Sherlock Fic: Obvious Fact (6/10)
Obvious Fact (6/10)
by MuseDePandora (see: Master List of Fanfics)
Disclaimer: BBC's Sherlock belongs to various persons and corporations that are not me or associated with me. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect for the original work. I claim no ownership of the show, Sherlock, or its accoutrements. No profit is made from this material, now or in the future.
Thanks to r34dinglight and Lexiodessa for beta-reading.
Go back to Part One HERE.
6.
Despite evidence to the contrary, Sherlock could actually cook things that weren't once human. John was more shocked than anyone.
He had often wondered how Sherlock survived before they became flatmates. Not because of the obvious need the man had for backup while running around the London backstreets and alleys like a vigilante. No, no doubt his brother's overbearing ways helped save his life more than once. John was more surprised that Sherlock managed the basics. Like eating and drinking. Most days, it seemed like Sherlock would forget to breathe if it weren't an autonomic function. After all, it was boring.
If asked, he probably would've said that he thought Sherlock had survived solely on take-out and because of the surprising durability of the human body. That is, if Sherlock were completely human and not some mutant evolutionary branch, which was an idea that some days John entertained.
However, it appeared Sherlock could cook things not involving fingernails or pig's blood. He was so shocked that, at first, John wondered if his fever had spiked and he was hallucinating.
Sherlock could not be making omelettes.
"What are you doing?" he asked. Though with his head-cold, it came out sounding far less intelligible. He tied his tartan bathrobe tighter around himself before shuffling over to investigate closer. At this point, he realized the danger that was Sherlock playing with fire. His eyes started scanning the room to find the nearest fire extinguisher. Last time he checked, they had three but that was two weeks ago. Anything could've happened since then.
"Making omelettes," Sherlock answered.
"Huh?" In his defense, he was very, very sick and this was just too much like those fever dreams where suddenly no one's wearing clothes and there are disapproving ducks.
"Stop breathing in my ear and sit down, John," Sherlock told him. Only then did he realize how close he had been standing to his flatmate. He'd nearly had his chest against Sherlock's back. He shuffled away and found a chair.
"You're right," he mumbled. "I don't want to give this to you."
"It's too late now," Sherlock replied. "I was probably infected a day ago and now it's incubating."
"Sorry," John mumbled again. He tried to clear his throat but cringed when it upset his head. He heard the stove click off and kept his eyes closed as he listened to Sherlock move around the kitchen. Plates were clinked together. There was the scrape of something against the bottom of the pan. The sound of plates being lifted up. Sherlock's light steps across the floor. The sound of plates being set down in front of him. Sherlock's light steps walking away. The sound of two mugs lifting off the counter. Sherlock's steps again. The silverware drawer being pulled out and in. Steps. The scratch of two mugs on the table and the clink of silverware set on plates. Steps. The scratch of a chair being pulled out. The muffled sound of Sherlock sitting down.
"Wake up, John."
He opened his eyes with an effort. Sherlock and the omelettes were both still there. That was nice.
"Eat."
John picked up a fork that felt like it was made of lead and cut off a very small piece. He took another minute getting it sitting on the tines and then very slowly moved it to his mouth. He delicately chewed. He could barely taste anything with his head-cold but he definitely could sense the woody tang of cheese and the sweet, soft taste of tomatoes, over the very delicate, almost overlooked, good comforting taste of eggs.
"Mmm," he groaned. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. When everything ached, hunger pains were easy to misdiagnose. He began to cut another piece.
"If you're going to continue to eat that slowly, I'm going to the other room," Sherlock told him.
John smiled for the first time in days.
"I didn't know you could cook," he said, taking another bite.
"Of course, I can cook."
"You can't make a bed."
Sherlock scowled at him for that.
"This is really good," he said with a full mouth.
"You insult me when you compliment me. Am I supposed to be pleased?"
"Nope," John answered. "Not supposed to be anything. Just saying."
"You've dribbled cheese down your front," Sherlock said. "Just saying."
