Fic: Mise en Place (1/25)
Title: Mise en Place (1/25)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John (eventually), just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
Prologue
Chapter One
Are you the type of person who likes the searing heat [of working in a professional kitchen], the mad pace, the never-ending stress and melodrama, the low pay, the probable lack of benefits, inequity and futility, the cuts and burns and damage to body and brain - the lack of anything resembling normal hours or a normal personal life?
Or are you like everybody else? A normal person?
--Anthony Bourdain
Explosions in the far off distance, but close enough to rattle the ground. John could feel the reverberations in his bones, as if he were on a roller coaster ascending and nearing the top, the kinetic energy of the upcoming fall building anticipation.
The rat-a-tat-tat of nearby gunfire, quick and sharp, and he ducked, determined to push forward anyway.
Three more meters. Two more meters. One.
“Down down down!”
John fell to his stomach, waited as the whistle overhead screamed its falling cry, then worked the rest of the way on his elbows, dug his toes into the ground for purchase, and reached the man on the red-soaked mud.
Too much red. He pressed his fingers against the man’s neck anyway. Nothing.
Fuck.
Whistling.
“Down down down!”
Rat-a-tat-tat.
He started the way back, pulling the body behind him. The mud made it hard going, he could hear the horses braying somewhere nearby.
Horses?
“Put your knees into it!” came the shout, and John looked up, blinking through the reeds, and saw the cavalry come forward, the brass buttons on the officers gleaming in the sunlight. One horse trotted toward him, and a hand reached down to grasp John’s, to pull them both up onto the saddle behind the strangely familiar rider.
“What?” John asked, as the explosion rocked the earth beneath them.
“Never leave your man behind, son,” said the officer, and the horse reared up with the rat-a-tat-tat, and John felt the fire in his shoulder, and slid off the horse onto the ground.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
*
It was raining.
John had missed the rain, in Afghanistan. Endless days of sunshine were good in theory, but the monotony was what got John in the end. He'd enjoyed the heat at first, the brightness in his eyes, the sharp line between shadow and sun. The sunshine had both washed out the colors of the landscape, and made them brighter and vibrant. It was an impossible paradox, like much of Afghanistan, but after a hundred days of it, John just wanted a good rainfall.
Of course it was raining; had been for the entire week since he returned to Upper Brickley. It wasn’t a good hard rainfall, the sort that washes everything clean and sparkling, or a light mist, which would just give a pleasant sheen to the streets and the cars, but the piddling kind that couldn't make up its mind whether it was one or the other. John woke with a start in the darkened house sometime near mid-morning, and it took a long minute to realize that the inconsistent patter of rain on the windows wasn't far-off gunfire, and the dark gloom of his attic room wasn't the middle of the night in the desert, but the thin morning sun of an English rainy day. He closed his eyes, and then let them spring open again, because closing them felt too much like returning to the nightmare, and felt his heart pound in his chest before he began to breathe it back into calm.
The house was quiet. Harry was asleep, or gone already. Either would do; after last night’s argument, John didn’t want to face her. Not just yet, anyway. He swung his legs out of the bed, took a breath, and picked his cane up from the floor.
He showered, dressed, and bypassed the kitchen entirely on his way out the door. It was nearly half past ten, and John knew where his sister would be, and he let his legs start the walk into the town, half wishing he could stop them.
"Come by tomorrow when you wake up," Harry had said the night before. "Anytime. Might do you good to see the place."
"Yeah, maybe," John had said, but even as he said it, he knew he didn't want to go. And as he locked the door of the little house, with all its resident ghosts, he knew he was going anyway, because that had always been the problem with being in Upper Brickley; you couldn't get away from the Empire. Life centered around the restaurant, just as surely as it had when John had been five, and his grandfather had ruled the kitchen with a wooden spoon.
James Watson hadn't been in the Empire kitchen for nearly thirty years. John hadn’t been in it since the summer before he’d left for university, nearly twenty years before, but when he thought of the Empire, he didn’t remember the kitchen where he’d logged more hours washing dishes and chopping vegetables than most kids spent on homework or video games. He remembered the kitchen as his Granddad had ruled it, bright and sparkling in the haze of childhood memories. He didn't imagine it was the same anymore, not with thirty years of appliances malfunctioning and oven replacements and rusted trays and broken stemware. His legs might have remembered the way to the Empire, but John had no intention of leaving the dining room.
It was a quick walk to the center of town, and John found himself on the opposite side of the street from the Empire before he even realized it. He stared at the front, holding tight to the cane.
It looked exactly the same, if a little more worn down. Down to the bright red door, which was a bit dusty with age, and the striped awning above, which was faded and threadbare. The entire building looked tired, almost slumped to the side as if it'd had an extremely hard night. John wanted to give it a bit of a shove to get it sitting upright again, but even tired, it looked comfortable and familiar. John imagined that he walked straight across the road, without a hitch in his step, to push open the front door. There’d be Mum to show him to a familiar seat, and Cathy to bring him something to drink (chocolate milk when he was small, and fizzy drinks later as he grew bigger), and if he went into the kitchen, there'd be Granddad at the range, shouting orders to his sous, incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't napped in the manager's office as a toddler.
