Vinotype (WIP)
I'm not sure exactly how to categorize this fic. Oenology 101 disguised as porn? Or the other way around? It was inspired by an article in Wine Spectator about new South American Pinot noirs. “Full mouthfeel, luscious and luxurious on the tongue”? Yeah, we know what you’re really talking about. I haven't gotten around to the porny bit yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time...
Title: Vinotype
Characters: John, Mycroft, Sherlock
Rating: eventually NC-17, currently PG-13
Length: ~2300 words
It was their third date, if you counted deserted car parks and abandoned warehouses as appropriate date locations. Which John didn’t, just to be clear.
So it was their first date. Mycroft had picked him up at 221b, looking as sleek and relaxed in his dove-grey suit as if he’d been born wearing it. John, by contrast, felt uncomfortable without his usual jumper. Sherlock had nixed his first outfit-consisting of the most flattering of his button-downs and a cheerful cardi-with a dismissive snort.
“Are you really going to wear that?”
John frowned. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, feeling unnervingly like petulant teenager with an overbearing parent. And people always thought he was the motherly one.
“Mycroft is going to take you somewhere expensive,” Sherlock drawled, lazing back on the sofa. “You’ll want to wear a suit.”
John knew that Mycroft’s tastes ran to luxury, but still…he hated suits. They always made him feel like an extra from The Bill. Not that Sherlock, in all his posh, modelesque glory could ever understand that. “Mycroft likes my sweaters,” he said instead, which was actually somewhat true.
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” John grumbled, turning and heading back up the stairs. “I’ll wear the damn suit then.”
He would never admit it, but he was glad that he’d changed. The restaurant was expensive, full of elegantly dressed people and lavish upholstery. It was bad enough that John’s suit came from Marks & Spencer’s. At least he’d worn his good tie.
John looked down at the menu. It was printed on thick, creamy cardstock edged in gold, and there was a tassel. A bloody tassel. None of the dishes had any prices listed either, which, in John’s experience, was never a good sign. And speaking of dishes…John licked his lips as he glanced through the main courses. There was swordfish-God, when was the last time he’d had swordfish? And also filet mignon. And something called “Coquille St. Jacques” that sounded obscenely expensive. It would be difficult to choose.
“Order the fish.”
John looked up. Mycroft was watching him with his usual slightly amused, slightly condescending expression, like he knew everything about him and was just pretending to be ignorant for his own good. It would have been unbearably obnoxious on any other man. Actually, it was a bit obnoxious on Mycroft too, but since he did in fact know pretty much everything about John, it was at least partially justified.
Still, John was a man of principle. “What if I feel like beef?” He squared his jaw, challenging. Mycroft just raised an eyebrow.
John looked back down at the menu. The fish did look very good.
“Why does it matter what I get?” he asked finally, unable to let the matter go. “I’m sure it’s all ridiculously overpriced, and you won’t let me pay for anything anyway.”
Mycroft sighed. “It has nothing to do expense,” he said, a touch waspishly. “I have a very good 2007 Domaine Louis Latour Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru on hold for us tonight, and it is a perfect pairing for seafood.”
“A what?”
“It’s a Chardonnay. A white wine,” he translated. “From the Burgundy region. Corton is famous for its vineyards-mostly reds, but the 2007 Chardonnay is exceptional.”
John raised an eyebrow. So Mycroft was into wine. That was…well, not totally unexpected. John didn’t really understand the hype himself. Oh, he knew that white wine went with fish and red with meat, and he could order wine on a date without making a complete arse of himself. But beyond that? He’d rather have a good £3 pint in the pub than pay twice that for a mediocre glass of wine over dinner.
“Right,” he said finally, groping for something semi-intelligent to say on the topic. “So, um…‘Domain Louie Later’ is in France then.”
Mycroft actually winced. “Domaine Louis Latour refers to the name of the chateau-wine producer,” he added quickly, seeing John’s expression of confusion, “where the wine was made.” Mycroft frowned anxiously at him. “Do you not like whites? I can recommend a good Merlot or Pinot noir, if you prefer.”
