Fic: The Baker Street Baking Blog (1/3)
Title: The Baker Street Baking Blog
Author: emmyangua
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. You'd be a lunatic to trust them with me; I write things like this.
Summary: Sherlock runs a website, The Science of Baking, and does experiments with yeast. When John Watson moves in Sherlock begins to fear his life may not hold enough excitement to hold the man's attention. Bakery/Baking AU.
A/N:
1electricpirate asked for this before New Year and it’s been horribly delayed (due to Sherlock and real life.) Apologies, and I hope the fact it's going to be a two-parter makes up for it a bit!
Note: No spoilers for S3.
In Which I Clear Up Some Misconceptions
By John H. Watson
I was actually at a bit of a loss over what to write for this entry. The last consultation Sherlock got involved in was for a well-known cake company and its worth more than my life to tell you what he was working on. Let’s just say if they were ‘exceedingly good’ before then they’re truly exceptional now.
As I write this Sherlock is huffing and puffing because he’s knocked over some vitally important jar of yeast while swishing around the kitchen in his dressing gown. He’s as graceful as a cat and as accidentally destructive as one too. Anyway this yeast… stinks. Words cannot describe how much. It’s January and we’ve had to open all the windows so that we can breathe. I have no idea how it could ever have been used to bake something edible with.
It would be so much easier if Sherlock’s experiments were something legitimately disgusting. And Sherlock, when you read this entry, that is not, I repeat not, a challenge.
What I mean is that when I complain that Sherlock’s baking is taking over the flat, most people imagine eggshells dripping onto the counter or clouds of icing sugar puffing up into the air. They never imagine the bubbling jars, vats of strange smelling gloop, or food in advance stages of decay which make up the overwhelming majority of the debris in our kitchen.
Sometimes a flatmate who kept body parts hanging around the place would be a relief; at least then I’d be able to have a good moan and people would be sympathetic.
**UPDATE**
Sherlock is having a tantrum and would like you to know that the yeast was never designed for actual food and that if I think that he bakes just to feed people then I’ve missed the point entirely.
**UPDATE 2**
Sherlock would like you to know that he is not ‘having a tantrum’. Nor does he 'huff' or 'puff'.
**UPDATE 3**
I do have something baking related to add. Sherlock has tidied up and made some macarons which he claims are not an apology and purely for himself. Even though he hates macarons. They are, as usual, spectacular (with a slight hint of lemon and honey). Recipe to follow.
--
John meets Sherlock (the first time) while John is working. Sherlock is very much part of that work, because Sherlock has accidentally set his kitchen on fire. He, his furious landlady, and the staff of the café below are all gathered on the pavement.
John has seen men try and enter burning buildings for many reasons, nearly all of them foolish, but this is the first time he’s seen anyone willing to put life and limb on the line for dough.
“It’s still in the proving drawer!” Sherlock is trying to explain to John’s colleague while being, if not held back, then at least made aware that holding back would be shortly on the cards should this behaviour continue. Despite this he looks the picture of grace and style, except for the orange blanket that a braver person than John has draped around his shoulders.
John wonders if shock may indeed be the cause of this mania for dough, but he doesn’t think of it long because Sherlock is quickly distracted by the landlady, who chooses that moment to recover from her own shock.
“SHERLOCK HOLMES - YOU AND THAT FRIGGIN’ BUNSEN BURNER - I WARNED YOU THAT SOMETHING LIKE THIS WOULD HAPPEN -”
John makes a hasty exit upstairs to the smouldering kitchen where there is still work to be done. All in all it could have been a lot worse. There’s no structural damage and given a few days the place will be habitable again. The kitchen is a wreck but it’s nothing an insurance payment and a refurb won’t solve.
He notices, out of the corner of his eye, a metallic drawer that has escaped the worst of the fire. John steps over and cautiously pulls it open.
“Who’d have thought it?” he grins. “The dough survived!”
He takes out the bowl, finishes his work, then goes back downstairs to reunite rescued dough with overprotective baker.
Sherlock takes one look at the bowl, snatches it from John, and begins prodding at the mixture.
“It’s over proofed!” he seethes.
John raises his brows, amused despite himself. “Well yeah, that’s what happens when you leave it in a burning building.”
Sherlock groans and smashes the bowl onto the ground in frustration. This earns him another wave of screeching abuse from the landlady.
“It’s the shock!” he’s saying defensively as John walks away. “Look I’ve got a blanket!”
John grins. He’s looking forward to telling this story down the pub.
--
One year later and John has already moved through ‘extended leave’ and is encroaching ever nearer to ‘permanent leave.’ Soon the delicate enquiries about his health are going to become frank questions.
“Is your leg going to get better?”
“Are you going to be able to come back?”
He doesn’t think his answer - “It turns out my leg won’t get better until I go back to work so why not let me have a go?” - is going to go down particularly well. Firefighting is surprisingly competitive, with a lot more trained workers than jobs available. Younger men than John are waiting for him to leave.
A building collapsed on him and now he has a psychosomatic limp. They have every right to be deeply concerned about his mental state. It doesn’t make it any easier though.
He is walking and brooding over the problem when he runs into Mike.
Mike Stamford was John’s first boss, a pen-pusher of the highest order, but a nice enough guy so long as he didn’t get involved in the practical work. He’s retired now, more jovial than ever, and clearly not missing the fitness tests.
In short he’s exactly the last person John wants to see and is naturally completely oblivious to this fact.
“C’mon,” says Mike after a few minutes of incredibly awkward catch-up, “it’s free cake day. You’ll love this.”
John trails after him, baffled at this strange comment. He likes cake, and doesn’t object to free portions of it, but has no idea why Mike is so enthused that he experience it.
When he makes a comment to that effect Mike merely grins. “It’ll be a blast from the past.”
They arrive at Speedy’s on Baker Street where a small queue has already formed. It’s not a bakery as John had expected; it’s a perfectly normal café. There is no mention of free cake anywhere, so John assumes these people must either be in the know, like Mike, or the sandwiches are really something.
They join the back of the queue, which reaches past the black door next to the café, and they are soon talking about old times. It isn’t until they are inside the café itself that Mike moves onto slightly more uncomfortable topics.
“So where are you staying now? You never did like to settle in one place.”
“Wherever’s cheapest. Sick pay doesn’t exactly stretch far.”
“Are you looking?”
John gives a huff that indicates his hopes of finding something reasonable and then thankfully has an excuse to end the conversation because they are near the front of the queue.
Behind the counter two women are rushing around making drinks and sandwiches. A third person, a man, is standing to one side and completely ignoring all the actual work going on. Behind him are several covered platters but John ignores them, too busy staring at the familiar face.
“I know him! He’s the mad baker!” John chuckles. “I thought this place looked familiar.”
Mike grins. “Ran across it not so long ago and remembered him from that night. He’s really quite something. Mad about baking, as you’d expect. Complete lunatic but brilliant at what he does.”
John looks around. “He owns this place?”
Mike shrugs. “Landlady does. Sherlock provides the daily pastries and bread for free to pay off the kitchen refurbishment and he gets to use the customers as guinea pigs once a week.”
The woman in front of them is served (a cheese sandwich and a can of coke) and just as she turns to leave the Sherlock leans forward and hands her cupcake with mint green icing.
“Eat it before you leave,” Sherlock orders. “I want opinions.”
Once the girl has awkwardly moved out of the way to try and eat her cupcake while still juggling her drink and sandwich, Mike moves up the counter.
“Afternoon Sherlock, I’ll have a cappuccino and whatever you’re hiding over there.”
One of the women fetch the drink; Sherlock nods in greeting and hands over a huge slab of fruitcake.
“This is John Watson,” Mike says as John orders a black coffee to take away. “Don’t know if you remember him…?”
Sherlock’s only response is to hand John several chunks of pale, miserable looking shortbread and shoo them away to eat. If he recognises the fireman who attempted to save his dough he makes no indication of it.
John tries not to be bothered by it.
“That’s some customer service,” he mutters instead, once they are standing out of the way of the rest of the customers.
“Yeah, but trust me, you’re in for a treat. Sherlock’s recipes are spectacular.”
Looking at the shortbread, John doubts this very much. He bites into it and tries not to wince at the sickly sweetness and the strange artificial aftertaste. He takes a gulp of coffee and side-eyes Mike, who is making noises that suggest his fruitcake is a much more pleasant experience.
“How’s the shortbread?” Mike asks. “And I warn you, just because it looks like he’s not listening, doesn’t mean that he’s not.”
They glance over at Sherlock who is neither looking at them nor giving any indication that he’s aware of their existence.