Except Granddad and Mum weren't alive anymore, and Cathy had retired ten years back. And the last conversation he'd had in the dining room wasn't one John was keen to relive. Too many people he'd loved weren't ever going to put their heads out the door and demand that he come in and sit for a spell.
"John Watson," said a familiar, friendly voice, and John straightened, automatically going to attention, and then he heard the laugh.
"Mrs Hudson," he said, and turned sharply - or as sharply as he dared, with his leg - to the right, to see the older lady standing outside her door, apron dusted with flour and her hair in its familiar sticky-uppy style.
"Harry said you were back," said Mrs Hudson, pleased, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek. "A week ago, she said, and here I am making lemon biscuits for you every day."
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," said John, sheepish. "I didn't know-"
Mrs Hudson patted his arm. "It's all right. Going over to see the old place, are you?"
John glanced at the Empire across the street; he thought he could see a flicker of movement from the curtains, a bit like Harry knew he hesitated on the other side of the street.
"Harry's expecting me."
"So good to have you home again," said Mrs Hudson. "And in one piece!"
"Or nearly," said John, and he tapped his cane against his leg gently.
"Oh, tosh. I have a hip."
"Mrs Hudson, you were born with that hip."
Mrs Hudson playfully swatted John's arm. "The whole town’s missed you, John. Tell me you're going to stay with us for a bit before you flit off somewhere else?"
"Don't know," said John, and pointedly did not glance at the Empire. "I was thinking London. Always wanted to live in London."
"You in London?" Mrs Hudson made a face. "Bit exciting, after Afghanistan, I should think."
"Bit dull here, after Afghanistan," said John, glancing up and down the empty street.
"Maybe for a little while. But I know you - you're the quiet sort."
"Not the same as I was fifteen years ago," said John.
"Nooooo," said Mrs Hudson thoughtfully. "But I don't suppose you're much different, scratch your surface a bit. Still do anything for a lemon biscuit, I shouldn't wonder."
"Only if they're yours, Mrs Hudson. Other lemon biscuits have no sway over me."
"There's the charm," said Mrs Hudson. "Oh, it'll be good to have you back again. Just what the Empire needs."
John caught the hint of wistful longing in her voice, and coupled with Harry's nerves the previous night, suddenly wanted to do anything but walk across the street and into the restaurant that waited for him.
"Wouldn't mind one or two of those lemon biscuits now," said John. "And a cuppa to go along with?"
"No, best not to keep Harry waiting - she'll have the lunch hour on her before you can blink, and it'll be busy then."
"There's time."
But Mrs Hudson shook her head and tapped her finger on John's chest. "John Watson. I'm properly ashamed of you. You are avoiding your sister."
"Yes, I am," said John.
"None of that, now." Mrs Hudson took John by the shoulders, spun him around, and gave him a light shove toward the Empire. "Tea and bikkies waiting when you're done, and we'll have a proper chat then. Give Molly my best, if you would."
"Right," said John, and felt the dread pool in his stomach as he walked across the road. The rain picked up, just a bit, and by the time he reached the awning, he could feel the dampness under his collar.
John took a breath as he rested his hand on the knob, and opened the door. The rush of warm air, scented with cinnamon and paprika, enveloped him, and for half a minute, John fully expected to hear the familiar voices calling out his name in cheerful greeting, the way they would have done when he was in school. “Johnny! You’re home!”
But instead, all he heard was the beat-beat-beat of the music from the kitchen in the back, where Harry and Clara were surely holding court, going through the morning’s vegetable deliveries and bickering about the dessert tray. There was always bickering about the dessert tray. John closed the door behind him and decided to be grateful for the moment alone, before Harry tried to suck him back into the business.
The dining room looked exactly the way he remembered it: a bit dark and mysterious, like walking into a fortune teller’s tent. The walls were papered in an odd maroon shade that had faded into something garish and strangely bright, almost pink but not quite. There were sconces on the wall to provide extra lighting, and in between, pictures of far-off places: Japan, or Egypt, or Kenya. Other things filled in the blank spots - masks and hats, bits and pieces of souvenirs picked up from around the world by one relative or another. There was a bar in the back corner, next to the kitchen door - big enough for a register and a few stools, but not much else - and there was a window where Harry could talk to the staff, or the kitchen staff could sneak peeks at the dining room in their more worried moments.
Twenty tables were strewn around the room, set up for parties of two, four or six. They were already set with tablecloths and candles, silverware shining from their serviette envelopes. John thought it was a bit formal for lunch, but then, Harry had been in charge the last six years, not him.
John frowned as he looked around the room. Something not quite right. It was…the same. Exactly the same, the wallpaper and the dim lighting and the ridiculous flowers on the tables. John reached out and touched one, and then trailed his hand along the tablecloth. He was halfway to the back of the room when he realized what wasn’t quite right.
Thirty years later, and John was used to seeing the portrait of his grandfather along the back wall, next to the portraits of his namesakes. The three of them stared out onto the dining room of the Empire Restaurant, like three kings looking out over their own empire, proud forefathers all. But now there was a fourth portrait hanging with them, smiling and looking right at John, as if to say “welcome home, welcome back, eat something”.