John blinked. He thought he recognized Merlot, but Pinot noir? What was that? There was no point in pretending he knew what Mycroft was saying anymore-this whole conversation was going completely over his head. “No, I don’t mind white,” he assured Mycroft. “Actually, I don’t know very much about wine. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that I don’t usually drink it.” He laughed ruefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever even tasted Pinot noir, or whatever it is.”
Mycroft’s eyes widened. “You’ve never had a Pinot noir,” he repeated slowly, as though this was one of the most unbelievable things he’d ever heard. Which, given he was related to Sherlock and ran the British government, was saying something.
John shrugged awkwardly. “Is that bad?”
“Terrible,” Mycroft replied, still gazing at John as though he had suddenly sprouted antlers and possibly an extra arm. John wanted to squirm under the intense stare, but Sherlock had provided good training for that, and he managed to remain still, fingers wrapped tightly around the tasseled menu.
Abruptly, Mycroft straightened and snapped his fingers. A waiter appeared out of nowhere by his elbow. “I would like two orders of the swordfish sent to my home, please. You have the address,” he said. The waiter nodded.
“As you like, sir.”
“Thank you.” Mycroft turned back to John. “Shall we go then, John?”
John stared at him. “Did you just order takeout from a four-star restaurant?”
Mycroft chuckled. “I believe I did. We require a change of venue for the next part of the evening.”
****
John didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he realized that “the next part of the evening” involved dinner in Mycroft’s cavernous personal wine cellar, rather than “dinner” in his surely equally spacious bedroom. He supposed the first date was a bit fast for that sort of thing-Mycroft seemed like the kind of bloke who liked to take his time.
After a delicious meal, complemented by the Chardonnay and a lengthy lecture on the basics of oenology (“It is essential to understand, John, that not all wines improve with age-that is a severe misconception”), Mycroft gave John a tour of his collection. There were wines from nearly every continent and year (“vintage”), some over a century old. Mycroft brought down one particularly dusky bottle from a top shelf.
“This is a 1879 Vintage Madeira,” Mycroft said, cradling the bottle carefully and blowing the dust off to reveal the label. “It’s a Portuguese aperitif made in the Madeira Islands, with a higher alcohol content than most wines. That’s why it ages so well.”
“I see.” John traced a finger over the peeling label. “So Madeira is the place where it’s made, not the kind of grape?”
“Correct.” Mycroft smiled at him. “This particular Madeira is made with Sercial grapes. They are drier and more acidic than other types, perfect for a light meal or appetizer.” He replaced the bottle. “I think you’ll like this more, though,” he said, moving across the aisle to take down a much newer-looking bottle. “2004 Casa Marín Pinot Noir, from Chile.”
He passed the bottle to John whilst he went to find glasses. “Do you remember what I said about Pinot noirs earlier, John?” he called over his shoulder.
John rolled his eyes, hiding a smile. “Pinot noir means ‘black pine,’ and it’s a type of red grape originally from France. I didn’t know they could grow them in Chile, though.”
“Pinot noir is a very resilient grape,” Mycroft replied, returning with two wine glasses and a corkscrew in hand. “It can be grown all over the world. I personally prefer French Pinot noirs, but the South American vintages are improving. Here.”
He uncorked the bottle with a practiced hand and poured a tiny taste into each glass. “Swirl the liquid first, like so,” he demonstrated, “to allow it to aerate. And please, smell before you taste-you’ll miss half the flavour if you put it straight in your mouth.”
“Right.” John raised the glass to his nose, inhaling. It smelled earthy and a bit bitter, not unlike other red wines he’d had. He tipped the glass to his lips.
It wasn’t like the red wines he’d had, John quickly decided. In his experience, reds were heavy, with a flat, sour aftertaste that lingered. This was full bodied, yes, but also acidic and just a bit spicy-like blackberries and Mexican chocolate mixed together in perfect harmony. As the wine slid down his throat, the taste changed on his tongue, becoming drier and more herbal. With a jolt of familiarity, he recognized the flavour of his favorite black tea.
Mycroft was watching his reactions with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “What do you think?”
John licked his lips. “It’s-it’s amazing,” he said honestly, staring down sadly at his now-empty glass.
Mycroft’s face split in a grin. “I thought you would like that one,” he replied smugly. “But we’ll have to save the rest for later. I want you to try a Brunello.”