“Well I don’t mind telling you - and him - that that was one truly most awful shortbread experiences of my life. And my sister went through a baking phase when she was twelve.”
Mike laughs.
“Yes I must apologise for it.”
John turns around. Somehow, possibly by magic, Sherlock has moved around the counter and is now standing with them. This makes Mike laugh even harder.
“Can’t win ‘em all Sherlock.”
Sherlock looks mildly frustrated. “Yes well, that one is for a consultation that’s proving to be trickier than I hoped.”
“Consultation?” asks John.
Sherlock shrugs. “When companies can’t find a way to make a recipe work they come to me and I apply my science to it. In this case the company in question wants fat free, sugar free, gluten free, vegan shortbread at less than 40 calories a slice.”
“And you’re going to let them mass produce that garbage?”
Sherlock shrugs. “I just wanted to prove that it was possible. I never claim it’s advisable. I don’t go in for advisable anything.”
“I bet you don’t,” says John, realising too late that he was speaking aloud.
Sherlock blinks. If John had to guess he’d say that the man looks surprised.
“How do you feel about the violin?” he says suddenly.
John is stymied. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re not allergic to anything either? I use a lot of nuts and strange ingredients and they tend to end up in all sorts of places…”
John looks at Mike, who looks equally lost. “Sorry… I’m afraid I don’t follow?”
The man rolls his eyes as if baffled at their slowness. He gestures between himself and John. “I’m in need of a flatmate, you’re in need of permanent lodgings. I made the next logical step.”
“How did you know I was in need of a new place?” John demands.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You said it in the queue. I was on the other side of the counter, not sound proof glass.”
“Oh.”
Every instinct in John’s body is agreeing that moving in with this mad, handsome baking lunatic is the best idea they’ve ever heard, but John has far too much self-control to allow financial suicide.
“No offense but this zone is somewhat out of my price range…”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Mrs. Hudson has been demanding I find a ‘calming influence’ for months. She acts like I’m always setting fire to kitchens even though I’ve pointed out that one fire doesn’t make it a habit… if I tell her I’m moving a firefighter in she’ll probably let you stay for free. I’ll finish up here and you can come up and take a look. It’s much less singed than when you last saw it.”
Mike grins and claps John on the back. “Fantastic news! I’ll leave you boys to it.”
--
Chapter 2
Author: emmyangua
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. You'd be a lunatic to trust them with me; I write things like this.
Summary: Sherlock runs a website, The Science of Baking, and does experiments with yeast. When John Watson moves in Sherlock begins to fear his life may not hold enough excitement to hold the man's attention. Bakery/Baking AU.
A/N:
1electricpirate asked for this before New Year and it’s been horribly delayed (due to Sherlock and real life.) Apologies, and I hope the fact it's going to be a two-parter makes up for it a bit!
Note: No spoilers for S3.
In Which I Clear Up Some Misconceptions
By John H. Watson
I was actually at a bit of a loss over what to write for this entry. The last consultation Sherlock got involved in was for a well-known cake company and its worth more than my life to tell you what he was working on. Let’s just say if they were ‘exceedingly good’ before then they’re truly exceptional now.
As I write this Sherlock is huffing and puffing because he’s knocked over some vitally important jar of yeast while swishing around the kitchen in his dressing gown. He’s as graceful as a cat and as accidentally destructive as one too. Anyway this yeast… stinks. Words cannot describe how much. It’s January and we’ve had to open all the windows so that we can breathe. I have no idea how it could ever have been used to bake something edible with.
It would be so much easier if Sherlock’s experiments were something legitimately disgusting. And Sherlock, when you read this entry, that is not, I repeat not, a challenge.
What I mean is that when I complain that Sherlock’s baking is taking over the flat, most people imagine eggshells dripping onto the counter or clouds of icing sugar puffing up into the air. They never imagine the bubbling jars, vats of strange smelling gloop, or food in advance stages of decay which make up the overwhelming majority of the debris in our kitchen.
Sometimes a flatmate who kept body parts hanging around the place would be a relief; at least then I’d be able to have a good moan and people would be sympathetic.
**UPDATE**
Sherlock is having a tantrum and would like you to know that the yeast was never designed for actual food and that if I think that he bakes just to feed people then I’ve missed the point entirely.
**UPDATE 2**
Sherlock would like you to know that he is not ‘having a tantrum’. Nor does he 'huff' or 'puff'.
