Sherlock Fanfic: Raise a Cup of Cheer
Title: Raise a Cup of Cheer
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, Alcohol
Warnings: none
Word Count: 840
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes' WAdvent Open Participation Day #2: Winter Beverages. Title from "Christmas in Killarney". I would advise NOT EVER making the recipe included herein as I made it up from thin air and it'd probably be nasty. Also, parts of this story may offend people from Yorkshire?
Summary: Moving in with Sherlock exposes John to Mrs Hudson's family traditions.
-.-
Raise a Cup of Cheer
-.-
"Here we are!" Mrs Hudson chirped, setting a glass of something pale yellow and frothy in front of John, who lowered the book he'd been trying to read to his lap.
"What's this then?" he asked. Despite the late hour and the hellish day just past, John still retained enough mental acuity to identify the substance as 'not tea'.
"Eggnog. Old family recipe." She set a glass down beside Sherlock. He was at the table sorting identical-seeming pebbles into fourteen separate saucers with an irregular 'plink-plunk-plonk' noise, which was the primary reason John had not made any inroads into the book now laying in his lap.
Sherlock glanced at the foamy glass beside him with the barest hint of a fond smile. "Ah. Is it December already?"
John sighed. "It's been December for six days, Sherlock!"
"I always serve this on the 6th of December, even when it's just me." Mrs Hudson sat in a spare kitchen chair and set the serving tray with her own glass on it on a pile of newspapers on the table. "Gran said the 6th is the feast of Saint Nicholas, and it's the day Father Christmas gets out of bed and starts getting to work, so he needs to start out with a fortifying glass of eggnog."
John eyed the frothy stuff dubiously. "Really."
Sherlock snorted, setting his pebbles aside. "Of course not really John. There is no Father Christmas."
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I sort of worked that out for myself when I was six, Sherlock. I just meant-" He gestured at the glass in his other hand. "Homemade eggnog, same day every year, family holiday traditions and all. Quite lovely."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and peered at his glass.
"Oh, just a story for the kids." Mrs Hudson picked her glass up and sipped. "Of course Gran was a bit less polite with how she said it."
Sherlock grinned. "I believe one year you said her exact words were; 'it helps Father Christmas shift his arse.'"
Mrs Hudson giggled and took another sip. "Yes, well. She was from Yorkshire."
"Well," John said with cheer, setting his book on the side-table and bringing his glass into the kitchen, ignoring the suddenly somewhat evil-seeming grin on Sherlock's face. "Far be it from me to disrupt a tradition. Cheers!" He raised his glass and took a healthy swig.
"Ooo..." said Mrs Hudson, but it was too late.
John's eyes bulged wide open at the unexpectedly intense burn of alcohol. He swallowed in self-defence, roughly setting the glass down on what he hoped was a flat part of the table and groped around for a chair, coughing.
"Oh, I should have warned you dear. But I did say Gran was from Yorkshire."
"Here," Sherlock said, nudging a chair into John's grasping reach.
John dropped into the chair like a sack full of broken toys. His eyes watered and he was very glad that Sherlock didn't have a bunsen burner going on the kitchen table at the moment, or John was sure he'd be giving a damned good impression of a flamethrower. "What's in that?!" he got out in a strangled wheeze.
"Well, I suppose about half of it is alcohol."
"Half?!" John squawked.
Mrs Hudson nodded. "Gran's recipe calls for two eggs, one litre full-fat milk, a cup of cream, a litre of brandy, one litre rum. No, it's two. Two of rum."
"Two-!"
"Yes, so more like three quarters alcohol actually."
"Two thirds," Sherlock murmured, "allowing for the volume of the eggs."
Mrs Hudson took another sip and waved a hand loosely. "Plus the cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, but they don't take up much space at all."
John stared at the eggnog, eyes still watering. He would swear it stared back.
"Eggnog always reminds me of a fascinating case a few years ago," Sherlock said, skimming some foam from the top of his cup and examining it before sucking it off his finger. "Salmonella poisoning due to the raw eggs in the eggnog. Accidental death in the end, but one can't have everything."
"Trust me," John gasped, feeling the alcoholic fumes wafting into his sinus cavities, "anything bacterial that might have been in that ran away screaming long ago."
"Now, as a medical professional, John, you should know that bacteria neither run nor scream," Sherlock said with a mad twinkle in his eye.
"These would have learned to, bloody quick." John risked a sip. Rather than burning, the shock of rum faded quickly letting through the zesty floral smokiness of the brandy, the richness of the creamy milk and egg mixture and the warm holiday flavours of the spices.
"Better?" Mrs Hudson asked, patting John's arm.
John raised his eyebrows and considered his drink. "Much better! Actually, when you're ready for it, it's really quite nice. Though it's probably still a bit much for a Thursday night."
"Only one night a year though." Sherlock raised his glass to Mrs Hudson and sipped.
Mrs Hudson beamed, pleased. "Drink up dears. There's more than enough left for a few more rounds."
