Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Biscuits (Part 4)

When Y/N returns home, she climbs the stairs to the flat not just because she lives there but because she's curiously following a smell.

She recognises the smell but it doesn't usually come from her apartment.

It usually comes from a Gregg's, or those stainless steel kitchens at the back of Sainsbury's with the big ovens.

There's a tiny fluffy stegosaurus keyring hanging from her house keys; Sherlock had bought him for her from the gift shop when they'd last visited the Museum Of Natural History. She strokes his little head with the pad of her thumb as she unlocks the door—a nervous habit that has made his fluff go flat, like bangs over his black beady eyes.

What is Sherlock doing in there? And why does it smell so good?

Cautiously, she peers about the apartment.

He is not in the living room, and the heap of papers he'd been scribbling over that morning are all completely gone from his desk.

Y/N wonders, for one heart-stopping moment, if he's taken them to some sort of workshop to bring his invention into reality—but then she spots his scribbly drawings clogging up the waste paper basket; as if he'd swept them off the desk with one arm in a moody huff.

Rounding the corner, her shoulders sag as she finds Sherlock's long body stooped over the kitchen counter. He still hasn't changed out of his blue pyjama t-shirt, but his dressing gown has disappeared and, unusually, his arms are exposed. They're pale but surprisingly muscled, and Y/N's lip twitches to think of him secretly managing to do push-ups in the cramped space between his bed and wardrobe.

She also notices he is wearing trousers, so his mental state doesn't seem to have depleted anymore while she was gone. They are pyjama trousers, though, which implies he didn't leave the house after all.

His ears metaphorically prick with the sound of the door closing, and he turns around. "Y/N!" Excitedly, he gestures with one hand, rising back to his full height. "Come look at this!"

"Okay but you look at this, I popped into Boots on my way home. Your shaving foam was on offer so I got you some more, I know how you like to hoard them."

"It's not a hoard, it's an index. But thank you. Come on, I want to show you something."

Y/N unlaces her shoes. "What is it?" She would be lying if she claimed her voice lacked a weary air of suspicion.

Sensing it, he reassures:

"It's good, you'll like it."

Shrugging off her coat, Y/N hooks it on one of the pegs by the door, her little jacket dwarfed by Sherlock's giant blanket-like Belstaff.

His blue scarf has slithered onto the floor, and she brushes some lint from the wool and hangs it back up where it belongs.

"That's what you said about the Tupperware from the morgue."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion. "There's nothing inherently bad about Tupperware."

"It was what was inside it that bothered me."

Joining him in the kitchen is a little difficult because she has to squeeze between the table and the counter, which Sherlock hasn't moved away from.

He seems to be guarding something, but as Y/N opens her mouth to ask what, a basket is pressed proudly into her hands.

The weave is warm, steam rising in delicious-smelling ribbons. It blurs her vision, but she can clearly see it is full of bread.

"I made it," Sherlock clarifies, just in case the flour and dough-caked mixing bowls weren't enough of a giveaway. Some of it is on his t-shirt.