He took John’s glass, exchanging it for a new one from a small trolley full of glasses. John raised his eyebrows. “Please, do not say that you don’t mind reusing the same glass,” Mycroft anticipated him.
“Let me guess. It ruins the flavour?”
“It’s sacrilege,” Mycroft responded without a trace of sarcasm. He passed John a fresh glass, then turned to lead him down yet another aisle. He plucked a dark bottle with a black label off the shelf. “This is the 2006 San Felice Campiovanni Brunello di Montalcino,” he said, rolling the perfectly accented Italian vowels around in his mouth. John felt a shiver of desire run along his spine. It was impossible to concentrate on the content of Mycroft’s explanation when he pursed his lips like that.
“Could you repeat that?” he asked hopefully.
Mycroft shot him a knowing smile and continued. “Brunello is made from the Sangiovese grapes in the Montalcino region of Tuscany. This particular vineyard is one of my favorites-their 1997 vintage is extraordinary. The 2006 is a little raw, but there is a certain pleasure in experiencing the maturation of a vintage.”
“But won’t it be a waste to drink it early?” John said. “I mean, then you won’t be able to taste it later.”
Mycroft snorted. “Don’t worry. I have more than enough of this particular vintage stocked,” he waved a hand at the bottles on the shelves before them. John turned to examine them more closely, and with a start realized that there had to be more than fifty bottles of the same wine lined up there. “We can taste one a year,” Mycroft added, quirking an eyebrow, “as an experiment. You like that sort of thing.”
“I think you’re mixing me up with Sherlock.”
“Hardly,” Mycroft replied, setting the bottle down to uncork it. He passed John his empty glass to hold as he worked the corkscrew. “You are far too tolerant of Sherlock’s little games to truly resent them.” John frowned. There was something off about Mycroft tone-it was too carefully relaxed. It felt like a test.
“I live with Sherlock,” John said slowly, measuring his words. “But I’m with you. You know that, right?” He kept his eyes trained on Mycroft’s face, but the other man didn’t look up. “Mycroft?”
Mycroft finally raised his eyes to John’s. “Yes,” he said simply. He wasn’t smiling, but the expression was sincere, and suited him far more than all the smirks and false smiles in the world. When he glanced down at the wine again, the tension was gone from his shoulders. “Pass me your glass.”
John did so, and stood in silence as Mycroft poured the Brunello, nothing but the soft splash of the liquid falling to interrupt their thoughts. When Mycroft returned the full glass to him, he lifted it to his nose without a word.
The wine was a deep inky red, so dark it was nearly black in the glass, and it smelled heavy and spicy with tannins. Almost smoky, John mused, before mentally rolling his eyes. Wine couldn’t smell like smoke, he chastised himself. He was getting too into this-soon, he’d be talking about floral bouquets and leather topnotes, and it was really better to leave that sort of thing to the experts.
Mycroft interrupted his self-criticism by raising his glass. His eyes caught John’s, their penetrative gaze smoldering and sensual in the shadowy light of the cellar, and John wondered how on earth Mycroft could ever imagine John would be thinking of Sherlock right now.
Their glasses clinked together, echoing loudly, and they raised them in unison to take the first sip.
It was good. Stupidly good. John was sure that his university-trained vocabulary could have provided a better description at another time, but just now it had deserted him. John glanced over in the direction of his date, thinking maybe the other man would be able to help jog his memory.
Unfortunately, one look at Mycroft and John knew his memory was fucked. Along with his vocabulary and quite possibly his lower brain functions as well.
Mycroft’s eyes were closed. His lips were pursed around his mouthful of wine, and his cheeks billowed softly as he swirled the liquid around inside his mouth. His fingers twitched against the stem of the wineglass as he swallowed, and afterwards his lips parted in a soft, pink sigh of delight. He appeared to be experiencing what John’s flailing and failing mind could only term a mouthgasm, and fucking hell if it wasn’t one of the hottest things John had ever witnessed.
Mycroft opened his eyes slowly, blinking at John like a contented cat. “Did you like it?” he asked.
John gulped. “Delicious.”
:-o What next? Motivational ass-kicking please!