“John,” said Harry, appearing in the kitchen door, and she stopped in her tracks, eyes wide. “I thought you’d be longer - I saw you with Mrs Hudson-”
“Wanted to get it over with,” said John, still staring at the portrait. “When did you put up Dad’s picture?”
Harry let out a quick laugh. “Six years ago, when he died.”
John winced. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”
“No kidding,” said Harry, and she walked behind the bar. John joined her, sliding onto one of the stools, and watched while Harry pulled out a tumbler and poured herself a whiskey. “Have to admit, I didn’t think you’d want to come in at all.”
“I told you I would.”
“You’ve been back a week. I was beginning to wonder if you even remembered where the Empire was.”
Harry took a long drink, and John frowned. “Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?”
“Nearly noon,” said Harry. “And I’ve been up for hours already.”
“Mum would say you’re drinking away your profits,” said John pointedly, and Harry glared at him.
“My profits, of course,” said Harry. “Quick to forget that we own the Empire together, baby brother. Mum and Dad left it to the two of us, you know. Not that you’d have noticed, running off to play hero in the desert. You’ve got no idea, do you? What it’s like to come in and work your fingers to the bone-”
“I think I know a bit about what it’s like to work,” said John coolly. “And trying to save someone’s life as they’re bleeding out into the ground is a damned sight more important than serving someone a plate of chicken.”
Harry slammed the glass back on the counter and took a few sharp breaths before she spoke. “Wanker.”
John struggled to his feet. “Forget it. I’m going to say hello to Clara.”
“You can’t.”
“My restaurant, too,” John reminded her, but Harry’s didn’t meet John’s eyes. He frowned. “Harry. What’s wrong?”
Harry didn’t answer. She gripped the edge of the bar so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Harry.”
“Clara’s gone,” said Harry quietly.
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
John walked past the bar and into the kitchen before he even paused to think. The moment he was through the swinging door, he realized what he’d done, because the kitchen was the one place that didn’t look exactly as it did in his childhood memories.
The kitchen, strangely enough, wasn’t quite as small as he remembered. To the left of the door, just under the window behind the bar, was the small table where he and Harry would sit as children, coloring and eating tidbits of food. In his memory, the table was a bright white, but he could see the paint chipping at the edges of the table, and the stains and spots from dripped bits of sauce and fizzy lemonade.
Just in front of him was the warming table that served as the Line, the clear division that separated the kitchen from the rest of the world. The table was high, to make it easier for busy wait staff to take the food, and the warming lamps were turned off now, but John remembered their orange-red glow.
Beyond the table, on the left, were the grill, the ovens, and the range. There were shelves just above the range, places for the chef to stick tickets of orders for cooking, rows of bottles and bowls for the mise-en-place. Above that were the hanging hooks for the pots and pans and an extra shelf for the tangines, but now the hooks were empty, and the pots and pans were piled precariously on the shelves. They looked as if they’d topple if anyone so much as breathed wrong. The tangines were nowhere to be seen.
The prep table, in the center of the kitchen, was covered in papers, books, dishes, towels, half-filled bottles of olive oil and vinegar. John couldn’t imagine anyone actually trying to work on it. It was an utter mess, and it ought to have been cleared. There were drawers and shelf spaces below the table for storage, but as John took a few heavy steps closer, he could see that the shelf spaces were stuffed with additional ridiculous debris - glasses, bottles, boxes, more books and loose papers, and a pile of towels that looked yellow and dusty.
On the other side of the table, against the wall, was a small fridge, the larger walk-in, and another range. But the range was clearly not in use; it was piled high with plates of varying sizes and more pots and pans. The walk-in door was covered in food-stained papers, hastily taped.
Beyond all of this was the door leading to the annex, where the small dishwashing station was located, and a stairwell leading to the flat upstairs, where there was a washer and an ironing board, and where Harry and Clara lived. Well, John supposed, just Harry now. John saw the piles of pots and pans and dishes and other debris presumably remaining from the previous night’s service, and didn’t want to even consider what the inside of the walk-in looked like.
In the center of all of this, standing over the range, was Molly Hooper. John had always liked Molly; she was young and quick on her feet, with a friendly smile. She’d started waitressing just before his last tour had started, so he didn’t know her very well, but Mary Morstan, the other waitress, spoke well of her, and John trusted Mary’s judgment. In the kitchen, wearing a chef’s coat that was just a little too big for her, with the sleeves rolled up inexpertly, face bright red with heat and sweating just a little, Molly looked out of place and somewhat sheepish, as if she’d been caught out with her hand in the biscuit tin.
“Molly,” said John, unable to think of what else to say.
“Oh. Hi, John,” said Molly, nervous and startled, and the wooden spoon clattered as she dropped it to the range. “Harry said you might be in. I heard about your leg, does it hurt very terribly?”
“At times.”
“Must have been awful being shot. Do you think about it often?”
“I wouldn’t say it was the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had, no,” said John carefully, and Molly’s eyes widened with what might have been embarrassment.