**UPDATE 3**
I do have something baking related to add. Sherlock has tidied up and made some macarons which he claims are not an apology and purely for himself. Even though he hates macarons. They are, as usual, spectacular (with a slight hint of lemon and honey). Recipe to follow.
--
John meets Sherlock (the first time) while John is working. Sherlock is very much part of that work, because Sherlock has accidentally set his kitchen on fire. He, his furious landlady, and the staff of the café below are all gathered on the pavement.
John has seen men try and enter burning buildings for many reasons, nearly all of them foolish, but this is the first time he’s seen anyone willing to put life and limb on the line for dough.
“It’s still in the proving drawer!” Sherlock is trying to explain to John’s colleague while being, if not held back, then at least made aware that holding back would be shortly on the cards should this behaviour continue. Despite this he looks the picture of grace and style, except for the orange blanket that a braver person than John has draped around his shoulders.
John wonders if shock may indeed be the cause of this mania for dough, but he doesn’t think of it long because Sherlock is quickly distracted by the landlady, who chooses that moment to recover from her own shock.
“SHERLOCK HOLMES - YOU AND THAT FRIGGIN’ BUNSEN BURNER - I WARNED YOU THAT SOMETHING LIKE THIS WOULD HAPPEN -”
John makes a hasty exit upstairs to the smouldering kitchen where there is still work to be done. All in all it could have been a lot worse. There’s no structural damage and given a few days the place will be habitable again. The kitchen is a wreck but it’s nothing an insurance payment and a refurb won’t solve.
He notices, out of the corner of his eye, a metallic drawer that has escaped the worst of the fire. John steps over and cautiously pulls it open.
“Who’d have thought it?” he grins. “The dough survived!”
He takes out the bowl, finishes his work, then goes back downstairs to reunite rescued dough with overprotective baker.
Sherlock takes one look at the bowl, snatches it from John, and begins prodding at the mixture.
“It’s over proofed!” he seethes.
John raises his brows, amused despite himself. “Well yeah, that’s what happens when you leave it in a burning building.”
Sherlock groans and smashes the bowl onto the ground in frustration. This earns him another wave of screeching abuse from the landlady.
“It’s the shock!” he’s saying defensively as John walks away. “Look I’ve got a blanket!”
John grins. He’s looking forward to telling this story down the pub.
--
One year later and John has already moved through ‘extended leave’ and is encroaching ever nearer to ‘permanent leave.’ Soon the delicate enquiries about his health are going to become frank questions.
“Is your leg going to get better?”
“Are you going to be able to come back?”
He doesn’t think his answer - “It turns out my leg won’t get better until I go back to work so why not let me have a go?” - is going to go down particularly well. Firefighting is surprisingly competitive, with a lot more trained workers than jobs available. Younger men than John are waiting for him to leave.
A building collapsed on him and now he has a psychosomatic limp. They have every right to be deeply concerned about his mental state. It doesn’t make it any easier though.
He is walking and brooding over the problem when he runs into Mike.
Mike Stamford was John’s first boss, a pen-pusher of the highest order, but a nice enough guy so long as he didn’t get involved in the practical work. He’s retired now, more jovial than ever, and clearly not missing the fitness tests.
In short he’s exactly the last person John wants to see and is naturally completely oblivious to this fact.
“C’mon,” says Mike after a few minutes of incredibly awkward catch-up, “it’s free cake day. You’ll love this.”
John trails after him, baffled at this strange comment. He likes cake, and doesn’t object to free portions of it, but has no idea why Mike is so enthused that he experience it.
When he makes a comment to that effect Mike merely grins. “It’ll be a blast from the past.”
They arrive at Speedy’s on Baker Street where a small queue has already formed. It’s not a bakery as John had expected; it’s a perfectly normal café. There is no mention of free cake anywhere, so John assumes these people must either be in the know, like Mike, or the sandwiches are really something.
They join the back of the queue, which reaches past the black door next to the café, and they are soon talking about old times. It isn’t until they are inside the café itself that Mike moves onto slightly more uncomfortable topics.
“So where are you staying now? You never did like to settle in one place.”
“Wherever’s cheapest. Sick pay doesn’t exactly stretch far.”
“Are you looking?”
John gives a huff that indicates his hopes of finding something reasonable and then thankfully has an excuse to end the conversation because they are near the front of the queue.
Behind the counter two women are rushing around making drinks and sandwiches. A third person, a man, is standing to one side and completely ignoring all the actual work going on. Behind him are several covered platters but John ignores them, too busy staring at the familiar face.
