Fic: The Baker Street Baking Blog (2/4)
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.
Previous Chapter
“Admit it, you only moved here because of the name of the street.”
Sherlock looks up from the filo pastry he has spent the last forty minutes carefully stretching out. It’s still only five in the morning, but John keeps irregular hours too thanks to a lifetime of shift work. Sherlock had initially thought that this would be annoying and is privately surprised at how much the early morning company pleases him.
John isn’t actually doing much. He’s sitting in his chair and trying to work on his mandatory therapy blog, which means that he’s really much more interested in glancing back over his shoulder to watch Sherlock work. Sherlock doesn’t mind this in the least.
“Of course I didn’t.”
“You so did! The consulting baker who lives on Baker Street…”
“Actually my old kitchen was far too small.” Sherlock tries to sound lofty. He doesn’t want John to know he actually went a step further and tried to convince Mrs. Hudson toditch the café and let him turn it into an actual bakery as well.
He suspects John doesn’t believe him.
“I bet in hundreds of years you’re hoping that people will wonder whether they named Baker Street after you…”
The thought has crossed Sherlock’s mind and he would happily shred his perfect filo pastry rather than admit that aloud. It’s worrying how well John seems to know him after only one month of living together.
“I found your website by the way,” says John conversationally after a small, comfortable silence. “The Science of Baking.”
Sherlock freezes. “And?”
What did he think?
“It’s a bit… technical.”
A criticism. Oh.
“It’s a scientific website,” Sherlock says, with a note of testiness.
“Well yeah. But there’re no pictures.”
“I’m not a photographer.”
“Or recipes.”
“If people can’t work what I’m doing out for themselves, why should I help?”
John chuckles. It’s not cruel laughter; Sherlock realises that this is yet another moment when John somehow likes him for being himself. As soon as he’s certain John isn’t looking, he smiles down at the pastry.
Click.
John is certainly quick with his camera phone for someone who hates technology.
“Tell me you didn’t just take a picture,” Sherlock warns.
“Yep. Sherlock Holmes doing what he does best and looking happy about it.” At least John assumed it was pleasure about the pastry. “It’s for my latest blog entry, I’ve finally come up with an idea. I’m going to do an entry all about you.”
“As you’ve pointed out, there’s already a website about me. By me.”
“Yep. But this is only one entry and it’s going to have all the touchy feely stuff you hate. Starting with pictures.”
Click.
Sherlock moves quickly and renders that one almost certainly unusable.
“Relax,” John grins. “Just that first one and one of the finished article. I’m going to write about all the history and interesting facts you talk about all the time but don’t bother to share on your own site. But first you’re going to tell me how to make that pastry and I’m going to write it down. Sherlock’s first recipe for people to try at home.”
He glances back over his shoulder and winks.
Sherlock is feeling a strange combination of overjoyed and yet helpless. He never intends to start giving clear instructions on the art of making filo pastry, but when he opens his mouth that’s what comes out.
--
John still has his limp and it’s starting to worry Sherlock.
It’s been three months now and John seems resigned. He’s confessed about his Catch 22 situation; needing to work to be healthy but not being about to work until he’s better. He’s getting by, he says, even if sitting around in complete safety doesn’t suit him.
And that’s the problem. Because all John does is sit around in safety, even if he’s currently engrossed in this strangely flattering, wonderful project to catalogue Sherlock’s life and work in his blog. Baking is hardly dangerous and, while not without its thrills, not exactly something the hard-core adrenalin addict seeks out as a hobby.
But baking is all Sherlock can offer John. It’s only a matter of time before John gets bored of him, and should John wake up tomorrow magically healed then it would be perhaps a matter of weeks before they began to drift apart.
Sherlock wishes he was selfish enough to want John incapacitated and looking adoringly at him for the rest of their lives. He is. He does. But not really. Not in his heart of hearts.
He’s in love with John Watson, and it’s not John’s fault that things aren’t meant to be.
--
“I’ve been invited to a what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what one is Sherlock. A village fete. You’ve been invited to judge the Women’s Institute baking prizes at the Morlop Green Village Fete. Shows you how popular the blog’s getting…”
Sherlock is curled up on the sofa thumbing through his old handwritten recipe books, which is his is usual habit when something isn’t going right in his life and he’s trying to fix it. He is not in the mood for village fetes and even at his absolute best he’d never be in the mood for the WI.
“That’s popularity is it?” he snaps.
“Oh c’mon Sherlock. They’ve even given us rooms - well ok a room - at the village pub for the night. It’s the closest I’ll get to a holiday in ages.”
Sherlock looks up and John is giving him what he no doubt thinks in an appealing, persuasive look.
And damn him it’s working.