There was a commotion from the kitchen’s annex, where the sinks and industrial dishwasher were located; a gangly young man with a smudge on his chin and his shirt damp from washing dishes popped his head out, rolling his eyes. “Cor, Molly. Queen of the inappropriate comment.”
“Sorry,” said Molly, and was saved by the timer on the oven. She turned her back to John to pull a tray of something out of the oven, and John frowned at the young man.
“Artie,” said John. “What are you doing here? Your shift doesn’t start for two hours.”
“Have to do my laundry somewhere, boss,” said Artie Wiggins cheerily.
John tried not to sigh out of sheer exasperation; some things about the Empire would probably never actually change. One of them was Artie. “You’re not using the laundry upstairs, Artie.”
Artie looked highly affronted. “Of course not. I wash all my things by hand, thank you.”
“Artie, tell me you’re not using the sink.”
“All right, I won’t tell you.”
John was about to protest again, when he caught sight of the casseroles Molly was moving to the prep table.
“What are those?”
Molly frowned, looking at them. “I think they’re meant to be potatoes.”
“Molly. What the bloody hell are you doing back here?”
Molly dropped the tray of unidentified objects on the range with a rattle; John winced. “Clara left a month ago.”
“But - you’re a waitress.”
“Ladies and gentleman, the new king of inappropriate comments,” said Artie.
Molly sucked in her breath and opened her mouth. “I-I mean - Harry said…”
John wondered exactly how thunderous he looked right then, to put fear in the heart of Molly Hooper. He suspected it wouldn’t have taken much. “Right. Fine. Two minutes.”
John walked out of the kitchen and back into the dining room, where Harry was half cowering behind the bar.
“What the bloody hell, Harry?”
“It was the logical solution,” muttered Harry.
“Logical? Logical? Your chef leaves and instead of advertising for a new one, you replace her with the waitress?”
“There wasn’t anyone else-”
“What about the sous? What was his name, Martin?”
“Left a year ago.”
“What about his replacement?”
“He didn’t have a replacement.”
“Clara was back there alone? Christ, no wonder she left, she must have been exhausted.”
“Yes, but-”
“But nothing, your chef is exhausted, you bloody hire help for her. I’m not even in the restaurant business, Harry, and I know that much!”
“That’s right, you’re not in the restaurant business,” snapped Harry, slamming the half-full whiskey glass back on the bar. “You’re off saving Afghanistan just like your forefathers, aren’t you? Have to uphold the family honor by getting yourself shot up in the name of Queen and Country! Well, bloody good on you, mate! I’ll just stay here and work my fingers to the bone and never see my wife to the point that she wonders why she’s even bothering to stay with me. I don’t half blame her, either.”
Harry’s hands shook so hard she couldn’t even pour the whiskey straight. John took the bottle from her and set it down on the counter, while Harry buried her face in her arms.
“Harry,” he asked, quiet but firm, barely holding his anger in check. “Molly says Clara left a month ago.”
“She quit a month ago,” mumbled Harry into the bar. “But I moved back home two months before that.”
John sighed, and sat on a stool opposite his sister. “You said you were at the house to keep me company.”
“Yeah, well,” said Harry, and she lifted her head to wipe the tears from her face. “I was always a better liar than you were, even on the worst days.”
John reached over and poured a finger-full of whiskey into the glass, and drained it himself. He slammed the glass back on the table; it made a satisfying hollow-sounding thwap.
“Molly, though.”
Harry groaned. “I know, I know.”
“You can cook,” John pointed out. “I know Mum taught you the basics. And it’s not like anything on the menu here is that hard, we’ve been making it since we were in nappies.”
“John,” said Harry. “You do not want me in the kitchen. No one wants me in the kitchen.”
“Got that right,” shouted Artie from the kitchen.
“Artie!” yelled Harry. “Have you been listening to this entire conversation? I will so bloody fire you it’s not even funny.”
“No, you won’t,” came Artie’s voice, and Harry sat back down with a groan.
“He’s right, that’s the worst part,” she told John, and reached for the whiskey. John held it out of reach.
“Tell him what you did to the pasta!”
“Shut it, Artie,” Harry yelled over her shoulder.
“What about the pasta?” asked John.
“Nothing about the pasta,” grumbled Harry. “There is absolutely nothing to tell about the pasta. No one is telling you about the pasta.”
John sighed. “Fine. You aren’t the chef. Why didn’t you advertise?”
“I tried. John, don’t look at me like that, I really did try.”
“She did,” offered Artie, now looking through the kitchen window. “The notice is still in the trade mags and papers, and she even plastered a few of the culinary colleges nearby. There’s been a couple of kids showing interest-”
John raised an eyebrow. “Kids, Artie?”
“They’re worse than I am,” said Harry glumly.
“And that’s not easy,” added Artie. “No offense, Harry.”
Harry waved him off.
“But - this is the Empire,” said John, looking around the room. “We’ve got a history, a reputation - we’re a bloody landmark. When Dad died, there were chefs from three counties around coming by and giving their condolences. Half of them were mad that they’d never had a chance to work here with him.”
“Christ, John, don’t tell me you believed them?” said Harry, and John pushed away from the bar and went to look at the portraits on the wall. “It was a wake, Johnny. They were being nice.”
“They were being honest,” insisted John.
“They were saying what we wanted to hear. They sure as hell weren’t going to tell us the truth.”
“Oh?” John rounded on Harry. “And what’s the truth, then?”
“That the Empire is past its prime. There’s no place for us anymore, John. We’re an ethnic restaurant with no ethnicity. We showcase dishes from around the world, from places where the British Empire used to have control, but the thing is that there isn’t a British Empire anymore. There hasn’t been in years. Everyone’s figured that out but us, Johnny. We’re not even unique - if you want Thai, there’s Papaya Garden on Kensworth Lane. If you want Indian, you go to Bombay Towers four doors down. There’s even a sushi place in the next town over, and they deliver.”
“That’s not the point,” said John.
“It is the point,” said Harry, and she stood up and walked over to her brother. “I’m sorry, John. But it’s over.”
“No,” said John firmly, and he changed the grip on his cane. “The lights are still on, you’re still getting food deliveries, there’s still customers for lunch and dinner.”
“John-”
“You aren’t honestly going to tell me that you’ve taken a restaurant that has succeeded for nearly sixty years and run it into the ground, are you, Harry?” demanded John.
“What was I supposed to do, John? Change the menu? Redecorate? Add a buffet? Granddad would have rolled over in his grave and you know it.”
“This was Granddad’s legacy.”
“I know that! And I’m trying to stay true to it.”
“You and I grew up here. Don’t you dare tell me you’ve drunk it under the table.”
“I’m not the one at fault!” shouted Harry.
“Then who the fuck is? It wasn’t me - I wasn’t here!”
“You’re right!” shouted Harry, throwing her arms in the arm. “You weren’t here! So don’t you dare tell me what I should have done to save the restaurant. I’ve done everything I can think of to keep it afloat, and I can’t, I just can’t, not without destroying everything Granddad was trying to do. I’ve taken out loans, I’ve tried having daily specials, Clara even had a whole educational program worked up. And none of it worked. The Empire doesn’t have history - it is history. It’s the last holdover of an era where people dressed up to go to dinner and left the kids at home, went to have something fancy and special because they didn’t do it every day. But that’s not what the world is like anymore - people eat out when they feel like it, not because it’s special, and the kids come along, because no one bothers with babysitting.
“And the worst is - no one cares about what Granddad was trying to do. The whole ‘British Empire’ theme is just a holdover of an era that doesn’t exist anymore. The last couple of years, I’ve found it harder to explain the whole idea behind the menu. Especially when I’m trying to tell someone from Hong Kong or India or Pakistan.
“I’m sorry, John. I know you loved the Empire. But the Empire you love doesn’t exist anymore. It hasn’t for years. And unless a miracle happens, and it turns around, we’re going to lose it.”
John took a breath. “What do you mean, lose it?”
“I can’t pay the loans, John,” said Harry quietly. “I can barely pay out salaries for Artie and Molly and Mary. I told Clara to leave because I wasn’t even going to be able to pay her, and she deserved the chance to find a new place. We’re going to default on the loan in another two months, unless something changes.”
John closed his eyes, and kept breathing.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Harry.
“Yeah,” said John, and opened his eyes again to stare at the portraits of his father and grandfathers. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”
John made a clean, quick about-face, and went for the door.
“John-”
“No, Harry,” said John, and pushed open the door. The rain hit him in the face, and John walked steadfastly into it, blinking rapidly in order to see where he was going.
Home, he thought. But instead of turning left, he turned right, and went further into the town, not quite knowing where he was going until he found himself standing outside the little whitewashed brick building with the familiar multi-colored logo on the window.
Loans, Harry had said. If Harry had taken out loans on the Empire, there was only one person who would have given it to her. John stared into the window, felt the cold rain on the back of his neck. A woman with a baby buggy struggled with the door; John jumped forward and held it open for her, and when she was through, followed her inside.
*
“Hello, sorry, I’m looking for Sebastian Wilkes?”
The woman behind the front desk at the bank looked up from her computer, giving John a half-hearted glance. “I’m sorry, Mr Wilkes no longer works for Lloyd’s.”
“Oh,” said John, momentarily flummoxed. “I didn’t know. Can you tell me where he’s gone?”
“Retired to Majorca,” said the woman, clearly uninterested. “Did you have business with Mr Wilkes on a personal matter, or can I direct you to another bank employee?”
“Ah, right. I’m not sure - it’s about a loan taken out a few months ago by my sister, Harriet-”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the woman, and turned back to her computer. “Any information regarding financial services between this bank and your sister would be confidential.”
“It wasn’t a personal loan, it was a business loan for our restaurant, the Empire.”
“If your name isn’t on the loan, sir, I’m afraid we can’t give you any details.”
“I’m the co-owner of the restaurant,” said John, trying not to grit his teeth. “So I’m afraid you probably can.”
The woman shrugged and kept typing. John thought about slamming his cane down on the desk to get her attention again, before realizing that being carried out of the bank would probably not go over very well if he was trying to negotiate whatever idiotic thing Harry had done. Instead, he took a deep breath and glanced at the nameplate on the desk.