With a slight giggle and a hope that they wouldn't be calling him in to help at the surgery tomorrow morning, John reached for his glass.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, Alcohol
Warnings: none
Word Count: 840
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes' WAdvent Open Participation Day #2: Winter Beverages. Title from "Christmas in Killarney". I would advise NOT EVER making the recipe included herein as I made it up from thin air and it'd probably be nasty. Also, parts of this story may offend people from Yorkshire?
Summary: Moving in with Sherlock exposes John to Mrs Hudson's family traditions.
-.-
Raise a Cup of Cheer
-.-
"Here we are!" Mrs Hudson chirped, setting a glass of something pale yellow and frothy in front of John, who lowered the book he'd been trying to read to his lap.
"What's this then?" he asked. Despite the late hour and the hellish day just past, John still retained enough mental acuity to identify the substance as 'not tea'.
"Eggnog. Old family recipe." She set a glass down beside Sherlock. He was at the table sorting identical-seeming pebbles into fourteen separate saucers with an irregular 'plink-plunk-plonk' noise, which was the primary reason John had not made any inroads into the book now laying in his lap.
Sherlock glanced at the foamy glass beside him with the barest hint of a fond smile. "Ah. Is it December already?"
John sighed. "It's been December for six days, Sherlock!"
"I always serve this on the 6th of December, even when it's just me." Mrs Hudson sat in a spare kitchen chair and set the serving tray with her own glass on it on a pile of newspapers on the table. "Gran said the 6th is the feast of Saint Nicholas, and it's the day Father Christmas gets out of bed and starts getting to work, so he needs to start out with a fortifying glass of eggnog."
John eyed the frothy stuff dubiously. "Really."
Sherlock snorted, setting his pebbles aside. "Of course not really John. There is no Father Christmas."
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I sort of worked that out for myself when I was six, Sherlock. I just meant-" He gestured at the glass in his other hand. "Homemade eggnog, same day every year, family holiday traditions and all. Quite lovely."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and peered at his glass.
"Oh, just a story for the kids." Mrs Hudson picked her glass up and sipped. "Of course Gran was a bit less polite with how she said it."
Sherlock grinned. "I believe one year you said her exact words were; 'it helps Father Christmas shift his arse.'"
Mrs Hudson giggled and took another sip. "Yes, well. She was from Yorkshire."
"Well," John said with cheer, setting his book on the side-table and bringing his glass into the kitchen, ignoring the suddenly somewhat evil-seeming grin on Sherlock's face. "Far be it from me to disrupt a tradition. Cheers!" He raised his glass and took a healthy swig.
"Ooo..." said Mrs Hudson, but it was too late.
John's eyes bulged wide open at the unexpectedly intense burn of alcohol. He swallowed in self-defence, roughly setting the glass down on what he hoped was a flat part of the table and groped around for a chair, coughing.
"Oh, I should have warned you dear. But I did say Gran was from Yorkshire."
"Here," Sherlock said, nudging a chair into John's grasping reach.
John dropped into the chair like a sack full of broken toys. His eyes watered and he was very glad that Sherlock didn't have a bunsen burner going on the kitchen table at the moment, or John was sure he'd be giving a damned good impression of a flamethrower. "What's in that?!" he got out in a strangled wheeze.
"Well, I suppose about half of it is alcohol."
"Half?!" John squawked.
Mrs Hudson nodded. "Gran's recipe calls for two eggs, one litre full-fat milk, a cup of cream, a litre of brandy, one litre rum. No, it's two. Two of rum."
"Two-!"
"Yes, so more like three quarters alcohol actually."
"Two thirds," Sherlock murmured, "allowing for the volume of the eggs."
Mrs Hudson took another sip and waved a hand loosely. "Plus the cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, but they don't take up much space at all."
John stared at the eggnog, eyes still watering. He would swear it stared back.
"Eggnog always reminds me of a fascinating case a few years ago," Sherlock said, skimming some foam from the top of his cup and examining it before sucking it off his finger. "Salmonella poisoning due to the raw eggs in the eggnog. Accidental death in the end, but one can't have everything."
"Trust me," John gasped, feeling the alcoholic fumes wafting into his sinus cavities, "anything bacterial that might have been in that ran away screaming long ago."
"Now, as a medical professional, John, you should know that bacteria neither run nor scream," Sherlock said with a mad twinkle in his eye.
"These would have learned to, bloody quick." John risked a sip. Rather than burning, the shock of rum faded quickly letting through the zesty floral smokiness of the brandy, the richness of the creamy milk and egg mixture and the warm holiday flavours of the spices.
"Better?" Mrs Hudson asked, patting John's arm.
John raised his eyebrows and considered his drink. "Much better! Actually, when you're ready for it, it's really quite nice. Though it's probably still a bit much for a Thursday night."
"Only one night a year though." Sherlock raised his glass to Mrs Hudson and sipped.
Mrs Hudson beamed, pleased. "Drink up dears. There's more than enough left for a few more rounds."
With a slight giggle and a hope that they wouldn't be calling him in to help at the surgery tomorrow morning, John reached for his glass.
-.-.-
(that's it)