John looked down and saw a very thin string of cheese sticking to the front of his bathrobe. "You're right." He returned to his slow progress on the omelette. In the end, he ate almost half of it and Sherlock ate the entirety of his own.
"You actually cooked for me," John said and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"I cooked for myself," he corrected. "I needed to eat. You were incapable of cooking. Despite what you seem to think, I did survive before you came along. It is true though that it's much more efficient to have you around to deal with the dull necessities. Thus, it made sense to feed you while I was at it, so that you may recover faster and I may return to more challenging tasks."
"Sherlock." He smiled.
"John." Sherlock frowned.
"You never admit you're hungry."
"I didn't say I was hungry. I said that I needed to eat. My blood sugar was low and I couldn't have my hands shaking during my experiments."
That didn't deter him. When Sherlock argued semantics, it meant John was uncomfortably close to something.
"You could've ordered in," he pointed out.
"I couldn't find your wallet," Sherlock replied. "You need to clean."
"There are places you could've ordered from for free."
"Yes, but none of which served food without harsh cooking oils that would have aggravated your stomach."
"So you admit that you cooked for me."
Sherlock stood up from the table, the chair scratching the floor behind him. With what looked shockingly like a pout, he trudged from the room. John could hear his laptop power up in the sitting room. He let Sherlock cool off for a few minutes while he cleaned up their plates.
After enough time had passed for Sherlock to nurse his ego, John shuffled into the sitting room. Sherlock sat on the sofa with John's laptop on his knees. His typing sounded like angry mice chewing on wood. His face was a blank slate and he didn't even look up though he knew John was there.
"Thank you," John said. He only waited a moment for a reply, but Sherlock pretended he wasn't even there. John nodded and shuffled back to his room. They never outright talked about it again, but whenever John was sick or hurt, Sherlock cooked. That was an answer in itself.
...Read on to Part Seven
If you enjoyed the piece, or if you didn't, please take the time to leave me a review. No matter how short, I really appreciate the feedback. Thanks.
by MuseDePandora (see: Master List of Fanfics)
Disclaimer: BBC's Sherlock belongs to various persons and corporations that are not me or associated with me. This piece of fanfiction is written with the admiration and respect for the original work. I claim no ownership of the show, Sherlock, or its accoutrements. No profit is made from this material, now or in the future.
Thanks to r34dinglight and Lexiodessa for beta-reading.
Go back to Part One HERE.
6.
Despite evidence to the contrary, Sherlock could actually cook things that weren't once human. John was more shocked than anyone.
He had often wondered how Sherlock survived before they became flatmates. Not because of the obvious need the man had for backup while running around the London backstreets and alleys like a vigilante. No, no doubt his brother's overbearing ways helped save his life more than once. John was more surprised that Sherlock managed the basics. Like eating and drinking. Most days, it seemed like Sherlock would forget to breathe if it weren't an autonomic function. After all, it was boring.
If asked, he probably would've said that he thought Sherlock had survived solely on take-out and because of the surprising durability of the human body. That is, if Sherlock were completely human and not some mutant evolutionary branch, which was an idea that some days John entertained.
However, it appeared Sherlock could cook things not involving fingernails or pig's blood. He was so shocked that, at first, John wondered if his fever had spiked and he was hallucinating.
Sherlock could not be making omelettes.
"What are you doing?" he asked. Though with his head-cold, it came out sounding far less intelligible. He tied his tartan bathrobe tighter around himself before shuffling over to investigate closer. At this point, he realized the danger that was Sherlock playing with fire. His eyes started scanning the room to find the nearest fire extinguisher. Last time he checked, they had three but that was two weeks ago. Anything could've happened since then.
"Making omelettes," Sherlock answered.
"Huh?" In his defense, he was very, very sick and this was just too much like those fever dreams where suddenly no one's wearing clothes and there are disapproving ducks.
"Stop breathing in my ear and sit down, John," Sherlock told him. Only then did he realize how close he had been standing to his flatmate. He'd nearly had his chest against Sherlock's back. He shuffled away and found a chair.
"You're right," he mumbled. "I don't want to give this to you."
"It's too late now," Sherlock replied. "I was probably infected a day ago and now it's incubating."
"Sorry," John mumbled again. He tried to clear his throat but cringed when it upset his head. He heard the stove click off and kept his eyes closed as he listened to Sherlock move around the kitchen. Plates were clinked together. There was the scrape of something against the bottom of the pan. The sound of plates being lifted up. Sherlock's light steps across the floor. The sound of plates being set down in front of him. Sherlock's light steps walking away. The sound of two mugs lifting off the counter. Sherlock's steps again. The silverware drawer being pulled out and in. Steps. The scratch of two mugs on the table and the clink of silverware set on plates. Steps. The scratch of a chair being pulled out. The muffled sound of Sherlock sitting down.
"Wake up, John."
He opened his eyes with an effort. Sherlock and the omelettes were both still there. That was nice.
"Eat."
John picked up a fork that felt like it was made of lead and cut off a very small piece. He took another minute getting it sitting on the tines and then very slowly moved it to his mouth. He delicately chewed. He could barely taste anything with his head-cold but he definitely could sense the woody tang of cheese and the sweet, soft taste of tomatoes, over the very delicate, almost overlooked, good comforting taste of eggs.
"Mmm," he groaned. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. When everything ached, hunger pains were easy to misdiagnose. He began to cut another piece.
"If you're going to continue to eat that slowly, I'm going to the other room," Sherlock told him.
John smiled for the first time in days.
"I didn't know you could cook," he said, taking another bite.
"Of course, I can cook."
"You can't make a bed."
Sherlock scowled at him for that.
"This is really good," he said with a full mouth.
"You insult me when you compliment me. Am I supposed to be pleased?"
"Nope," John answered. "Not supposed to be anything. Just saying."
"You've dribbled cheese down your front," Sherlock said. "Just saying."
John looked down and saw a very thin string of cheese sticking to the front of his bathrobe. "You're right." He returned to his slow progress on the omelette. In the end, he ate almost half of it and Sherlock ate the entirety of his own.
"You actually cooked for me," John said and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"I cooked for myself," he corrected. "I needed to eat. You were incapable of cooking. Despite what you seem to think, I did survive before you came along. It is true though that it's much more efficient to have you around to deal with the dull necessities. Thus, it made sense to feed you while I was at it, so that you may recover faster and I may return to more challenging tasks."
"Sherlock." He smiled.
"John." Sherlock frowned.
"You never admit you're hungry."
"I didn't say I was hungry. I said that I needed to eat. My blood sugar was low and I couldn't have my hands shaking during my experiments."
That didn't deter him. When Sherlock argued semantics, it meant John was uncomfortably close to something.
"You could've ordered in," he pointed out.
"I couldn't find your wallet," Sherlock replied. "You need to clean."
"There are places you could've ordered from for free."
"Yes, but none of which served food without harsh cooking oils that would have aggravated your stomach."
"So you admit that you cooked for me."
Sherlock stood up from the table, the chair scratching the floor behind him. With what looked shockingly like a pout, he trudged from the room. John could hear his laptop power up in the sitting room. He let Sherlock cool off for a few minutes while he cleaned up their plates.
After enough time had passed for Sherlock to nurse his ego, John shuffled into the sitting room. Sherlock sat on the sofa with John's laptop on his knees. His typing sounded like angry mice chewing on wood. His face was a blank slate and he didn't even look up though he knew John was there.
"Thank you," John said. He only waited a moment for a reply, but Sherlock pretended he wasn't even there. John nodded and shuffled back to his room. They never outright talked about it again, but whenever John was sick or hurt, Sherlock cooked. That was an answer in itself.
...Read on to Part Seven
If you enjoyed the piece, or if you didn't, please take the time to leave me a review. No matter how short, I really appreciate the feedback. Thanks.