“Anthea,” he said, and the woman glanced up, a bit startled, from her computer. “I’m sorry. I’m being boorish, and rude, and it’s certainly not in your job description to receive abuse from angry customers. If I could trouble you just a little further to determine who made the loan to my sister for our restaurant, I would very much appreciate the chance to talk to them.”
Anthea blinked at him and glanced at the computer screen again. She typed for a few moments, and then picked up the phone.
“Jim,” she said, “there’s someone here to see you, are you free?”
John couldn’t quite make out what Jim said on the other end of the line, but he waited patiently, and hoped Jim wasn’t head of security.
“Right, cheers,” said Anthea, and hung the phone back up. She turned to the computer again. “You can go on back to see him. First door on the left. He’s expecting you.”
“Thanks,” said John. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Righto,” said Anthea, never looking away from the computer screen.
The bank offices were small and somewhat cramped, and John had only been in them twice before. Both times were to arrange the financial handlings of the Empire - once after his grandfather’s death, and the second after his father’s. Sebastian had handled both transactions; he hadn’t been that young, but John hadn’t expected him to be so old as to actually retire.
But as soon as John saw the open door on the left, he realized it must have been true, because Jim was in what had once been Sebastian’s office. It didn’t look quite as John remembered it; Sebastian had been a collector of books, of photographs, of knick-knack souvenirs from his travels. The office had been a mess of ridiculous proportions, but the flotsam and jetsam was gone now, and instead the office had a clean, industrial, brisk feeling to it, as if the wooden furniture was actually cold steel, and the man who sat behind the desk, his pen scratching against the paper, was only an automaton performing a predesigned task.
“Ah - hello,” began John, but Jim lifted one hand, as if to hold John at bay, and kept writing for another moment. John shifted from one leg to the other. His muscles were beginning to complain; for a moment, John wished he was back in Afghanistan, if only for the heat and lack of rain.
Jim stopped writing and set down his pen, and then looked up with a friendly and thin smile. “Ah, you’re my visitor,” he said. “Pleasure. Do come in. Tea?”
“Yes, thanks,” said John, and Jim stood to shake John’s hand. His hand was cool, his fingertips cold, and he turned to the electric kettle on the credenza and flipped it on. “John Watson. I’m here about-”
“The Empire,” said Jim, and smiled at him as he sat back down. “Of course. I’ve been expecting you to stop by.”
“You have?” John sat down on a chair. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”
“Jim Moriarty. We’ve never been introduced formally, but your sister has told me about you, and of course I know all about the Empire. Lovely old place in its day, shame about the current situation.”
John had trouble not bristling. “The current situation is fine.”
“Is it?” asked Jim, nonchalantly. He spun back and forth in his chair. “Well, matter of opinion, I suppose. I imagine you’re here to ask about the loan your sister arranged.”
“Yes. I don’t have the paperwork naming me as co-owner with me-”
Jim waved him off. “Oh, no worries, Dr Watson, I am completely aware of the ownership of the Empire. Let’s see. Your sister took out a loan against the restaurant a year ago. Well, that’s not precisely true - she took out the original loan three years ago, and was making the payments as scheduled. A year ago she renegotiated the terms to draw more funds with the intention of expansion - I wasn’t quite certain what she was planning, but she seemed very certain and your family has always been such good clients, how could I refuse?”
“What terms?” asked John, hoping he sounded calm. He didn’t feel calm. From the way Jim’s eyebrow raised, he didn’t sound particularly calm, either.
“Rather unconventional, I have to say, but then, I’m a gambling man. The terms were that if I gave her a year to halt payment on the loan, at the conclusion of the year, she would pay the amount in full, or lose ownership of the restaurant entirely.”
John stared at Jim. “That’s - that’s not legal.”
“I admit it took some rather fancy legwork,” said Jim, who managed to sound cheerful and sympathetic at the same time. “But I assure you, it’s quite legal. In this matter, anyway.”
John swallowed. “How much.”
“Hmm?”
“Harry said the loan is due in two months. How much will we owe?”
“Oh,” said Jim, and he shuffled the papers on his desk. “Here it is. Six hundred thousand pounds.”
Jim turned the paper around and pushed it toward John, who was already unable to think past the idea of six-hundred-thousand pounds. He stared at the paper, and seeing the numbers in black and white didn’t make them any more palatable.
“Plus interest,” added Jim helpfully. “I can compute that if you want.”
“No, that’s all right,” said John hazily. “Ah. Right. And due in two months.”
“Six weeks,” said Jim. “If we’re going to be particular about it. But seeing as I can tell you’re rather blown over…why don’t I just add another week to that? Would seven weeks suit you, Mr Watson?”
John couldn’t speak. He thought his heart was going to crawl out of his chest, jump into Jim’s smiling mouth, and choke the man.
Jim didn’t wait for a response; he turned and made a few notations on his computer. “There, done,” he said. “Seven weeks from tomorrow, Mr Watson. Payment can be made any way you like, of course. And here’s the tea ready. Milk and sugar?”
