She'd never planned on being the domestic sort. When she'd first fallen in love with Freddie, he'd been at the beginning of his fame and already in enough money that, for the most part, they ate out all the time. When they didn't, or when she wasn't with him, it was usually take aways. But marriage had changed her. Oh, she'd been raised at the height of feminism and didn't believe a woman had to cook for her husband in order to be good at the role. But this place had forced her into new roles and she'd found she quite liked it. It also made her connect to her mother, those rare moments when the two of them could bond without Florence being pushed to be the best, to compete with children who'd grown up in England and weren't looked at as an outsider. Those times long before she'd gotten disapproving looks from her mum over Freddie Trumper. Now that she had friends she cared for, she had no problem cooking for them, either.
Least she could do without a family of her own to pamper and coddle.
"Biscuits, of course," she replied, answering his question. The look on her face said, quite simply, 'well, duh'. Because she knew him and she knew the way into his good graces. And when he discovered jam in the middle of said biscuits, well, she'd be his favorite at least for a while. Until Rose returned home, anyway.
She didn't even bother letting him make her settle in. As much time as she'd spent in the flat after Sherlock's passing, she knew the place well enough to consider herself a part time resident. "I'd love one," she told him, but she didn't allow him to make it. She found where he'd left the kettle and poured two cups, then prepared his exactly as he took it.
Unfortunately, the kettle was in the kitchen. And in the kitchen sat that blasted box. And as she turned to take him his cup, she caught it out of the corner of her eye. And her perceptive gaze also caught that the scarf was actually out of the box. "Oh, John... No. You didn't." Her tone wasn't scolding, or even disapproving, really. Just sad.