Fic: Pasta Simpatico
From this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic requesting underfed John, and Sherlock trying to surreptitiously get him to eat regularly.
1345 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Slight foodporn, oversimplification of hypoglycemic shock
Note: I really am sorry for how hungry you are about to be. Just know that I suffered through several days of pasta cravings writing this. Thanks to miladygrey for beta, and alabama_e for beta and the title.
Crossposted to Dreamwidth and AO3.
Pasta Simpatico
The bulk of the cabled jumpers and layered shirts couldn't hide how thin John actually was. Yes, the strain of injuries real and imagined had stripped him of weight. But it was more than that. For all that he complained about what was in the fridge, in the microwave, cluttering the kitchen table, he never used cooking as a reason these things were problematic. The frustrations of grocery checkouts outweighed the basic need to acquire food. Sherlock rather understood that part, which was why he happily handed over his card to let John deal with such mundanities, but John was the normal one who was supposed to cope with these things.
Most of all, John never thought of food by himself. He would go out with Sarah, follow Sherlock to restaurants, and the moment he entered the flat and saw his friend there, he would suddenly realize he was famished. But he never attempted to cook and never brought takeaway home on his own. Food was such a social thing for most people, perhaps he felt wrong eating alone, or simply forgot altogether when he wasn't with someone.
Whatever the case, this wouldn't do at all. If something happened to John, if he wasn't functioning properly, Sherlock would be left to face a crime scene alone. He needed him there, another set of eyes, someone to state the obvious while he worked out the rest. Someone to remember the minutiae of everyday life, to be a buffer and an interface between him and the boring, everyday world. Without John, he was exposed in front of all those people, their eyes and thoughts crowding him, expecting him to instantly come out with all the answers, waiting for him to make a mistake so they could crow, waiting for an explanation of why he was crawling around strange places when he just needed to be left alone to think. Instead, they all looked to his friend to make sense of his ramblings, his sudden exclamations and tendency to dart off in an unexpected direction.
No, he needed nice, normal John working normally, not floundering to think or flagging in the middle of a chase because he'd neglected himself. If Sherlock could keep him fed, maybe that much normalcy would help keep everything else in place. Chinese was close by. No, they'd done that yesterday, and that stir-fry wasn't going to put an ounce on him. Pasta then, with a good sauce, bread, and a nice dessert. As much running as they did, that much food was necessary anyway.
Sherlock snapped his computer shut and stood abruptly. “This is no good. I have to get out.”
“What, forgot something at the lab?”
“No, I need to think, I need to walk, I need the city around me. Coming?” As if John ever said no.
They wandered a bit, Sherlock rattling on about the case at hand, absorbing energy from the bustle of the crowded streets, and John patiently listening, providing a joining thread for his thoughts. A roundabout route found them half an hour later in Northumberland Street, and Sherlock paused to gesticulate wildly as he made a point.
John sniffed, distracted from the conversation. “That smells fantastic. You know what? I'm starving.”
Sherlock glanced around, startled out of his patter, to find them standing in front of Angelo's. “Oh. Well. Shall we? You didn't properly finish your dinner last time we were here, as I recall.”
“No,” John laughed as he moved towards the door of the restaurant. “We went haring off on one of your wild goose chases.”
They were seated at the same front window table as a few weeks before. Eager, grateful Angelo brought a candle again, thrilled that his rescuer had found a partner to make him happy. Sherlock let him keep the illusion. Explaining would have been so much more difficult, and putting a name to what John really was would be more difficult still.
He inhaled the wonderful smell of meat cooking, garlic, oregano. Eating was a distraction, would cloud his mind with taste and texture and temperature and that lazy, full feeling when he should be focused on facts, motivations, chain of events, probabilities, actual scientific results. But he could still enjoy the smell, and enjoy watching John eat. For all that the nerves and nightmares were still with him, the doctor could appreciate a good meal as long as he wasn't alone.
A basket of heavenly-smelling, crusty-soft garlic bread arrived along with a vinaigrette-drenched salad, and John tried to push the bread towards him. Sherlock demurred and smiled into his coffee as John dove in with enthusiasm. Then a massive plate of pasta, fragrant with herbs and tomatoes, and gooey with cheeses piled on.
“What I don't understand,” John said between bites, “is why the girl ran away in the first place.” He was definitely hungry, not even pausing to wipe sauce off his face. Sherlock decided not to be a mother hen and only mention it if he started to walk out like that.
“Having never been a teenage girl, I'm sure I couldn't tell you. It's quite likely that it isn't even entirely clear to her. We may only hope that she is found in good health and returned to her family. But what is really puzzling is why the boy's mother keeps three brands of laundry soap.”
And they were off, John's brain fueled by carbohydrates and Sherlock's by asceticism. What a strange pair we make, he thought as he paused to let John's thoughts catch up. He had learned the particular blink that meant he needed a moment to process something, then everything would click into place and he would ask something else, allowing Sherlock to think out loud without sounding mad or thinking in circles.
“You know, it's possible for your blood sugar to get so low that your brain shuts down. You start feeling muddled, then you just stop completely because there's nothing for it to run on and it's all over. Power failure, hard drive crashed, can't reboot.”
That was not what he had expected to be next. “Yes, thank you, Doctor, I am well aware of the effects of nutritional inconsistencies on a variety of ages and body types.” He suppressed a smile at the knowledge that John was not yet thoroughly predictable. It would be terrible if he got boring so soon.
“I'm just saying, if you keel over, I have to find another flatmate. And Mrs Hudson will be very upset. And Lestrade will go mad trying to duplicate your way of thinking so the city doesn't go straight to hell. And...”
“All right, I get the idea. But coffee is quite sufficient for now.”
Unasked for, cannoli appeared in front of them, along with a second mug of coffee. John hesitated, eyeing the empty pasta dish as it sailed away on the waiter's tray, took another look at the dessert, and picked up the fork. “Might as well,” he said. “Can't let them go to waste, and I'm not putting anything in the fridge next to whatever gruesome experiment you're on now.”
As the first tickles of fresh caffeine seeped into his brain, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and watched his friend negotiate the crispy pastry and gooey filling of the cannoli. In the morning, he would go smile at Molly and she would grin like mad and slip him the autopsy results and log him into the toxicology database. That would would clear up two-thirds of the problem, or complicate things exponentially.
“What are you smiling about?” John asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Nothing. Just thinking what an exciting story this will make for your blog.”
“I thought you hated when I blog about a case.”
“Yes, but you're going to do it anyway. However, if I'm to be seen walking home with you, you'd best wipe that pastry filling off your face.”
1345 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Slight foodporn, oversimplification of hypoglycemic shock
Note: I really am sorry for how hungry you are about to be. Just know that I suffered through several days of pasta cravings writing this. Thanks to miladygrey for beta, and alabama_e for beta and the title.
Crossposted to Dreamwidth and AO3.
Pasta Simpatico
The bulk of the cabled jumpers and layered shirts couldn't hide how thin John actually was. Yes, the strain of injuries real and imagined had stripped him of weight. But it was more than that. For all that he complained about what was in the fridge, in the microwave, cluttering the kitchen table, he never used cooking as a reason these things were problematic. The frustrations of grocery checkouts outweighed the basic need to acquire food. Sherlock rather understood that part, which was why he happily handed over his card to let John deal with such mundanities, but John was the normal one who was supposed to cope with these things.
Most of all, John never thought of food by himself. He would go out with Sarah, follow Sherlock to restaurants, and the moment he entered the flat and saw his friend there, he would suddenly realize he was famished. But he never attempted to cook and never brought takeaway home on his own. Food was such a social thing for most people, perhaps he felt wrong eating alone, or simply forgot altogether when he wasn't with someone.
Whatever the case, this wouldn't do at all. If something happened to John, if he wasn't functioning properly, Sherlock would be left to face a crime scene alone. He needed him there, another set of eyes, someone to state the obvious while he worked out the rest. Someone to remember the minutiae of everyday life, to be a buffer and an interface between him and the boring, everyday world. Without John, he was exposed in front of all those people, their eyes and thoughts crowding him, expecting him to instantly come out with all the answers, waiting for him to make a mistake so they could crow, waiting for an explanation of why he was crawling around strange places when he just needed to be left alone to think. Instead, they all looked to his friend to make sense of his ramblings, his sudden exclamations and tendency to dart off in an unexpected direction.
No, he needed nice, normal John working normally, not floundering to think or flagging in the middle of a chase because he'd neglected himself. If Sherlock could keep him fed, maybe that much normalcy would help keep everything else in place. Chinese was close by. No, they'd done that yesterday, and that stir-fry wasn't going to put an ounce on him. Pasta then, with a good sauce, bread, and a nice dessert. As much running as they did, that much food was necessary anyway.