“I know him! He’s the mad baker!” John chuckles. “I thought this place looked familiar.”
Mike grins. “Ran across it not so long ago and remembered him from that night. He’s really quite something. Mad about baking, as you’d expect. Complete lunatic but brilliant at what he does.”
John looks around. “He owns this place?”
Mike shrugs. “Landlady does. Sherlock provides the daily pastries and bread for free to pay off the kitchen refurbishment and he gets to use the customers as guinea pigs once a week.”
The woman in front of them is served (a cheese sandwich and a can of coke) and just as she turns to leave the Sherlock leans forward and hands her cupcake with mint green icing.
“Eat it before you leave,” Sherlock orders. “I want opinions.”
Once the girl has awkwardly moved out of the way to try and eat her cupcake while still juggling her drink and sandwich, Mike moves up the counter.
“Afternoon Sherlock, I’ll have a cappuccino and whatever you’re hiding over there.”
One of the women fetch the drink; Sherlock nods in greeting and hands over a huge slab of fruitcake.
“This is John Watson,” Mike says as John orders a black coffee to take away. “Don’t know if you remember him…?”
Sherlock’s only response is to hand John several chunks of pale, miserable looking shortbread and shoo them away to eat. If he recognises the fireman who attempted to save his dough he makes no indication of it.
John tries not to be bothered by it.
“That’s some customer service,” he mutters instead, once they are standing out of the way of the rest of the customers.
“Yeah, but trust me, you’re in for a treat. Sherlock’s recipes are spectacular.”
Looking at the shortbread, John doubts this very much. He bites into it and tries not to wince at the sickly sweetness and the strange artificial aftertaste. He takes a gulp of coffee and side-eyes Mike, who is making noises that suggest his fruitcake is a much more pleasant experience.
“How’s the shortbread?” Mike asks. “And I warn you, just because it looks like he’s not listening, doesn’t mean that he’s not.”
They glance over at Sherlock who is neither looking at them nor giving any indication that he’s aware of their existence.
“Well I don’t mind telling you - and him - that that was one truly most awful shortbread experiences of my life. And my sister went through a baking phase when she was twelve.”
Mike laughs.
“Yes I must apologise for it.”
John turns around. Somehow, possibly by magic, Sherlock has moved around the counter and is now standing with them. This makes Mike laugh even harder.
“Can’t win ‘em all Sherlock.”
Sherlock looks mildly frustrated. “Yes well, that one is for a consultation that’s proving to be trickier than I hoped.”
“Consultation?” asks John.
Sherlock shrugs. “When companies can’t find a way to make a recipe work they come to me and I apply my science to it. In this case the company in question wants fat free, sugar free, gluten free, vegan shortbread at less than 40 calories a slice.”
“And you’re going to let them mass produce that garbage?”
Sherlock shrugs. “I just wanted to prove that it was possible. I never claim it’s advisable. I don’t go in for advisable anything.”
“I bet you don’t,” says John, realising too late that he was speaking aloud.
Sherlock blinks. If John had to guess he’d say that the man looks surprised.
“How do you feel about the violin?” he says suddenly.
John is stymied. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re not allergic to anything either? I use a lot of nuts and strange ingredients and they tend to end up in all sorts of places…”
John looks at Mike, who looks equally lost. “Sorry… I’m afraid I don’t follow?”
The man rolls his eyes as if baffled at their slowness. He gestures between himself and John. “I’m in need of a flatmate, you’re in need of permanent lodgings. I made the next logical step.”
“How did you know I was in need of a new place?” John demands.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You said it in the queue. I was on the other side of the counter, not sound proof glass.”
“Oh.”
Every instinct in John’s body is agreeing that moving in with this mad, handsome baking lunatic is the best idea they’ve ever heard, but John has far too much self-control to allow financial suicide.
“No offense but this zone is somewhat out of my price range…”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Mrs. Hudson has been demanding I find a ‘calming influence’ for months. She acts like I’m always setting fire to kitchens even though I’ve pointed out that one fire doesn’t make it a habit… if I tell her I’m moving a firefighter in she’ll probably let you stay for free. I’ll finish up here and you can come up and take a look. It’s much less singed than when you last saw it.”
Mike grins and claps John on the back. “Fantastic news! I’ll leave you boys to it.”
--
Chapter 2