--
The Morlop Green Village Fete is almost exactly what anyone who has ever watched Midsomer Murders is imagining the Morlop Green Village Fete to be like. There are coconut shies and an ice-cream van and donkey rides. There is bunting in abundance.
Sherlock had initially thought he was in hell upon seeing all of this, but it turns out that there’s a special part of this hell reserved for him and it’s in the WI tent. Thirty ladies are all wearing deerstalkers and waiting for him to judge their skills in a variety of baking categories (he wishes to god John hadn’t used that picture of him in one to illustrate his piece on game pie and he wishes twice as hard that he’d been fast enough to dodge that bloody camera). There is a great deal of wittering.
Thankfully he is spared most of it because the women are rather intimidated by him and have gathered around John instead. John looks like he’s suffering, but there’s a glint in his eye when he looks at Sherlock and it means that however much John’s suffering he’s enjoying watching Sherlock suffer more.
Sherlock turns to the only bit that interests him: the food. There are four prizes: Best Victoria Sponge, Best Decorated Bread, Best Game Pie (that bloody deerstalker) and the Cake Decoration Prize. Eventually, Sherlock is allowed to do his job and begins to inspect them.
“Why aren’t they labelled?” he demands. They are merely numbered.
“It’s for anonymity,” says the most self-important of the ladies (Mrs. King.)
“I don’t know any of you.”
“Sherlock...”
Sherlock glances across at John who is managing to look both encouraging and pleading.
Sherlock sighs, turns his back on the room, and does what he does best.
“One shop bought Victoria Sponge, number four, it’s from an artisan bakery but I could recognise professional cake anywhere. Belongs to the lady with the red hair if the one I can see on the plate is anything to go by. Number one’s husband made the cake for her, and he also made the cake for number five’s as well suggesting cheating of both a marital and baking nature. Men always have a smaller jam to buttercream ratio whereas women tend to fall on the side of buttercream. The fact that both are made by the same person is obvious. Number two is either the vicar’s wife or else has thing for the vicar; he’s put away two slices of lemon cake in my presence today and I can smell the lemon zest in this buttercream. Number seven is… dry. Three is an alcoholic… Mrs. Abbot wasn’t it? And six loathes you all. So I declare the winner to be the husband of cake number five’s entrant. Cake one is technically better, which means it was made for the mistress.”
Sherlock turns around to face the group. He’s pleased with himself; he hasn’t even tried any of the cakes and he got all that from them.
A lot of pale, stunned faces look back at him.
Several things then happen.
Mrs. Bryans (cake five) lunges for Melody Harding (cake one) and they begin fighting. Mr. Bryans (technically now the first prize holder) tries to separate them and is socked in the jaw by Mr. Jones (not connected with the competition but a long-time admirer of Mrs. Bryans.)
Mrs. Gilder (the vicar’s wife and non-entrant) launches herself at Mrs. Noddings (cake two) whom she has long held suspicions about. Mr. Noddings and the vicar look at each other awkwardly, unsure of whether they should be joining in.
Helen Farleigh (cake six) does indeed loathe them all and takes it upon herself to tell Mrs. King exactly what she thinks of them all. Mrs. King is not the leader of the WI group but wishes she was and therefore takes twice as much offence, resulting in a certain amount of hair-pulling.
Jessica Abbott’s alcoholism shall be left uncommented on, which is probably a good thing because she takes Sherlock commenting on it rather badly and manages to land a good sock to Sherlock’s jaw before John dives forward to restrain her.
For a few seconds the marquee is full of flailing limbs, smashed cakes and flying deerstalkers. The average over-used marquee is not up to quite so many people thrashing about in it, and when Mr. Jones sends Mr. Bryans reeling into one of the more important supports the marquee rather gives up.
The next thing Sherlock knows is that John is hauling him through the exit and they end up sprawled on the grass as the tent comes down on top of the WI.
Sherlock looks across as John. Far from looking annoyed, he is looking back at Sherlock with the fondest, happiest look Sherlock has ever imagined being directed at him.
There is a cry from inside the collapsed tent. (“STAY AWAY FROM THAT LOAF!”)
It’s no good; they both descend into hysterical laughter. They are practically rolling around in the grass, unable to even think about getting up.
John eventually calms enough to be able to breathe.
“The cakes Sherlock,” he pants. “You were supposed to judge the cakes.”
“I did.”
John giggles slightly hysterically, shoulder to shoulder on the ground with Sherlock. “I suppose you did, you absolute… lunatic!”
Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully he doesn’t need to. John has that joyous amazed look again.
He is just wondering how he caused it so that he can repeat the process when John leans across and kisses him.
--
It isn’t until some time later on the train (the pub wasn’t too keen on letting them stay) that John finally notices that he left his cane in the tent. Sherlock tries to smile.