Sherlock snapped his computer shut and stood abruptly. “This is no good. I have to get out.”
“What, forgot something at the lab?”
“No, I need to think, I need to walk, I need the city around me. Coming?” As if John ever said no.
They wandered a bit, Sherlock rattling on about the case at hand, absorbing energy from the bustle of the crowded streets, and John patiently listening, providing a joining thread for his thoughts. A roundabout route found them half an hour later in Northumberland Street, and Sherlock paused to gesticulate wildly as he made a point.
John sniffed, distracted from the conversation. “That smells fantastic. You know what? I'm starving.”
Sherlock glanced around, startled out of his patter, to find them standing in front of Angelo's. “Oh. Well. Shall we? You didn't properly finish your dinner last time we were here, as I recall.”
“No,” John laughed as he moved towards the door of the restaurant. “We went haring off on one of your wild goose chases.”
They were seated at the same front window table as a few weeks before. Eager, grateful Angelo brought a candle again, thrilled that his rescuer had found a partner to make him happy. Sherlock let him keep the illusion. Explaining would have been so much more difficult, and putting a name to what John really was would be more difficult still.
He inhaled the wonderful smell of meat cooking, garlic, oregano. Eating was a distraction, would cloud his mind with taste and texture and temperature and that lazy, full feeling when he should be focused on facts, motivations, chain of events, probabilities, actual scientific results. But he could still enjoy the smell, and enjoy watching John eat. For all that the nerves and nightmares were still with him, the doctor could appreciate a good meal as long as he wasn't alone.
A basket of heavenly-smelling, crusty-soft garlic bread arrived along with a vinaigrette-drenched salad, and John tried to push the bread towards him. Sherlock demurred and smiled into his coffee as John dove in with enthusiasm. Then a massive plate of pasta, fragrant with herbs and tomatoes, and gooey with cheeses piled on.
“What I don't understand,” John said between bites, “is why the girl ran away in the first place.” He was definitely hungry, not even pausing to wipe sauce off his face. Sherlock decided not to be a mother hen and only mention it if he started to walk out like that.
“Having never been a teenage girl, I'm sure I couldn't tell you. It's quite likely that it isn't even entirely clear to her. We may only hope that she is found in good health and returned to her family. But what is really puzzling is why the boy's mother keeps three brands of laundry soap.”
And they were off, John's brain fueled by carbohydrates and Sherlock's by asceticism. What a strange pair we make, he thought as he paused to let John's thoughts catch up. He had learned the particular blink that meant he needed a moment to process something, then everything would click into place and he would ask something else, allowing Sherlock to think out loud without sounding mad or thinking in circles.
“You know, it's possible for your blood sugar to get so low that your brain shuts down. You start feeling muddled, then you just stop completely because there's nothing for it to run on and it's all over. Power failure, hard drive crashed, can't reboot.”
That was not what he had expected to be next. “Yes, thank you, Doctor, I am well aware of the effects of nutritional inconsistencies on a variety of ages and body types.” He suppressed a smile at the knowledge that John was not yet thoroughly predictable. It would be terrible if he got boring so soon.
“I'm just saying, if you keel over, I have to find another flatmate. And Mrs Hudson will be very upset. And Lestrade will go mad trying to duplicate your way of thinking so the city doesn't go straight to hell. And...”
“All right, I get the idea. But coffee is quite sufficient for now.”
Unasked for, cannoli appeared in front of them, along with a second mug of coffee. John hesitated, eyeing the empty pasta dish as it sailed away on the waiter's tray, took another look at the dessert, and picked up the fork. “Might as well,” he said. “Can't let them go to waste, and I'm not putting anything in the fridge next to whatever gruesome experiment you're on now.”
As the first tickles of fresh caffeine seeped into his brain, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and watched his friend negotiate the crispy pastry and gooey filling of the cannoli. In the morning, he would go smile at Molly and she would grin like mad and slip him the autopsy results and log him into the toxicology database. That would would clear up two-thirds of the problem, or complicate things exponentially.
“What are you smiling about?” John asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Nothing. Just thinking what an exciting story this will make for your blog.”
“I thought you hated when I blog about a case.”
“Yes, but you're going to do it anyway. However, if I'm to be seen walking home with you, you'd best wipe that pastry filling off your face.”