John sighed and leaned back from his computer, his stomach rumbling. He’d been catching up on his blog all afternoon, having nothing better to do since Lestrade hadn’t even had any petty cases for them all week and Sherlock had vetoed the idea of planning a Christmas party (before he’d even mentioned it) when John had brought home a small tree a few days ago. Writing about murders hardly seemed fitting for the holiday season, though, and John didn’t enjoy feeling like a scrooge sitting home thinking about death on Christmas Eve. He scowled at the screen a moment and decided he ought to make a Christmas post that didn’t have anything to do with one of their cases. His stomach rumbled again. But perhaps after a break he thought.
John turned to face the door, but didn’t actually get out of his chair. Sherlock had taken over the kitchen almost as soon as he’d gotten up that morning, experimenting with god-