Sherlock smoothed down the front of the dress slightly, shifting his weight in the heels he wore. His eyes flickered to the clock. There wasn’t enough time. Dinner either wasn’t going to be finished, or it was going to be burned, or something was going to go wrong.
Surprisingly, cleaning the flat had gone perfectly. Everything was spotless. He was dressed perfectly, and his hair and makeup were flawless. Something had to go wrong. There was no way he would get away with everything being perfect. It was a cosmic impossibility.
That was when he smelled the smoke coming from the oven.
Allow me to direct you to my Bioshock sideblog: