Fic: Mise en Place (13/25)
Title: Mise en Place (13/25)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John, just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: I feel the need to apologize for responding so horrifically late to everyone’s lovely comments last week (as in, me responding last night and this morning). I was feeling a bit down for some reason, and then just as I was picking back up, the rest of our belongings arrived from Cairo, and I spent every spare moment in a frantic search for my KitchenAid mixer - which I’m happy to say was finally unpacked on Tuesday afternoon. But no excuse: I appreciate and read and smile over every single review left (and every kudos and hitcount, too), and that you took the time to say anything at all really does make my day that much brighter. That I waited so long to say “thanks” is inexcusable, and my mother would be highly disappointed in me.
There is no recipe this week, though I had intended to share the recipe for Thai-spiced Kedgeree. I was really looking forward to making that one, too - I couldn’t in Cairo, because I couldn’t get the herring, so I planned to wait until we returned to the States. And then by the time we got here - the recipe had been pulled down from the BBC’s food website, and I hadn’t saved it because I didn’t realize they did that (my bad), so I found a less interesting recipe to try, but never got around to it. Ah well. Feel free to have a go yourself. Happy cooking!
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Every chef I have known spends a lot of time dreaming up recipes. Every good home cook has the same kind of culinary reveries. Just as a composer hears melodies in his mind before committing them to paper, cooks taste recipes before they put pan to fire.
And then they go to the market.
--Peter Kaminsky
Sunday morning market was a strange place. For one thing, it was Sunday, and Sunday markets never had quite the variety, in terms of people or produce. Most reasonable people were either sleeping in, or preparing for church.
John Watson had never really counted himself as a reasonable person. For one thing, he’d had far too many careers in his lifetime: dishwasher, doctor, soldier, and now restaurateur. A friend had once said that the average person had six careers in their lifetime. Most of the people John knew had only one or two. He wondered where the people who skewed the average lived.
The produce in the middle of winter wasn’t particularly promising, and worse on a Sunday, when even the farmers were slow to start moving. He took his slow lap around the stalls, cataloging and inspecting and letting the various bits and pieces swirl around in his head. It was easier, almost, because none of the vendors knew him in Canterbury, the closest Sunday market available. He was anonymous here, and while it was a bit freeing to know that he didn’t carry his grandfather’s weight on his shoulders here, on the other hand, no one was anxious to give him the pick of the best, or offer delivery, on the off-chance of a mention by Sherlock Holmes.
Once he did start buying, the moment he mentioned it was for service (and who else shopped on a Sunday at eight in the morning, John would like to know), the vendors instantly became a little more favorable. Purchases made in such large quantities generally meant a guarantee of return business if the quality was good, and there were nearly always teenagers underfoot who would carry things to a car for a few quid. Spinach, potatoes, carrots, and parsnips, all purchased in such mass quantities that John wondered if Artie and Molly would have time to wash it all before the mid-afternoon service began.
It would be easier on Tuesday, when regular deliveries from the supplier started up again, thus eliminating the need to actually go to the market himself. John would need to place the order on Monday morning. Which meant talking to Sherlock Sunday night, to determine what he’d need to order.
Which meant talking to Sherlock. There was the problem.
The chickens had been handled locally - Angelo had already promised Sunday chickens, and John trusted him - so all there really was to find was the fish. The line at the fishmonger’s was surprisingly long, and John waited patiently and tried not to be bothered by the prospect of talking to Sherlock. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Sherlock. It was only that every time they did, it ended in snogging.
Excellent snogging, of course, but still. John liked to think he had more control over his libido than a teenager.
“Next!” said the fishmonger.
“How much smoked haddock do you have?” asked John.
“How much do you need, mate?” asked the fishmonger.
“Between two and three kilo - it’s for service.”
The fishmonger was dubious. “I can give you two,” he said, checking his supplies. “And another two of the mackerel.”
“Brilliant. Fresh salmon?”
“How much would you like?”
“Four kilo, center-cut steaks should do me.”
“Right, mate, give me a tick.”
John watched the fishmonger gather the fish, and let his mind wander. The house had been empty when he’d woken, but the space next to him in the bed was still warm, so Sherlock hadn’t been gone long. John had tried to shove down the mix of disappointment and relief, and taken his shower and dressed before going downstairs to find the note on the fridge.
Coffee on the range. You’re out of milk. Stop by the restaurant on your way out of town if convenient. If not convenient, stop by anyway.
Sherlock’s handwriting was quick and sharp. The entire note made John laugh, and the coffee was still hot and not completely horrible without milk. It at least served to wake him up.
But when John drove by the restaurant, Sherlock hadn’t arrived. Artie waited by the back door.
“I could do the shopping for you,” suggested Artie, bright-eyed and anxious as John unlocked the door for him.
“No, Artie, you’re meant to be learning to cook.”
“I know how to cook.”
“Artie, you know how to microwave. There’s a difference.”
“I did the spinach and carrots yesterday,” insisted Artie. “And did you see any of it come back?”
“Actually, yes,” said John.
“Some people just can’t appreciate the better things in life,” said Artie, and disappeared into the kitchen. John shook his head, and turned to go back to the car, but Artie stuck his head out of the door again. “Say, boss. Want me to give Sherlock a message when he shows up?”
John gave Artie what he hoped was a blank look. “Ah - that I’ll be back with the shopping?”
"Boss?"
"What is it, Artie?"
For Artie, it was almost hesitant. Except John had never heard Artie be hesitant about anything in his entire life. "You're all right, aren't you?"
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I did some research online last night. You know there are forums dedicated to people who just follow Sherlock Holmes around the country, trying out the restaurants he’s in? And they tell stories, mate.”
John sighed. “Artie. What are you trying to tell me?”
“Just…” Artie paused, as if reconsidering what he was going to say. “You don't have that post-traumatic thingy whatsit, do you? I hear it can make you do some pretty ridiculous stuff. Like go into dark corners with egotistical chefs."
Something made John think that Artie had meant to say something very different. John started to walk back to the road. "Sod off, Artie."
"I'm just saying," shouted Artie after him. "It's not like you to do something without considering it first."
Considering. John thought he did nothing but consider anything, and he had the feeling he spent entirely too much time trying to consider Sherlock Holmes, who was going to leave in another three days to return to London.
John wondered what would happen after that, and wished he hadn’t.
"Here you are, mate," said the fishmonger. He stood in front of John with a box of paper-wrapped packages nestled in ice. "Pretty heavy, what with the ice and all, if you need help lugging it to your car?"
"Yeah, cheers," said John automatically, and was somewhat surprised when the man himself began to follow John out of the market. "Listen, I can get it if you need to stay-"
"Rather stretch my legs a little. You're not parked far, are you?"
"No, just around the corner."
"Then it won't take long. What sort of restaurant, mate? New?"
"In a way. We're changing the menu." And everything else, thought John.
"On a weekend? Chancy thing," said the fishmonger dubiously.
"Isn't everything?"
"True. What's this destined to be?"
John opened and closed his mouth quickly, and frowned as he ran over the list of ingredients in his mind. It didn't occur to him until just then - he'd been able to discern the menu on Saturday from the list he'd been handed. It had been easy, in fact. But there were no such indications on the list in his hand why Sherlock wanted the fish. Kedgeree, maybe - but it was such an odd thing to have on the menu, John couldn’t imagine why Sherlock would want it.
"Do you know, I haven't the foggiest," said John, a bit sheepishly, and the fishmonger grunted, not overly impressed.
John didn't blame him. The person doing the shopping, not actually knowing what it was he shopped for? It was a completely asinine concept. What if he'd been unable to find any haddock at all? What if the mackerel he'd purchased in its stead didn't do what Sherlock wanted? What if the salmon was completely wrong for anything they planned to serve? And how was John supposed to make adequate substitutions if he was blind to the final result? John's jaw grew tense.
Sherlock's plan, Sherlock's recipes, Sherlock's decoration or lack thereof. Sherlock's rules when it came to private spaces, Sherlock inserting himself into John's life as if he were the missing piece John had been wanting. Sherlock casually taking over the life and soul of the Empire, booting the old out and inserting in his own ideals, without even a glance back to see what might have survived, if just tweaked.
John thought he ought to have felt resentful. He didn’t, and in a way, that was worse. Instead, he could actually track the sorrow building, block by block, and part of him even realized how stupid it was, but it didn't seem to matter. It kept right on placing block after block as if building a wall to shield himself from being hurt.
"This is me," he said shortly as they reached the little blue car, and after fumbling a little, he managed to pop open the boot. The box was nestled in amongst the other purchases, and John slammed it closed with a satisfying amount of force.
He'd invited Sherlock to help with the Empire, sure. That was one thing. But Sherlock had spent the entire evening in his house, left that morning with only a curt note, and wasn't even there to meet him at the Empire when he'd specifically asked John to stop in. As if Sherlock was trying to make himself not only indispensable to the Empire, but to John himself as well - and what would that mean, when the week was over and the cameras were packed and it was time to move on to the next disaster?
"Luck to you, mate," said the fishmonger, shaking John's hand, and he headed back to the market, and likely never actually realized that one simple question had completely shaken John's world.
*
“There you are,” said Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock looked up from his mobile phone, where he’d been trying to find a recipe that at least matched the one he’d not been allowed to deduce the night before. “I’ve been looking for you. Never thought you’d deign to sit in a pastry shop.”
“I’m sitting at a table outside the shop,” said Sherlock. “I would have thought the distinction obvious.”
“Yeah, well,” said Lestrade, unabashed. “Still closer than I’d have thought.” He peered into the windows. “Is it even open?”
“It’s Sunday morning, Lestrade. Of course not.”
“You’ve got a muffin.”
“The proprietress is a fan and lives above the shop.”
“I’d like a muffin,” said Lestrade wistfully.
Sherlock went back to examining his phone. “Please proceed to the part where you tell me why you’re bothering me so that I can go back to ignoring you.”
“You’re not sleeping in your hotel room.”
Sherlock glanced at him. “And this matters to you because-”
“Well,” said Lestrade. “For one thing, if you’re going to continue to not use your hotel room, it’d be nice to cancel the reservation and not continue bleeding money we can’t afford. For another, I’d quite like to know where the leading man in this production is spending his nights. Not that I care, mind you, but I’d rather not wake up and find out that you’re strung out in a dark alley. Again.”
Sherlock’s fingers paused over the phone, and he tried to assess Lestrade, who was still looking through the darkened windows of Hudson’s, as if hoping a tray of muffins would materialize by merely wishing. But there were lines just faintly visible on his cheek from the creases on the pillow, and his hair was wet from washing, without the product he normally used. His shirt had been ironed the night before, and the tips of his collar weren’t buttoned down.
No tell-tale darkness under his eyes - but Sherlock saw the red at the edges.
“The chef is a side-sleeper, I see,” said Sherlock. “You’re allergic to her perfume, by the way.”
Lestrade stiffened.
“I’m clean,” Sherlock added, his voice short, and his suspicions were borne out by the way Lestrade’s shoulders relaxed.
“I know that,” said Lestrade.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Nah,” he admitted, and sat down across from Sherlock. “Look. You understand why I’m asking, right? ”
“You understand why I would take offense that you feel the need?” retorted Sherlock sharply.
“To be honest, Sherlock, I don’t give a flip if you’re offended or not,” said Lestrade calmly. “The bottom line is that the show can’t afford you going on another bender. We’re on thin enough ground as it is. And the last time you stayed out of your hotel room all night…”
Sherlock didn’t want the reminder. “Yes, thank you, cheers,” he said shortly. “Let’s derail the trip down memory lane, if you will. I’m busy.”
“Sleep much?”
Sherlock glared at him, a bit peeved. “What?”
Lestrade motioned to the coffee cup. “You think I can’t smell it? Double espresso, not even watered down, plenty of sugar and no milk. Second one you’ve had this morning, unless I miss my guess. Your hands are shaking, and I’ll warrant it’s not because of the cold. Either you’re high on coke or caffeine. You say you’re clean, and maybe you are, so it must be the caffeine. Only reason you’d be drinking this much coffee in the morning is because you didn’t get to sleep last night.”
Sherlock set the phone down on the table.
Lestrade met his gaze. “You think I haven’t watched you for five years and not picked up on some things, you’re more of an idiot than the numbskulls in the studio. So tell me again, Sherlock - what kind of fool would I be to not ask what you get up to in the middle of the night when you don’t return to your hotel room?”
Sherlock closed his eyes, briefly, and then opened them again. Lestrade’s expression hadn’t changed; he looked at Sherlock expectantly, solid and sure and confident. As if he simply waited for Sherlock to catch up.
“The studio-” he began.
“Is not part of this conversation,” said Lestrade. “They don’t have any say in what happens on the road. That’s always been true and as long as I’m at the helm, it always will be.”
Sherlock nodded, and rested his hand on the phone again.
“You’re not going to say it, are you?” asked Lestrade, watching him.
Sherlock smiled; perhaps Lestrade really was picking up on a few more things by association with Sherlock. “I understand your concerns and will take note of them.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” said Lestrade. “Look, Sherlock - there’s more at stake here than just this restaurant. There’s three weeks until we finish filming for this series. This isn’t just your reputation at stake here, there’s an entire crew’s worth of paychecks that depend on you getting it right.”
“Yes, what a shame if Molly Hooper were to have to move to London to find work,” said Sherlock, and jumped when Lestrade slammed his hand on the table.
“This isn’t a joke, Sherlock, and it’s got nothing to do with Molly or me or even your John Watson. Viewership is down - you might have a core group of fans who feed off watching you tear idiotic managers new ones, but the truth is that your track record is dismal. More than half the restaurants you’ve tried to help have closed within six months. Including the Norbury Arms.”
It took Sherlock a half second for the words to sink in - much, much too long. He looked up, sharp, and saw from Lestrade’s serious and almost angry expression that he was telling the truth. “The Norbury Arms?”
“Closed on Friday night,” confirmed Lestrade. “There was a message waiting for me when I got back to the hotel room last night. You didn’t answer your phone and you weren’t in your hotel room.”
Sherlock couldn’t say a word.
“The opening restaurant for the next series, closed before you could even make your return trip,” said Lestrade bitterly. “How’s that going to look, Sherlock, when viewers turn in? That’s an entire week down the drain, wasted. And here you are, mucking it all up again, in almost exactly the same way.”
Sherlock’s voice was cool. “Mucking it up? Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Aren’t you?” countered Lestrade. “Because that’s what I see happening, even if you don’t. Your head was turned sideways by that Adler woman, you couldn’t even think straight enough to remember how to make a mayonnaise. And here you are again, so blinded by John Watson that you’re going to chuck it all in and this restaurant will close before we even leave town.”
Sherlock tried to remember how to breathe. “You thought I was doing coke in the back alley.”
“I hoped you were doing coke in the back alley,” Lestrade corrected him. “Christ, I never thought I’d say it, either. But at least with coke, I could bring in your brother and knock some sense into you. Easier to break you of drugs than sex, I think.”
Sherlock laughed hollowly. “You think my association with Irene Adler was about sex?”
“Just tell me this,” said Lestrade. “Is it serious? You and Watson. Because if it’s serious - or if you’re just playing games-”
What is this, Sherlock?
I don’t know.
Sherlock picked up the mobile. “I have research to do.”
Lestrade pressed his lips together. “Fine. You know what? I don’t actually care. But get your head back in the game, Sherlock. You can’t afford to let this restaurant fail.”
The chair scraped on the pavement as Lestrade stood up. “I’ll see you across the street.”
Sherlock stared at his phone, scrolling through recipe after recipe, trying to match the ingredients with the flavors barely remembered on his tongue.
Cumin, coriander, cardamom, salt.
He glanced across the street in time to see Artie let Lestrade in the front door of the Empire, and remembered with a pang that he’d asked John to stop by on his way to the market. Artie didn’t have his own set of keys, Harry was surely sleeping off the excessive amount of vodka she’d managed to drink during service the night before, if the drawn shades were any indication. Sherlock felt his heart grow heavy with the realization that John must have come and gone already.
Sherlock gave himself exactly thirty-five seconds to think about it for a moment: the Empire, with the windows boarded and the dining room emptied. Molly and Artie and Mary and John, all out of work and wondering what to do. Mary would find a waitressing job somewhere, perhaps one of the better restaurants in Canterbury. Artie was resilient, he’d either turn to a life of crime or end up owning them all, perhaps both. Molly would turn to Mrs Hudson for a bit, and gain a little more confidence before Lestrade gained his divorce, after which they’d move to a nice little flat in Kensington somewhere.
Harry would either drown herself in drink or flit off to Thailand and take photographs.
John.
Sherlock knew what John would do. He would be sensible; that was the sort of man John Watson was. He would go to the clinic, pick up his doctoring and diagnose all the mainstream maladies a small town could throw at him. He would marry Sarah, or perhaps Mary, and produce 2.4 children and get a dog. He would let the children root around in the garden behind the house on Baker Street and he would plant vegetables and herbs and on cold weekends he would make his grandfather’s pilau. It would be a perfectly comfortable boring life, and he would probably be happy in it because he wouldn’t know any better.
The one thing John Watson would not do was board a train and go into London, show up on the doorstep of Sherlock’s kitchen looking for a table. He wouldn’t smile at Sherlock, the skin around his eyes crinkling, his bag over his shoulder, expecting to stay the night. He wouldn’t taste of wine and raisins when Sherlock kissed him, and he wouldn’t go home with him and wake up next to him in the morning.
John Watson would do none of those things, because Sherlock didn’t deserve them, if he couldn’t even manage to save the restaurant John loved from closing, couldn’t keep the studio from shutting down his production, couldn’t keep his mind on the Work long enough to save them all from themselves.
Sherlock scanned the recipes, remembered the flavor of chicken and John on his tongue, and turned off his mobile. He slid it into his pocket, and went across the street, wondering when John would arrive, and what they would say to each other when he did.
*
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MOLLY is kneading the dough while ARTIE is chopping vegetables.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: Sunday morning. Molly’s success in the kitchen the night before has bolstered her confidence, enough that the menu will be expanded to include new starters, new main courses, and new desserts. The Empire’s menu is still small, but if she can continue to add two or three new dishes with every service, there’s hope that the restaurant might start to turn a profit before the end of the week.
[MOLLY drops the dough into a bowl and covers it with a cloth before setting it aside. She brushes the excess flour from her hands and turns, determined, to the kitchen.]
MOLLY: That’s the bread done.
[MOLLY pauses, as if trying to remember what’s next, and then watches ARTIE shake the excess water from the spinach.]
MOLLY: Are the potatoes scrubbed?
ARTIE: Not yet.
MOLLY: I’ve got a minute, I can get them now.
ARTIE: Cheers, Chef!
[MOLLY breaks into a smile, clearly pleased with the title and the ease with which ARTIE has bestowed it. She turns to the potatoes with a spring in her step.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: Artie will never be a master chef, and in any reputable kitchen, would probably not even survive as commis.
ARTIE [singing]: You may be right, I may be crazy…whoops!
[ARTIE’s knife slips, and the bunch of scallions he’s been chopping slide off the table. ARTIE is quick as a fox; he manages to catch them before they can hit the floor, and he heads straight for the sink, where he quickly rinses them anyway.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: The one thing Artie has in his favor is his ability to roll with the punches and work through whatever disasters will inevitably occur. It’s something that will come in very handy today.
[The door to the kitchen opens; JOHN enters, carrying a box of ice and fish, which he deposits on the clear space on the chopping block.]
JOHN: Sorry, running late.
MOLLY: Eggs?
JOHN: In the car.
MOLLY: Brilliant!
SHERLOCK: Smoked herring?
[JOHN looks around the kitchen, and finally sees SHERLOCK, standing to the side. He gives him a long look, almost assessing. SHERLOCK looks placidly back at him.]
JOHN: About half of what you wanted, and smoked mackerel for the rest. Hope that’ll do?
SHERLOCK: It will. Very well.
JOHN: Good.
[And JOHN turns away to unpack the box. Neither of them look at each other again, but their shoulders appear to be lighter, anyway.]
*
Much to her surprise, not to mention the rest of Upper Brickley, Harriet Watson didn’t mind her diminished role at the Empire one bit. She had been the manager of the restaurant for so long, most people forgot that she hadn’t always wanted to work there. As far as the town was concerned, there had always been an Empire, and there had always been a Watson to welcome you there.
The only thing Harry minded, really, was that she hadn’t thought of calling in Sherlock Holmes first. It hadn’t been the best of ideas - she was determined to think that until her dying day - but it had proved to be successful. For some reason, Sherlock Holmes had convinced John of what Harry had been saying all along. The Empire needed to change. The Empire needed to grow.
And for some reason, John had listened, and if he hadn’t been entirely willing to let go of the flotsam and jetsam on the walls, and the outdated and frankly horrible items on the menu, he’d at least let it happen.
Harry didn’t mind watching her brother greet the customers, smile and laugh and joke. Seeing John interact with the people at the Empire was like watching someone come alive again.
Harry didn’t want the spotlight. People snapping their fingers, asking for more water, more wine, less salt, no gluten, does this have nuts, quite allergic to legumes, thank you, could I bother you for the bill, lovely meal, we’ll come again and tell our friends, all with simpering, apologetic, insincere smiles. Harry didn’t believe any of them, not anymore, not after five years of watching the profits dwindle and the food go home with Mary and Molly and Artie.
So Harry hung back, washed the dishes, chopped the vegetables, set up mises for chicken and spinach and pizzas and pies. She settled into the role of kitchen dogsbody so easily that no one really commented on it.
Not the Empire staff, at least. The camera crew, however…
“You’re so good,” said Sally Donovan. “Most managers wouldn’t want this job.”
Harry shoved the plunger down the clogged drain, putting all her weight into it, and then pulled it up with a sharp tug. Thwoop, and the water began to drain with a hiss.
“And miss all the glamour?” said Harry, jokingly, and Sally laughed.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t know you were back here,” said Lestrade. Harry pushed the hood on her parka back; the deep freeze in the walk-in made her ears freeze before she could blink, but the hood drove her spare. It was always a battle whether or not to wear it.
“Have to keep everything rotated,” said Harry, as cheerfully as the cold allowed.
“How do you keep warm?” asked Lestrade, already slapping his arms against his body.
“Gin,” said Harry, and Lestrade laughed.
Harry didn’t know why it bothered her that morning, what Anderson had said as she tipped the carrot and ginger and garlic peels into the compost bin.
“It’ll be good, won’t it, to go back to normal.”
Harry glanced up, and brushed the hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry?”
“After we’re gone,” explained Anderson. “I mean, your brother, he’s only acting the part of the manager because you don’t want to be on camera. He’ll go work at the clinic with that fancy doctor and you’ll have your restaurant back.”
“John doesn’t want to go back to doctoring,” said Harry. She gave the peels another shove downward, and reached for the bowl of eggshells. “And anyway, he can’t. He’s got a tremor in his left hand, and who would trust a doctor with a cane?”
“The cane he hasn’t used since yesterday morning, you mean? And I’ve seen him serve out water and wine for hours, he hasn’t spilled a drop.”
The egg shells crumbled under her fingers, the thin membranes holding them together like sad memories of their former smooth shapes.
“John loves the Empire,” said Harry, eyes on the eggshells. “He’s always done. He’s finished with all that adventuring.”
“Well, you know him best,” said Anderson. He sounded doubtful.
She did, or thought so, anyway. Harry thought of John, talking to Mr Boscombe, keeping his temper where Harry might have dumped a glass of gin and tonic over the old man’s posh and haughty head. John, bound and determined to save the Empire and their grandfather’s legacy at any cost.
John, who looked a bit more like James every day, without ever quite realizing it. Harry remembered the two of them, standing at the counter, as they kneaded the dough for the evening’s bread basket, while Harry watched from the homework table. James had his arms around the small boy, quietly explaining gluten and yeast and the chemical reactions, while John concentrated and his eyes shone, and Harry turned back to her sums. But by the time she was finished, the dough was already set to rise, and there was no more dough for her to knead.
“Not filming out here, are you?” asked Harry, and Anderson shrugged.
“Smoke break.”
“Not smoking, either,” said Harry, and she shoved past him and went inside.
*
It rankled. It nipped and tugged and poked at her, the rest of the morning, as she watched John set the tables and dust the bottles and handle the accounting, while she hoovered and ironed and double-checked that they had enough drinks for the afternoon. He retyped the new menus and she helped him sort and shuffle them into place. He went through the additional foodstuffs and organized the order they’d need to place for Tuesday morning’s delivery.
He was completely changed from the day before: no longer John Watson, Little Boy Lost. He was John Watson, co-manager of the Empire, asking questions about the menu, quizzing Molly on how she was preparing the food so that he could describe it appropriately on the menus, thinking of everything they’d need for service on Tuesday. John was present and involved and energized in a way he hadn’t been before. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. Nor did she know if she liked it.
Sherlock Holmes had to be the reason. What else could it have been?
The accounting was the worst.
“Seven thousand a night profit,” said John quietly. Harry couldn’t tell if he was shocked or depressed. “That’s…good.”
“It’d be fine if it were just us,” said Harry. She buried her head in her hands. “I keep doing the math over in my head. Even if we filled the dining room twice over, every night, and everyone had the most expensive thing on the menu - starter and dessert and a couple of drinks each - that’s what, 20 quid profit? Every night, for a week - that’s barely forty thousand. We’re sunk.”
“We’re not sunk,” said John quietly; Harry could hear the chair roll on the floor as John shifted away from the computer. “Hey. Hare. Look at me.”
Harry looked up, blinking hard. John leaned over the desk, reaching for her hands.
“We’re not sunk,” said John. “We’re still in the game. When the week is up -”
“The week,” scoffed Harry. “As if Sherlock Holmes is going to save the Empire.”
“He is,” said John stubbornly.
“You’re delusional if you’re putting that much faith in the man. He doesn’t care about the Empire; he just cares about his ratings.”
“That’s not true.”
Harry shook her head. “He’s got you twisted round, doesn’t he? Don’t tell me…” Harry squinted at John, and her breath caught. “Holy fuck. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
John scoffed and withdrew his hands. “Oh, come off it.”
“No, you are,” insisted Harry, and she reached across the desk and grabbed his hand. “You are. Don’t think I don’t know that he’s been at the house every night. And I’ve heard the whispers from the camera crew. They’ve all been talking. Christ, John, we were joking when we told you to flirt with him. You weren’t supposed to actually do it.”
“Piss off,” said John, and he turned back to the computer. He set his hands on the keyboard, as if to type, but didn’t make a move.
Harry sat back in her chair. “So what happens when he leaves on Tuesday?”
John didn’t look at her. His voice was quieter than she’d ever heard him. “I don’t know.”
Harry thought, briefly, of John following Sherlock to London, turning the successful Empire back to her. She shuddered.
“All these changes.” John kicked the side of the desk. “It’s all a bit…fast, isn’t it?”
Fast. Fast. Harry tried to hold in the bitterness. “You’re the one who wanted to call him in,” she reminded her brother. “Not me.”
“I know,” said John, a bit irritable now. He leaned back in the chair again and stared at the wall, still lined with photographs of James Watson shaking hands with various members of the Council. “I don’t know what I expected.”
“Please,” said Harry. “You expected Sherlock Holmes to waltz in and look at the décor and the menu and decide it was a national treasure, not to be touched or changed in any way, and maybe he’d sprinkle a little salt or sugar or pixie dust on the food and suddenly people would be flocking to the doors. Oh, and he’d find the wad of cash that Granddad left tucked behind the spare set of dishes we never bother to use, and it’d be just enough to cover the mortgage, saving the restaurant from ruin.”
John’s mouth quirked. “You forgot the Michelin star.”
“No, that’d come after he left. Might as well earn something on our own.”
“I don’t suppose anyone’s actually checked behind those dishes, have they?”
Harry rolled her eyes. “And under the mattresses, and behind the oven, and under the floorboards.”
John smiled wistfully. “It was never going to happen that way, was it?”
“No,” said Harry quietly. “John…it’s not any of my business, but do you…does he…?”
“No, it’s not your business,” said John quietly.
“Except it kind of is,” continued Harry. “Because the only reason Sherlock is here is because of the Empire, and the Empire is our business, and if he’s in love with you, and you’re in love with him, then…well, I think I have a right to know.”
John laughed. It wasn’t joyful laughter; Harry wasn’t sure how to categorize it. “Love? Harry, I only met him a couple of days ago. It’s not love.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not love.”
“If you don’t know-”
“Let it go, Harry,” said John shortly. “I seem to recall you saying you didn’t really want to know anything about my sex life anyway, so stop asking.”
“Seducing Sherlock Holmes was meant to be a joke, baby brother,” said Harry, cross now. “You’re the one who took it seriously. And now you’re sleeping with him, and just how much do you actually know about him?”
“I don’t see-”
“No, you don’t see, that’s the problem.” Harry sprang out of the chair and went to stare at the wall of photographs. “You’re so sodding selfish sometimes, did you know that? Sherlock Holmes came here for a reason, and the reason isn’t you.”
John didn’t say anything for a moment. “I know that.”
“And now you’re sleeping with him. What if it goes wrong, John? What if you say something to screw it up and he ends up destroying the Empire out of spite?”
“He won’t do that.”
“How can you be so sure? You don’t know important anything about him.”
“I know he wouldn’t do that.”
“Sure you do,” muttered Harry, and wrapped her arms around herself. “And if he wants you to go to London with him? What then? Would you go?”
Another long silence. Harry counted out the seconds, hoping and praying and wishing. “We haven’t really talked about what happens next, but I kind of doubt that me going to London is really on his mind.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Harry said, “I really don’t want to know about your sex life.”
“Then don’t bring it up,” said John. He turned away from the computer. “Hare…thanks for helping out the last couple of days. I know you didn’t want anything to do with changing the Empire.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” said Harry, rising a little. “I just didn’t think we needed a celebrity to show us the way.”
“Maybe not,” said John, and he paused, as if about to say something else.
She waited. He’d say it now, of course. It was the perfect moment to slide it in. You were right, Harry. We needed to change the menu. We needed to change the décor. The Empire was dying, and Sherlock hasn’t said anything you haven’t said all along. I’m sorry I doubted you.
John sat back up, and got to his feet. He picked up the menus and shuffled them together.
“Might as well post the menu outside,” he said. “Give them all a chance to find another place to eat before it’s too late.”
“Yeah,” said Harry listlessly.
John paused by the door. “Harry - I think - I think you should be in the kitchen today.”
Harry didn’t look at him. “The kitchen,” she said flatly. “I thought Artie was the sous now.”
“He is. But you don’t want to be on camera, and I saw some of the footage last night - you’re on camera a lot, in the dining room, so they’d have to pixilate your face out. Maybe the best place for you to help is with the washing up.”
Harry couldn’t even be bothered to fake a laugh. “Don’t try to pretend that you’re thinking of the film crew, John, when you’re really just trying to keep me from the alcohol.”
“In that case, don’t try to pretend that you haven’t been sneaking shots of whiskey in between pouring drinks for customers.”
Harry closed her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew. “Bugger.”
“Yeah,” said John, and didn’t even have the decency to sound sad about it.
It wasn’t until John had left the office that Harry realized she was still waiting for what he hadn’t said. The words unspoken hung in the air. You were right, you were right all along. Harry could almost taste them; and when she heard the bell on the front door chime as John went outside to post the menu, she knew for certain that the words would likely never be said at all.
Chapter Fourteen
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John, just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: I feel the need to apologize for responding so horrifically late to everyone’s lovely comments last week (as in, me responding last night and this morning). I was feeling a bit down for some reason, and then just as I was picking back up, the rest of our belongings arrived from Cairo, and I spent every spare moment in a frantic search for my KitchenAid mixer - which I’m happy to say was finally unpacked on Tuesday afternoon. But no excuse: I appreciate and read and smile over every single review left (and every kudos and hitcount, too), and that you took the time to say anything at all really does make my day that much brighter. That I waited so long to say “thanks” is inexcusable, and my mother would be highly disappointed in me.
There is no recipe this week, though I had intended to share the recipe for Thai-spiced Kedgeree. I was really looking forward to making that one, too - I couldn’t in Cairo, because I couldn’t get the herring, so I planned to wait until we returned to the States. And then by the time we got here - the recipe had been pulled down from the BBC’s food website, and I hadn’t saved it because I didn’t realize they did that (my bad), so I found a less interesting recipe to try, but never got around to it. Ah well. Feel free to have a go yourself. Happy cooking!
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Every chef I have known spends a lot of time dreaming up recipes. Every good home cook has the same kind of culinary reveries. Just as a composer hears melodies in his mind before committing them to paper, cooks taste recipes before they put pan to fire.
And then they go to the market.
--Peter Kaminsky
Sunday morning market was a strange place. For one thing, it was Sunday, and Sunday markets never had quite the variety, in terms of people or produce. Most reasonable people were either sleeping in, or preparing for church.
John Watson had never really counted himself as a reasonable person. For one thing, he’d had far too many careers in his lifetime: dishwasher, doctor, soldier, and now restaurateur. A friend had once said that the average person had six careers in their lifetime. Most of the people John knew had only one or two. He wondered where the people who skewed the average lived.
The produce in the middle of winter wasn’t particularly promising, and worse on a Sunday, when even the farmers were slow to start moving. He took his slow lap around the stalls, cataloging and inspecting and letting the various bits and pieces swirl around in his head. It was easier, almost, because none of the vendors knew him in Canterbury, the closest Sunday market available. He was anonymous here, and while it was a bit freeing to know that he didn’t carry his grandfather’s weight on his shoulders here, on the other hand, no one was anxious to give him the pick of the best, or offer delivery, on the off-chance of a mention by Sherlock Holmes.
Once he did start buying, the moment he mentioned it was for service (and who else shopped on a Sunday at eight in the morning, John would like to know), the vendors instantly became a little more favorable. Purchases made in such large quantities generally meant a guarantee of return business if the quality was good, and there were nearly always teenagers underfoot who would carry things to a car for a few quid. Spinach, potatoes, carrots, and parsnips, all purchased in such mass quantities that John wondered if Artie and Molly would have time to wash it all before the mid-afternoon service began.
It would be easier on Tuesday, when regular deliveries from the supplier started up again, thus eliminating the need to actually go to the market himself. John would need to place the order on Monday morning. Which meant talking to Sherlock Sunday night, to determine what he’d need to order.
Which meant talking to Sherlock. There was the problem.
The chickens had been handled locally - Angelo had already promised Sunday chickens, and John trusted him - so all there really was to find was the fish. The line at the fishmonger’s was surprisingly long, and John waited patiently and tried not to be bothered by the prospect of talking to Sherlock. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Sherlock. It was only that every time they did, it ended in snogging.
Excellent snogging, of course, but still. John liked to think he had more control over his libido than a teenager.
“Next!” said the fishmonger.
“How much smoked haddock do you have?” asked John.
“How much do you need, mate?” asked the fishmonger.
“Between two and three kilo - it’s for service.”
The fishmonger was dubious. “I can give you two,” he said, checking his supplies. “And another two of the mackerel.”
“Brilliant. Fresh salmon?”
“How much would you like?”
“Four kilo, center-cut steaks should do me.”
“Right, mate, give me a tick.”
John watched the fishmonger gather the fish, and let his mind wander. The house had been empty when he’d woken, but the space next to him in the bed was still warm, so Sherlock hadn’t been gone long. John had tried to shove down the mix of disappointment and relief, and taken his shower and dressed before going downstairs to find the note on the fridge.
Coffee on the range. You’re out of milk. Stop by the restaurant on your way out of town if convenient. If not convenient, stop by anyway.
Sherlock’s handwriting was quick and sharp. The entire note made John laugh, and the coffee was still hot and not completely horrible without milk. It at least served to wake him up.
But when John drove by the restaurant, Sherlock hadn’t arrived. Artie waited by the back door.
“I could do the shopping for you,” suggested Artie, bright-eyed and anxious as John unlocked the door for him.
“No, Artie, you’re meant to be learning to cook.”
“I know how to cook.”
“Artie, you know how to microwave. There’s a difference.”
“I did the spinach and carrots yesterday,” insisted Artie. “And did you see any of it come back?”
“Actually, yes,” said John.
“Some people just can’t appreciate the better things in life,” said Artie, and disappeared into the kitchen. John shook his head, and turned to go back to the car, but Artie stuck his head out of the door again. “Say, boss. Want me to give Sherlock a message when he shows up?”
John gave Artie what he hoped was a blank look. “Ah - that I’ll be back with the shopping?”
"Boss?"
"What is it, Artie?"
For Artie, it was almost hesitant. Except John had never heard Artie be hesitant about anything in his entire life. "You're all right, aren't you?"
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I did some research online last night. You know there are forums dedicated to people who just follow Sherlock Holmes around the country, trying out the restaurants he’s in? And they tell stories, mate.”
John sighed. “Artie. What are you trying to tell me?”
“Just…” Artie paused, as if reconsidering what he was going to say. “You don't have that post-traumatic thingy whatsit, do you? I hear it can make you do some pretty ridiculous stuff. Like go into dark corners with egotistical chefs."
Something made John think that Artie had meant to say something very different. John started to walk back to the road. "Sod off, Artie."
"I'm just saying," shouted Artie after him. "It's not like you to do something without considering it first."
Considering. John thought he did nothing but consider anything, and he had the feeling he spent entirely too much time trying to consider Sherlock Holmes, who was going to leave in another three days to return to London.
John wondered what would happen after that, and wished he hadn’t.
"Here you are, mate," said the fishmonger. He stood in front of John with a box of paper-wrapped packages nestled in ice. "Pretty heavy, what with the ice and all, if you need help lugging it to your car?"
"Yeah, cheers," said John automatically, and was somewhat surprised when the man himself began to follow John out of the market. "Listen, I can get it if you need to stay-"
"Rather stretch my legs a little. You're not parked far, are you?"
"No, just around the corner."
"Then it won't take long. What sort of restaurant, mate? New?"
"In a way. We're changing the menu." And everything else, thought John.
"On a weekend? Chancy thing," said the fishmonger dubiously.
"Isn't everything?"
"True. What's this destined to be?"
John opened and closed his mouth quickly, and frowned as he ran over the list of ingredients in his mind. It didn't occur to him until just then - he'd been able to discern the menu on Saturday from the list he'd been handed. It had been easy, in fact. But there were no such indications on the list in his hand why Sherlock wanted the fish. Kedgeree, maybe - but it was such an odd thing to have on the menu, John couldn’t imagine why Sherlock would want it.
"Do you know, I haven't the foggiest," said John, a bit sheepishly, and the fishmonger grunted, not overly impressed.
John didn't blame him. The person doing the shopping, not actually knowing what it was he shopped for? It was a completely asinine concept. What if he'd been unable to find any haddock at all? What if the mackerel he'd purchased in its stead didn't do what Sherlock wanted? What if the salmon was completely wrong for anything they planned to serve? And how was John supposed to make adequate substitutions if he was blind to the final result? John's jaw grew tense.
Sherlock's plan, Sherlock's recipes, Sherlock's decoration or lack thereof. Sherlock's rules when it came to private spaces, Sherlock inserting himself into John's life as if he were the missing piece John had been wanting. Sherlock casually taking over the life and soul of the Empire, booting the old out and inserting in his own ideals, without even a glance back to see what might have survived, if just tweaked.
John thought he ought to have felt resentful. He didn’t, and in a way, that was worse. Instead, he could actually track the sorrow building, block by block, and part of him even realized how stupid it was, but it didn't seem to matter. It kept right on placing block after block as if building a wall to shield himself from being hurt.
"This is me," he said shortly as they reached the little blue car, and after fumbling a little, he managed to pop open the boot. The box was nestled in amongst the other purchases, and John slammed it closed with a satisfying amount of force.
He'd invited Sherlock to help with the Empire, sure. That was one thing. But Sherlock had spent the entire evening in his house, left that morning with only a curt note, and wasn't even there to meet him at the Empire when he'd specifically asked John to stop in. As if Sherlock was trying to make himself not only indispensable to the Empire, but to John himself as well - and what would that mean, when the week was over and the cameras were packed and it was time to move on to the next disaster?
"Luck to you, mate," said the fishmonger, shaking John's hand, and he headed back to the market, and likely never actually realized that one simple question had completely shaken John's world.
*
“There you are,” said Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock looked up from his mobile phone, where he’d been trying to find a recipe that at least matched the one he’d not been allowed to deduce the night before. “I’ve been looking for you. Never thought you’d deign to sit in a pastry shop.”
“I’m sitting at a table outside the shop,” said Sherlock. “I would have thought the distinction obvious.”
“Yeah, well,” said Lestrade, unabashed. “Still closer than I’d have thought.” He peered into the windows. “Is it even open?”
“It’s Sunday morning, Lestrade. Of course not.”
“You’ve got a muffin.”
“The proprietress is a fan and lives above the shop.”
“I’d like a muffin,” said Lestrade wistfully.
Sherlock went back to examining his phone. “Please proceed to the part where you tell me why you’re bothering me so that I can go back to ignoring you.”
“You’re not sleeping in your hotel room.”
Sherlock glanced at him. “And this matters to you because-”
“Well,” said Lestrade. “For one thing, if you’re going to continue to not use your hotel room, it’d be nice to cancel the reservation and not continue bleeding money we can’t afford. For another, I’d quite like to know where the leading man in this production is spending his nights. Not that I care, mind you, but I’d rather not wake up and find out that you’re strung out in a dark alley. Again.”
Sherlock’s fingers paused over the phone, and he tried to assess Lestrade, who was still looking through the darkened windows of Hudson’s, as if hoping a tray of muffins would materialize by merely wishing. But there were lines just faintly visible on his cheek from the creases on the pillow, and his hair was wet from washing, without the product he normally used. His shirt had been ironed the night before, and the tips of his collar weren’t buttoned down.
No tell-tale darkness under his eyes - but Sherlock saw the red at the edges.
“The chef is a side-sleeper, I see,” said Sherlock. “You’re allergic to her perfume, by the way.”
Lestrade stiffened.
“I’m clean,” Sherlock added, his voice short, and his suspicions were borne out by the way Lestrade’s shoulders relaxed.
“I know that,” said Lestrade.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Nah,” he admitted, and sat down across from Sherlock. “Look. You understand why I’m asking, right? ”
“You understand why I would take offense that you feel the need?” retorted Sherlock sharply.
“To be honest, Sherlock, I don’t give a flip if you’re offended or not,” said Lestrade calmly. “The bottom line is that the show can’t afford you going on another bender. We’re on thin enough ground as it is. And the last time you stayed out of your hotel room all night…”
Sherlock didn’t want the reminder. “Yes, thank you, cheers,” he said shortly. “Let’s derail the trip down memory lane, if you will. I’m busy.”
“Sleep much?”
Sherlock glared at him, a bit peeved. “What?”
Lestrade motioned to the coffee cup. “You think I can’t smell it? Double espresso, not even watered down, plenty of sugar and no milk. Second one you’ve had this morning, unless I miss my guess. Your hands are shaking, and I’ll warrant it’s not because of the cold. Either you’re high on coke or caffeine. You say you’re clean, and maybe you are, so it must be the caffeine. Only reason you’d be drinking this much coffee in the morning is because you didn’t get to sleep last night.”
Sherlock set the phone down on the table.
Lestrade met his gaze. “You think I haven’t watched you for five years and not picked up on some things, you’re more of an idiot than the numbskulls in the studio. So tell me again, Sherlock - what kind of fool would I be to not ask what you get up to in the middle of the night when you don’t return to your hotel room?”
Sherlock closed his eyes, briefly, and then opened them again. Lestrade’s expression hadn’t changed; he looked at Sherlock expectantly, solid and sure and confident. As if he simply waited for Sherlock to catch up.
“The studio-” he began.
“Is not part of this conversation,” said Lestrade. “They don’t have any say in what happens on the road. That’s always been true and as long as I’m at the helm, it always will be.”
Sherlock nodded, and rested his hand on the phone again.
“You’re not going to say it, are you?” asked Lestrade, watching him.
Sherlock smiled; perhaps Lestrade really was picking up on a few more things by association with Sherlock. “I understand your concerns and will take note of them.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” said Lestrade. “Look, Sherlock - there’s more at stake here than just this restaurant. There’s three weeks until we finish filming for this series. This isn’t just your reputation at stake here, there’s an entire crew’s worth of paychecks that depend on you getting it right.”
“Yes, what a shame if Molly Hooper were to have to move to London to find work,” said Sherlock, and jumped when Lestrade slammed his hand on the table.
“This isn’t a joke, Sherlock, and it’s got nothing to do with Molly or me or even your John Watson. Viewership is down - you might have a core group of fans who feed off watching you tear idiotic managers new ones, but the truth is that your track record is dismal. More than half the restaurants you’ve tried to help have closed within six months. Including the Norbury Arms.”
It took Sherlock a half second for the words to sink in - much, much too long. He looked up, sharp, and saw from Lestrade’s serious and almost angry expression that he was telling the truth. “The Norbury Arms?”
“Closed on Friday night,” confirmed Lestrade. “There was a message waiting for me when I got back to the hotel room last night. You didn’t answer your phone and you weren’t in your hotel room.”
Sherlock couldn’t say a word.
“The opening restaurant for the next series, closed before you could even make your return trip,” said Lestrade bitterly. “How’s that going to look, Sherlock, when viewers turn in? That’s an entire week down the drain, wasted. And here you are, mucking it all up again, in almost exactly the same way.”
Sherlock’s voice was cool. “Mucking it up? Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Aren’t you?” countered Lestrade. “Because that’s what I see happening, even if you don’t. Your head was turned sideways by that Adler woman, you couldn’t even think straight enough to remember how to make a mayonnaise. And here you are again, so blinded by John Watson that you’re going to chuck it all in and this restaurant will close before we even leave town.”
Sherlock tried to remember how to breathe. “You thought I was doing coke in the back alley.”
“I hoped you were doing coke in the back alley,” Lestrade corrected him. “Christ, I never thought I’d say it, either. But at least with coke, I could bring in your brother and knock some sense into you. Easier to break you of drugs than sex, I think.”
Sherlock laughed hollowly. “You think my association with Irene Adler was about sex?”
“Just tell me this,” said Lestrade. “Is it serious? You and Watson. Because if it’s serious - or if you’re just playing games-”
What is this, Sherlock?
I don’t know.
Sherlock picked up the mobile. “I have research to do.”
Lestrade pressed his lips together. “Fine. You know what? I don’t actually care. But get your head back in the game, Sherlock. You can’t afford to let this restaurant fail.”
The chair scraped on the pavement as Lestrade stood up. “I’ll see you across the street.”
Sherlock stared at his phone, scrolling through recipe after recipe, trying to match the ingredients with the flavors barely remembered on his tongue.
Cumin, coriander, cardamom, salt.
He glanced across the street in time to see Artie let Lestrade in the front door of the Empire, and remembered with a pang that he’d asked John to stop by on his way to the market. Artie didn’t have his own set of keys, Harry was surely sleeping off the excessive amount of vodka she’d managed to drink during service the night before, if the drawn shades were any indication. Sherlock felt his heart grow heavy with the realization that John must have come and gone already.
Sherlock gave himself exactly thirty-five seconds to think about it for a moment: the Empire, with the windows boarded and the dining room emptied. Molly and Artie and Mary and John, all out of work and wondering what to do. Mary would find a waitressing job somewhere, perhaps one of the better restaurants in Canterbury. Artie was resilient, he’d either turn to a life of crime or end up owning them all, perhaps both. Molly would turn to Mrs Hudson for a bit, and gain a little more confidence before Lestrade gained his divorce, after which they’d move to a nice little flat in Kensington somewhere.
Harry would either drown herself in drink or flit off to Thailand and take photographs.
John.
Sherlock knew what John would do. He would be sensible; that was the sort of man John Watson was. He would go to the clinic, pick up his doctoring and diagnose all the mainstream maladies a small town could throw at him. He would marry Sarah, or perhaps Mary, and produce 2.4 children and get a dog. He would let the children root around in the garden behind the house on Baker Street and he would plant vegetables and herbs and on cold weekends he would make his grandfather’s pilau. It would be a perfectly comfortable boring life, and he would probably be happy in it because he wouldn’t know any better.
The one thing John Watson would not do was board a train and go into London, show up on the doorstep of Sherlock’s kitchen looking for a table. He wouldn’t smile at Sherlock, the skin around his eyes crinkling, his bag over his shoulder, expecting to stay the night. He wouldn’t taste of wine and raisins when Sherlock kissed him, and he wouldn’t go home with him and wake up next to him in the morning.
John Watson would do none of those things, because Sherlock didn’t deserve them, if he couldn’t even manage to save the restaurant John loved from closing, couldn’t keep the studio from shutting down his production, couldn’t keep his mind on the Work long enough to save them all from themselves.
Sherlock scanned the recipes, remembered the flavor of chicken and John on his tongue, and turned off his mobile. He slid it into his pocket, and went across the street, wondering when John would arrive, and what they would say to each other when he did.
*
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MOLLY is kneading the dough while ARTIE is chopping vegetables.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: Sunday morning. Molly’s success in the kitchen the night before has bolstered her confidence, enough that the menu will be expanded to include new starters, new main courses, and new desserts. The Empire’s menu is still small, but if she can continue to add two or three new dishes with every service, there’s hope that the restaurant might start to turn a profit before the end of the week.
[MOLLY drops the dough into a bowl and covers it with a cloth before setting it aside. She brushes the excess flour from her hands and turns, determined, to the kitchen.]
MOLLY: That’s the bread done.
[MOLLY pauses, as if trying to remember what’s next, and then watches ARTIE shake the excess water from the spinach.]
MOLLY: Are the potatoes scrubbed?
ARTIE: Not yet.
MOLLY: I’ve got a minute, I can get them now.
ARTIE: Cheers, Chef!
[MOLLY breaks into a smile, clearly pleased with the title and the ease with which ARTIE has bestowed it. She turns to the potatoes with a spring in her step.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: Artie will never be a master chef, and in any reputable kitchen, would probably not even survive as commis.
ARTIE [singing]: You may be right, I may be crazy…whoops!
[ARTIE’s knife slips, and the bunch of scallions he’s been chopping slide off the table. ARTIE is quick as a fox; he manages to catch them before they can hit the floor, and he heads straight for the sink, where he quickly rinses them anyway.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: The one thing Artie has in his favor is his ability to roll with the punches and work through whatever disasters will inevitably occur. It’s something that will come in very handy today.
[The door to the kitchen opens; JOHN enters, carrying a box of ice and fish, which he deposits on the clear space on the chopping block.]
JOHN: Sorry, running late.
MOLLY: Eggs?
JOHN: In the car.
MOLLY: Brilliant!
SHERLOCK: Smoked herring?
[JOHN looks around the kitchen, and finally sees SHERLOCK, standing to the side. He gives him a long look, almost assessing. SHERLOCK looks placidly back at him.]
JOHN: About half of what you wanted, and smoked mackerel for the rest. Hope that’ll do?
SHERLOCK: It will. Very well.
JOHN: Good.
[And JOHN turns away to unpack the box. Neither of them look at each other again, but their shoulders appear to be lighter, anyway.]
*
Much to her surprise, not to mention the rest of Upper Brickley, Harriet Watson didn’t mind her diminished role at the Empire one bit. She had been the manager of the restaurant for so long, most people forgot that she hadn’t always wanted to work there. As far as the town was concerned, there had always been an Empire, and there had always been a Watson to welcome you there.
The only thing Harry minded, really, was that she hadn’t thought of calling in Sherlock Holmes first. It hadn’t been the best of ideas - she was determined to think that until her dying day - but it had proved to be successful. For some reason, Sherlock Holmes had convinced John of what Harry had been saying all along. The Empire needed to change. The Empire needed to grow.
And for some reason, John had listened, and if he hadn’t been entirely willing to let go of the flotsam and jetsam on the walls, and the outdated and frankly horrible items on the menu, he’d at least let it happen.
Harry didn’t mind watching her brother greet the customers, smile and laugh and joke. Seeing John interact with the people at the Empire was like watching someone come alive again.
Harry didn’t want the spotlight. People snapping their fingers, asking for more water, more wine, less salt, no gluten, does this have nuts, quite allergic to legumes, thank you, could I bother you for the bill, lovely meal, we’ll come again and tell our friends, all with simpering, apologetic, insincere smiles. Harry didn’t believe any of them, not anymore, not after five years of watching the profits dwindle and the food go home with Mary and Molly and Artie.
So Harry hung back, washed the dishes, chopped the vegetables, set up mises for chicken and spinach and pizzas and pies. She settled into the role of kitchen dogsbody so easily that no one really commented on it.
Not the Empire staff, at least. The camera crew, however…
“You’re so good,” said Sally Donovan. “Most managers wouldn’t want this job.”
Harry shoved the plunger down the clogged drain, putting all her weight into it, and then pulled it up with a sharp tug. Thwoop, and the water began to drain with a hiss.
“And miss all the glamour?” said Harry, jokingly, and Sally laughed.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t know you were back here,” said Lestrade. Harry pushed the hood on her parka back; the deep freeze in the walk-in made her ears freeze before she could blink, but the hood drove her spare. It was always a battle whether or not to wear it.
“Have to keep everything rotated,” said Harry, as cheerfully as the cold allowed.
“How do you keep warm?” asked Lestrade, already slapping his arms against his body.
“Gin,” said Harry, and Lestrade laughed.
Harry didn’t know why it bothered her that morning, what Anderson had said as she tipped the carrot and ginger and garlic peels into the compost bin.
“It’ll be good, won’t it, to go back to normal.”
Harry glanced up, and brushed the hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry?”
“After we’re gone,” explained Anderson. “I mean, your brother, he’s only acting the part of the manager because you don’t want to be on camera. He’ll go work at the clinic with that fancy doctor and you’ll have your restaurant back.”
“John doesn’t want to go back to doctoring,” said Harry. She gave the peels another shove downward, and reached for the bowl of eggshells. “And anyway, he can’t. He’s got a tremor in his left hand, and who would trust a doctor with a cane?”
“The cane he hasn’t used since yesterday morning, you mean? And I’ve seen him serve out water and wine for hours, he hasn’t spilled a drop.”
The egg shells crumbled under her fingers, the thin membranes holding them together like sad memories of their former smooth shapes.
“John loves the Empire,” said Harry, eyes on the eggshells. “He’s always done. He’s finished with all that adventuring.”
“Well, you know him best,” said Anderson. He sounded doubtful.
She did, or thought so, anyway. Harry thought of John, talking to Mr Boscombe, keeping his temper where Harry might have dumped a glass of gin and tonic over the old man’s posh and haughty head. John, bound and determined to save the Empire and their grandfather’s legacy at any cost.