“I’m sorry,” said John, and still clutching the paper with the absurdly high number on it, he stumbled out of the room, down the hall, and back out into the rain.
*
The rain stopped somewhere near ten that night. John was only half aware of it; he’d spent the last seven hours on the couch in the sitting room, the telly providing a steady hum of background noise as the thin sunlight faded and turned into night. The exhaustion he’d been feeling since returning to England had compounded full-force, and he barely had the energy to flip between channels.
John wasn’t sure if he believed Harry, when she said that the Empire was finished. Maybe there’d been some bad times, growing up - but that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Waxing and waning and loyal customers always came back again, once they’d tired of something new. The platitudes people said at Hamish Watson’s funeral hadn’t been platitudes when they’d been said about his father James. People really had wanted to cook with, and for, James, who’d been a pioneer, opening an ethnic restaurant in 1948 when everyone had told him it couldn’t be done. Not with rationing worse than ever; not with people still trying to find their way in a new world order. And half of them still convinced that the world was going to break into war again any second….
But the visit to the bank, and the slick and smarmy Jim who glibly recited a number that was so astronomically high that John wasn’t even sure what so much money would look like - and to think it was due in seven weeks…
John wondered, briefly, what Harry had done with the money. She certainly hadn’t hired a chef or redecorated with it. And he hadn’t heard anything about plans for expansion. Given the way that Harry had been talking about the decline of the restaurant, expansion should have been the last thing on her mind.
No. The Empire had been through a hell of a lot worse. It had been born in a worse time. It had stayed open through recessions and rationing and the death of its patriarch. It would not close just because of a few bad months.
Seven weeks. John had seven weeks to turn the Empire around, to find six hundred thousand pounds, to save his family’s legacy.
He wondered if winning the lottery was a good bet.
“Coming up next - do not switch off!”
John flipped the channel. The blue light illuminating the room changed to green, to red, to yellow as he moved through American sitcoms and BBC costume dramas, Doctor Who reruns and commercials for air fresheners. He’d landed on a cooking show when the mobile in his pocket buzzed with an incoming text, and John dropped the remote to dig it out.
Harry.
On my way home. Hungry?
On the screen, a tall, thin, dark-haired man was talking to a sniveling teenager wearing a cook’s toque and coat. No, not talking to - talking at, in an angry stream of words that never rose above a spoken level but were clearly designed to hit the young man exactly where it would hurt most. John hit the mute button on the remote before shoving it to the side. It took a few minutes to type a negative reply to Harry’s request, and he reached for the remote, thinking to just turn off the telly entirely and go upstairs to bed.
The remote wasn’t there.
“Bugger,” he swore, and started digging in the cushions, trying to find it.
On the screen, the man was no longer talking; instead, he was walking through a farmer’s market with the kid, showing him various vegetables, arguing good-naturedly with the vendors, and clearly bargaining down the prices. John wasn’t sure why he had half an eye on the screen; he really couldn’t have cared less, particularly about a cooking show of all things, but when he found the remote under the couch and was about to hit the off switch, the scene that was showing caught his eye.
The man, and the young cook, walking into a restaurant, carrying their purchases. The restaurant was empty, but there was a crew repainting the interior and showing off the new designs for lighting. Clearly, there was some kind of renovation going on.
And then the man and the young cook were in the kitchen, cooking together - or rather, the man was explaining something, and the young cook was nodding intently, as though desperate to emulate him exactly. Or maybe fear that if he didn’t, the man would start ripping into him again.
John didn’t turn off the telly. He turned the sound back on.
The man’s voice, calm and collected and in the middle of a voice-over, wrapped John up like a bit of pastry and butter. “…will never be a great chef. He lacks the imagination, but he does not lack the drive, and it is Billy’s drive alone that might save the restaurant from failure. If he can manage to control his temper and not storm out to throw a wobbly when he gets in the weeds.”
“Not so hard,” said the young man, Billy, cheekily, and he pulled out a tray of turnovers, all perfectly golden brown. “Oi! Look at that!”
Billy grinned at the camera and turned to put the tray on the worktable behind him. Instead, he hit the tray on the corner of the table, accidentally overturning it, and the turnovers tumbled to the floor. Billy dropped the tray with a clatter, his mouth open in shock - and in the next moment, Billy had thrown the tray to the ground, stormed out of the kitchen in a rage, and the tall man slumped against the counter, shaking, though John couldn’t tell if it was with laughter or anger.
The voice-over continued, perfectly dry and unassuming. “That might be harder for Billy than it appears.”
John chuckled, and sat back on the couch, the remote still held loosely in his hand.
The scene changed - an establishing shot of a small, quaint little town, cobblestones and bustling pavements. The sun setting over the moor. A little inn with attached restaurant, and finally, a busy dining room.
The man’s voice came on again. “Two weeks ago, Gary and Billy would have killed to have half this many people eating at the Cross Keys. It’s been years since Billy has had to cook for so many tables in one night. It’s time for him to put the skills he’s learnt to the test: if he can keep a dining room of customers happy, they’ll come back for seconds. And thirds, and fourths.”
John sat straight up on the couch.
