Chapter Text
29 April 2010
Sometimes, baked goods magically appeared in the kitchen.
It began after Sarah had finally broken up with him. If John was completely honest with himself, it was a long time coming but still frustrating. And then, to make matters worse, he’d gotten into a row with Sherlock that same evening. Bastard hadn’t seemed to understand why this was a problem, and it was his own damn fault, anyways. Sherlock and his Chinese smuggler acrobats and his aluminium crutch and his crazy Irish bombers. John had stormed out in a huff and got spectacularly drunk at the pub down the street. It was late when he got back, but Sherlock was still up, banging away in the kitchen. There was probably going to be frogspawn in his mug again.
On the table sat an exquisite red velvet cake. For a second, John entertained the idea that Sarah had sent it in an effort to get back together, but the pristine inscription in light blue icing made it clear who had purchased it.
Sorry your dull girlfriend dumped you
John couldn’t help laughing, picturing Sherlock telling some poor, confused baker what to write. Still, the gesture was appreciated, and the break-up really hadn’t been Sherlock’s fault, anyhow.
When the detective emerged from his bedroom half an hour later to find John eating cake for breakfast, he looked particularly pleased.
The next appearance of the Apology Baked Goods was even faster. John went to “get some air” after Sherlock set fire to a pair of his jumpers, and when he’d returned less than three hours later, there was a banoffee pie on the sideboard. John had to wonder if Sherlock had that bakery on standby for whenever he did ridiculous things.
There was a particularly perplexing incident in which several homemade custard creams materialized in the sitting room seemingly of their own volition. John wracked his brain for anything he’d said that might have triggered Sherlock into calling up his bakery contacts, but there was nothing. Which meant that either Sherlock was feeling guilty for something John hadn’t noticed yet or he was preemptively apologising for something he was about to do. John wasn’t sure which option should concern him more.
He stalked through the flat while Sherlock was nuking kidneys or something equally ridiculous at Bart’s, but couldn’t find anything out of place. And when Sherlock returned without trying to sneak more body parts into the fridge or drugging his tea, looking particularly guileless, John became even more suspicious.
“There are some biscuits on the table,” John mentioned in what he hoped was a neutral tone. Maybe Sherlock would be distracted enough to admit why, exactly, they were there.
“Yes,” was his completely unhelpful response.
Eventually, when nothing out of the ordinary happened for a full week, John admitted defeat. Maybe Mrs Hudson had brought them up, or a grateful client had sent them over. There were other bakers in London, after all.
The most confusing instance was when John woke up in hospital a couple months later with a particularly nasty concussion. Nothing happened while he was still in hospital, though Sherlock made intermittent appearances (mostly outside of the typical visiting hours), still finishing up their case with Lestrade. But when John finally returned home, there was a massive tray of cupcakes waiting for him, each iced with a letter.
I am sorry the suspect bludgeoned you with a crowbar but honestly you should have been more careful
They were delicious - at least four different flavours - but there was a limit to the amount of cupcakes John could eat. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind that he took a few of them to the surgery with him, and Lestrade picked up a couple when he went to get John’s official statement, but he drew the line at Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother had barged into their flat, took one glance at the cupcakes, and looked more smug than John had thought possible. Sherlock had bodily shoved him out of the door before he could say anything, but allowed Anthea to take two of the remaining coconut chocolate cakes as long as she was silent about it. She actually winked at them as she left, which was probably the most bizarre thing about the whole experience.
He’d always meant to ask where Sherlock went for his Apology Baked Goods. If nothing else, John wanted to give that baker a handshake and a pat on the back for dealing with all his flatmate’s strange requests and maybe buy a few biscuits whenever Sherlock did considerate things. Positive reinforcement and all that.
But then Moriarty happened. And John never got the chance.