a growing headache. "Er, yeah," she says. She turns slightly, her left side to John, looking at him almost shyly. "I mean, if you did expect that, you sure as hell wouldn't get it. But...don't laugh at me, alright?"

John schools his expression into a very serious one, sitting, ready to listen. "I won't," he promises her. She's sensitive to teasing, like Sherlock is.

"It'd be nice to be able to have a meal ready every once in a while," she says. "You know what I mean?"

John does, actually. "I think maybe," he says cautiously, licking his lips, "you might be aiming a little high. And no," he says quickly, "that's not a judgment about your skill. I know you don't have a lot of practice, and, honestly, neither do I. But, say it was me trying to make soup. I'd go for something more...traditional?"

She turns to face him more fully, eyebrows raised in surprise, a familiar expression that means he's made a good point, got her thinking. "Okay," she says. "Next time...maybe...tomato?"

John smiles encouragingly. "That's the ticket, I think," he says. He gestures to her place at the table. "Come and sit. It's not inedible. Everything's okay, Sally. I promise."

"Of course not!" Sally said with a tut, heading to grab a second apron for John. "Just look at Gordon Ramsey. I'm just saying you have no place in the kitchen, or at least that's been the established pattern of things."

"And you're afraid to break a pattern. I see."

"Afraid of your baking, more like," she said, handing the apron over, watching him put it on over his jumper, having him turn round so she could help with the string. "All I'm saying is, John, that you've got to have experience to just wing it like I do. I cooked and baked all the time growing up. You told me you didn't."

"So I've got a lot to catch up on. We can afford for me to make one shit batch of biscuits. We've got the money," he said, giving her a nudge.

She paused, lip quirking up slightly. Actually, he had a point. Things were different than when she'd been baking growing up. "Okay, then. Shall I assist you?"

"Yeah. And you can decorate, if they're alright. I want to try a sort of mint gingerbread."

She raised an eyebrow. "We'll see what happens. But, yeah, I'll decorate. You're shit at it."

"I really, really am," he admitted seriously, and then he grinned.

And she grinned too. And as he turned to the workspace and started to set up his ingredients and bowls, he felt a soft sensation at his back, then again at his shoulder, and he glanced at his shoulder. She'd thrown flour at him!

He blinked, then turned round smoothly. "Oh, Mrs Watson. You don't want to do that," he said warningly. "No, no, bad idea." She squealed when he made his first move of retaliation, flinging sugar in her pretty hair.

Christmas music played quietly in the background from the next room as the two of them dodged and attacked and laughed.

And, when cooled and tasted, they found John's biscuits were almost right, but not there yet, so she gave him a few tips, which he accepted and tried out. And Sally decorated.

No one wanted to believe at first that John had done it, but Sally just demanded of the doubters, "Are you saying John has no place in the kitchen?"