--
Chapter Three
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.
Previous Chapter
“Admit it, you only moved here because of the name of the street.”
Sherlock looks up from the filo pastry he has spent the last forty minutes carefully stretching out. It’s still only five in the morning, but John keeps irregular hours too thanks to a lifetime of shift work. Sherlock had initially thought that this would be annoying and is privately surprised at how much the early morning company pleases him.
John isn’t actually doing much. He’s sitting in his chair and trying to work on his mandatory therapy blog, which means that he’s really much more interested in glancing back over his shoulder to watch Sherlock work. Sherlock doesn’t mind this in the least.
“Of course I didn’t.”
“You so did! The consulting baker who lives on Baker Street…”
“Actually my old kitchen was far too small.” Sherlock tries to sound lofty. He doesn’t want John to know he actually went a step further and tried to convince Mrs. Hudson toditch the café and let him turn it into an actual bakery as well.
He suspects John doesn’t believe him.
“I bet in hundreds of years you’re hoping that people will wonder whether they named Baker Street after you…”
The thought has crossed Sherlock’s mind and he would happily shred his perfect filo pastry rather than admit that aloud. It’s worrying how well John seems to know him after only one month of living together.
“I found your website by the way,” says John conversationally after a small, comfortable silence. “The Science of Baking.”
Sherlock freezes. “And?”
What did he think?
“It’s a bit… technical.”
A criticism. Oh.
“It’s a scientific website,” Sherlock says, with a note of testiness.
“Well yeah. But there’re no pictures.”
“I’m not a photographer.”
“Or recipes.”
“If people can’t work what I’m doing out for themselves, why should I help?”
John chuckles. It’s not cruel laughter; Sherlock realises that this is yet another moment when John somehow likes him for being himself. As soon as he’s certain John isn’t looking, he smiles down at the pastry.
Click.
John is certainly quick with his camera phone for someone who hates technology.
“Tell me you didn’t just take a picture,” Sherlock warns.
“Yep. Sherlock Holmes doing what he does best and looking happy about it.” At least John assumed it was pleasure about the pastry. “It’s for my latest blog entry, I’ve finally come up with an idea. I’m going to do an entry all about you.”
“As you’ve pointed out, there’s already a website about me. By me.”
“Yep. But this is only one entry and it’s going to have all the touchy feely stuff you hate. Starting with pictures.”
Click.
Sherlock moves quickly and renders that one almost certainly unusable.
“Relax,” John grins. “Just that first one and one of the finished article. I’m going to write about all the history and interesting facts you talk about all the time but don’t bother to share on your own site. But first you’re going to tell me how to make that pastry and I’m going to write it down. Sherlock’s first recipe for people to try at home.”
He glances back over his shoulder and winks.
Sherlock is feeling a strange combination of overjoyed and yet helpless. He never intends to start giving clear instructions on the art of making filo pastry, but when he opens his mouth that’s what comes out.
--
John still has his limp and it’s starting to worry Sherlock.
It’s been three months now and John seems resigned. He’s confessed about his Catch 22 situation; needing to work to be healthy but not being about to work until he’s better. He’s getting by, he says, even if sitting around in complete safety doesn’t suit him.
And that’s the problem. Because all John does is sit around in safety, even if he’s currently engrossed in this strangely flattering, wonderful project to catalogue Sherlock’s life and work in his blog. Baking is hardly dangerous and, while not without its thrills, not exactly something the hard-core adrenalin addict seeks out as a hobby.
But baking is all Sherlock can offer John. It’s only a matter of time before John gets bored of him, and should John wake up tomorrow magically healed then it would be perhaps a matter of weeks before they began to drift apart.
Sherlock wishes he was selfish enough to want John incapacitated and looking adoringly at him for the rest of their lives. He is. He does. But not really. Not in his heart of hearts.
He’s in love with John Watson, and it’s not John’s fault that things aren’t meant to be.
--
“I’ve been invited to a what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what one is Sherlock. A village fete. You’ve been invited to judge the Women’s Institute baking prizes at the Morlop Green Village Fete. Shows you how popular the blog’s getting…”
Sherlock is curled up on the sofa thumbing through his old handwritten recipe books, which is his is usual habit when something isn’t going right in his life and he’s trying to fix it. He is not in the mood for village fetes and even at his absolute best he’d never be in the mood for the WI.
“That’s popularity is it?” he snaps.
“Oh c’mon Sherlock. They’ve even given us rooms - well ok a room - at the village pub for the night. It’s the closest I’ll get to a holiday in ages.”
Sherlock looks up and John is giving him what he no doubt thinks in an appealing, persuasive look.
And damn him it’s working.