John, who looked a bit more like James every day, without ever quite realizing it. Harry remembered the two of them, standing at the counter, as they kneaded the dough for the evening’s bread basket, while Harry watched from the homework table. James had his arms around the small boy, quietly explaining gluten and yeast and the chemical reactions, while John concentrated and his eyes shone, and Harry turned back to her sums. But by the time she was finished, the dough was already set to rise, and there was no more dough for her to knead.
“Not filming out here, are you?” asked Harry, and Anderson shrugged.
“Smoke break.”
“Not smoking, either,” said Harry, and she shoved past him and went inside.
*
It rankled. It nipped and tugged and poked at her, the rest of the morning, as she watched John set the tables and dust the bottles and handle the accounting, while she hoovered and ironed and double-checked that they had enough drinks for the afternoon. He retyped the new menus and she helped him sort and shuffle them into place. He went through the additional foodstuffs and organized the order they’d need to place for Tuesday morning’s delivery.
He was completely changed from the day before: no longer John Watson, Little Boy Lost. He was John Watson, co-manager of the Empire, asking questions about the menu, quizzing Molly on how she was preparing the food so that he could describe it appropriately on the menus, thinking of everything they’d need for service on Tuesday. John was present and involved and energized in a way he hadn’t been before. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. Nor did she know if she liked it.
Sherlock Holmes had to be the reason. What else could it have been?
The accounting was the worst.
“Seven thousand a night profit,” said John quietly. Harry couldn’t tell if he was shocked or depressed. “That’s…good.”
“It’d be fine if it were just us,” said Harry. She buried her head in her hands. “I keep doing the math over in my head. Even if we filled the dining room twice over, every night, and everyone had the most expensive thing on the menu - starter and dessert and a couple of drinks each - that’s what, 20 quid profit? Every night, for a week - that’s barely forty thousand. We’re sunk.”
“We’re not sunk,” said John quietly; Harry could hear the chair roll on the floor as John shifted away from the computer. “Hey. Hare. Look at me.”
Harry looked up, blinking hard. John leaned over the desk, reaching for her hands.
“We’re not sunk,” said John. “We’re still in the game. When the week is up -”
“The week,” scoffed Harry. “As if Sherlock Holmes is going to save the Empire.”
“He is,” said John stubbornly.
“You’re delusional if you’re putting that much faith in the man. He doesn’t care about the Empire; he just cares about his ratings.”
“That’s not true.”
Harry shook her head. “He’s got you twisted round, doesn’t he? Don’t tell me…” Harry squinted at John, and her breath caught. “Holy fuck. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
John scoffed and withdrew his hands. “Oh, come off it.”
“No, you are,” insisted Harry, and she reached across the desk and grabbed his hand. “You are. Don’t think I don’t know that he’s been at the house every night. And I’ve heard the whispers from the camera crew. They’ve all been talking. Christ, John, we were joking when we told you to flirt with him. You weren’t supposed to actually do it.”
“Piss off,” said John, and he turned back to the computer. He set his hands on the keyboard, as if to type, but didn’t make a move.
Harry sat back in her chair. “So what happens when he leaves on Tuesday?”
John didn’t look at her. His voice was quieter than she’d ever heard him. “I don’t know.”
Harry thought, briefly, of John following Sherlock to London, turning the successful Empire back to her. She shuddered.
“All these changes.” John kicked the side of the desk. “It’s all a bit…fast, isn’t it?”
Fast. Fast. Harry tried to hold in the bitterness. “You’re the one who wanted to call him in,” she reminded her brother. “Not me.”
“I know,” said John, a bit irritable now. He leaned back in the chair again and stared at the wall, still lined with photographs of James Watson shaking hands with various members of the Council. “I don’t know what I expected.”
“Please,” said Harry. “You expected Sherlock Holmes to waltz in and look at the décor and the menu and decide it was a national treasure, not to be touched or changed in any way, and maybe he’d sprinkle a little salt or sugar or pixie dust on the food and suddenly people would be flocking to the doors. Oh, and he’d find the wad of cash that Granddad left tucked behind the spare set of dishes we never bother to use, and it’d be just enough to cover the mortgage, saving the restaurant from ruin.”
John’s mouth quirked. “You forgot the Michelin star.”
“No, that’d come after he left. Might as well earn something on our own.”
“I don’t suppose anyone’s actually checked behind those dishes, have they?”
Harry rolled her eyes. “And under the mattresses, and behind the oven, and under the floorboards.”
John smiled wistfully. “It was never going to happen that way, was it?”
“No,” said Harry quietly. “John…it’s not any of my business, but do you…does he…?”
“No, it’s not your business,” said John quietly.
“Except it kind of is,” continued Harry. “Because the only reason Sherlock is here is because of the Empire, and the Empire is our business, and if he’s in love with you, and you’re in love with him, then…well, I think I have a right to know.”
John laughed. It wasn’t joyful laughter; Harry wasn’t sure how to categorize it. “Love? Harry, I only met him a couple of days ago. It’s not love.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not love.”
“If you don’t know-”
“Let it go, Harry,” said John shortly. “I seem to recall you saying you didn’t really want to know anything about my sex life anyway, so stop asking.”
“Seducing Sherlock Holmes was meant to be a joke, baby brother,” said Harry, cross now. “You’re the one who took it seriously. And now you’re sleeping with him, and just how much do you actually know about him?”
“I don’t see-”
“No, you don’t see, that’s the problem.” Harry sprang out of the chair and went to stare at the wall of photographs. “You’re so sodding selfish sometimes, did you know that? Sherlock Holmes came here for a reason, and the reason isn’t you.”
John didn’t say anything for a moment. “I know that.”
“And now you’re sleeping with him. What if it goes wrong, John? What if you say something to screw it up and he ends up destroying the Empire out of spite?”
“He won’t do that.”
“How can you be so sure? You don’t know important anything about him.”
“I know he wouldn’t do that.”
“Sure you do,” muttered Harry, and wrapped her arms around herself. “And if he wants you to go to London with him? What then? Would you go?”
Another long silence. Harry counted out the seconds, hoping and praying and wishing. “We haven’t really talked about what happens next, but I kind of doubt that me going to London is really on his mind.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Harry said, “I really don’t want to know about your sex life.”
“Then don’t bring it up,” said John. He turned away from the computer. “Hare…thanks for helping out the last couple of days. I know you didn’t want anything to do with changing the Empire.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” said Harry, rising a little. “I just didn’t think we needed a celebrity to show us the way.”
“Maybe not,” said John, and he paused, as if about to say something else.
She waited. He’d say it now, of course. It was the perfect moment to slide it in. You were right, Harry. We needed to change the menu. We needed to change the décor. The Empire was dying, and Sherlock hasn’t said anything you haven’t said all along. I’m sorry I doubted you.
John sat back up, and got to his feet. He picked up the menus and shuffled them together.
“Might as well post the menu outside,” he said. “Give them all a chance to find another place to eat before it’s too late.”
“Yeah,” said Harry listlessly.
John paused by the door. “Harry - I think - I think you should be in the kitchen today.”
Harry didn’t look at him. “The kitchen,” she said flatly. “I thought Artie was the sous now.”
“He is. But you don’t want to be on camera, and I saw some of the footage last night - you’re on camera a lot, in the dining room, so they’d have to pixilate your face out. Maybe the best place for you to help is with the washing up.”
Harry couldn’t even be bothered to fake a laugh. “Don’t try to pretend that you’re thinking of the film crew, John, when you’re really just trying to keep me from the alcohol.”
“In that case, don’t try to pretend that you haven’t been sneaking shots of whiskey in between pouring drinks for customers.”
Harry closed her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew. “Bugger.”
“Yeah,” said John, and didn’t even have the decency to sound sad about it.
It wasn’t until John had left the office that Harry realized she was still waiting for what he hadn’t said. The words unspoken hung in the air. You were right, you were right all along. Harry could almost taste them; and when she heard the bell on the front door chime as John went outside to post the menu, she knew for certain that the words would likely never be said at all.
Chapter Fourteen