--
The Morlop Green Village Fete is almost exactly what anyone who has ever watched Midsomer Murders is imagining the Morlop Green Village Fete to be like. There are coconut shies and an ice-cream van and donkey rides. There is bunting in abundance.
Sherlock had initially thought he was in hell upon seeing all of this, but it turns out that there’s a special part of this hell reserved for him and it’s in the WI tent. Thirty ladies are all wearing deerstalkers and waiting for him to judge their skills in a variety of baking categories (he wishes to god John hadn’t used that picture of him in one to illustrate his piece on game pie and he wishes twice as hard that he’d been fast enough to dodge that bloody camera). There is a great deal of wittering.
Thankfully he is spared most of it because the women are rather intimidated by him and have gathered around John instead. John looks like he’s suffering, but there’s a glint in his eye when he looks at Sherlock and it means that however much John’s suffering he’s enjoying watching Sherlock suffer more.
Sherlock turns to the only bit that interests him: the food. There are four prizes: Best Victoria Sponge, Best Decorated Bread, Best Game Pie (that bloody deerstalker) and the Cake Decoration Prize. Eventually, Sherlock is allowed to do his job and begins to inspect them.
“Why aren’t they labelled?” he demands. They are merely numbered.
“It’s for anonymity,” says the most self-important of the ladies (Mrs. King.)
“I don’t know any of you.”
“Sherlock...”
Sherlock glances across at John who is managing to look both encouraging and pleading.
Sherlock sighs, turns his back on the room, and does what he does best.
“One shop bought Victoria Sponge, number four, it’s from an artisan bakery but I could recognise professional cake anywhere. Belongs to the lady with the red hair if the one I can see on the plate is anything to go by. Number one’s husband made the cake for her, and he also made the cake for number five’s as well suggesting cheating of both a marital and baking nature. Men always have a smaller jam to buttercream ratio whereas women tend to fall on the side of buttercream. The fact that both are made by the same person is obvious. Number two is either the vicar’s wife or else has thing for the vicar; he’s put away two slices of lemon cake in my presence today and I can smell the lemon zest in this buttercream. Number seven is… dry. Three is an alcoholic… Mrs. Abbot wasn’t it? And six loathes you all. So I declare the winner to be the husband of cake number five’s entrant. Cake one is technically better, which means it was made for the mistress.”
Sherlock turns around to face the group. He’s pleased with himself; he hasn’t even tried any of the cakes and he got all that from them.
A lot of pale, stunned faces look back at him.
Several things then happen.
Mrs. Bryans (cake five) lunges for Melody Harding (cake one) and they begin fighting. Mr. Bryans (technically now the first prize holder) tries to separate them and is socked in the jaw by Mr. Jones (not connected with the competition but a long-time admirer of Mrs. Bryans.)
Mrs. Gilder (the vicar’s wife and non-entrant) launches herself at Mrs. Noddings (cake two) whom she has long held suspicions about. Mr. Noddings and the vicar look at each other awkwardly, unsure of whether they should be joining in.
Helen Farleigh (cake six) does indeed loathe them all and takes it upon herself to tell Mrs. King exactly what she thinks of them all. Mrs. King is not the leader of the WI group but wishes she was and therefore takes twice as much offence, resulting in a certain amount of hair-pulling.
Jessica Abbott’s alcoholism shall be left uncommented on, which is probably a good thing because she takes Sherlock commenting on it rather badly and manages to land a good sock to Sherlock’s jaw before John dives forward to restrain her.
For a few seconds the marquee is full of flailing limbs, smashed cakes and flying deerstalkers. The average over-used marquee is not up to quite so many people thrashing about in it, and when Mr. Jones sends Mr. Bryans reeling into one of the more important supports the marquee rather gives up.
The next thing Sherlock knows is that John is hauling him through the exit and they end up sprawled on the grass as the tent comes down on top of the WI.
Sherlock looks across as John. Far from looking annoyed, he is looking back at Sherlock with the fondest, happiest look Sherlock has ever imagined being directed at him.
There is a cry from inside the collapsed tent. (“STAY AWAY FROM THAT LOAF!”)
It’s no good; they both descend into hysterical laughter. They are practically rolling around in the grass, unable to even think about getting up.
John eventually calms enough to be able to breathe.
“The cakes Sherlock,” he pants. “You were supposed to judge the cakes.”
“I did.”
John giggles slightly hysterically, shoulder to shoulder on the ground with Sherlock. “I suppose you did, you absolute… lunatic!”
Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully he doesn’t need to. John has that joyous amazed look again.
He is just wondering how he caused it so that he can repeat the process when John leans across and kisses him.
--
It isn’t until some time later on the train (the pub wasn’t too keen on letting them stay) that John finally notices that he left his cane in the tent. Sherlock tries to smile.
--
Chapter Three