An empty dining room, now full. A chef, being shown how to cook properly. And a man who seemed to know exactly how to make a failing restaurant turn around.
John didn’t move a muscle, except for the very end, when he saw the credits roll, and two names stood out.
Sherlock Holmes’ Restaurant Reconstructed.
“Sherlock Holmes,” repeated John, and he scrambled for a piece of paper to write it down. When he glanced back up at the screen again, he caught sight of the second name, and broke into a grin.
“Well, bugger me,” he said, and reached for his mobile again, and dialed.
The man on the other end of the line picked up after two rings. He didn’t sound particularly upset at being called so late at night, which made John feel instantly better.
“Stamford.”
“Mike Stamford,” said John. “It’s John Watson. From Bart’s, we went to-”
“Watson!” said Mike, and the briskness dropped from his tone immediately. “Well, isn’t this a turn-up. Haven’t heard from you in ages. Thought you were in the Army getting shot. Where’ve you been?”
“Getting shot,” said John.
“Same old Watson, dry as brick,” said Mike with a chuckle.
“Same old Mike, twenty fingers in forty pies,” countered John. “What the hell are you doing producing television shows? You were in med school with me.”
“What were you doing invading Afghanistan?”
“Touché. Look, Mike - you work with that Sherlock Holmes bloke, don’t you?”
“Wish I didn’t. Why?”
“Because,” said John, watching as the television screen started in on the next episode of Sherlock’s show. “I think I’ve got a humdinger of a problem for him, and I could use your help convincing him.”
Chapter Two
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John (eventually), just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
Prologue
Chapter One
Are you the type of person who likes the searing heat [of working in a professional kitchen], the mad pace, the never-ending stress and melodrama, the low pay, the probable lack of benefits, inequity and futility, the cuts and burns and damage to body and brain - the lack of anything resembling normal hours or a normal personal life?
Or are you like everybody else? A normal person?
--Anthony Bourdain
Explosions in the far off distance, but close enough to rattle the ground. John could feel the reverberations in his bones, as if he were on a roller coaster ascending and nearing the top, the kinetic energy of the upcoming fall building anticipation.
The rat-a-tat-tat of nearby gunfire, quick and sharp, and he ducked, determined to push forward anyway.
Three more meters. Two more meters. One.
“Down down down!”
John fell to his stomach, waited as the whistle overhead screamed its falling cry, then worked the rest of the way on his elbows, dug his toes into the ground for purchase, and reached the man on the red-soaked mud.
Too much red. He pressed his fingers against the man’s neck anyway. Nothing.
Fuck.
Whistling.
“Down down down!”
Rat-a-tat-tat.
He started the way back, pulling the body behind him. The mud made it hard going, he could hear the horses braying somewhere nearby.
Horses?
“Put your knees into it!” came the shout, and John looked up, blinking through the reeds, and saw the cavalry come forward, the brass buttons on the officers gleaming in the sunlight. One horse trotted toward him, and a hand reached down to grasp John’s, to pull them both up onto the saddle behind the strangely familiar rider.
“What?” John asked, as the explosion rocked the earth beneath them.
“Never leave your man behind, son,” said the officer, and the horse reared up with the rat-a-tat-tat, and John felt the fire in his shoulder, and slid off the horse onto the ground.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
*
It was raining.
John had missed the rain, in Afghanistan. Endless days of sunshine were good in theory, but the monotony was what got John in the end. He'd enjoyed the heat at first, the brightness in his eyes, the sharp line between shadow and sun. The sunshine had both washed out the colors of the landscape, and made them brighter and vibrant. It was an impossible paradox, like much of Afghanistan, but after a hundred days of it, John just wanted a good rainfall.
Of course it was raining; had been for the entire week since he returned to Upper Brickley. It wasn’t a good hard rainfall, the sort that washes everything clean and sparkling, or a light mist, which would just give a pleasant sheen to the streets and the cars, but the piddling kind that couldn't make up its mind whether it was one or the other. John woke with a start in the darkened house sometime near mid-morning, and it took a long minute to realize that the inconsistent patter of rain on the windows wasn't far-off gunfire, and the dark gloom of his attic room wasn't the middle of the night in the desert, but the thin morning sun of an English rainy day. He closed his eyes, and then let them spring open again, because closing them felt too much like returning to the nightmare, and felt his heart pound in his chest before he began to breathe it back into calm.
The house was quiet. Harry was asleep, or gone already. Either would do; after last night’s argument, John didn’t want to face her. Not just yet, anyway. He swung his legs out of the bed, took a breath, and picked his cane up from the floor.
He showered, dressed, and bypassed the kitchen entirely on his way out the door. It was nearly half past ten, and John knew where his sister would be, and he let his legs start the walk into the town, half wishing he could stop them.
"Come by tomorrow when you wake up," Harry had said the night before. "Anytime. Might do you good to see the place."
"Yeah, maybe," John had said, but even as he said it, he knew he didn't want to go. And as he locked the door of the little house, with all its resident ghosts, he knew he was going anyway, because that had always been the problem with being in Upper Brickley; you couldn't get away from the Empire. Life centered around the restaurant, just as surely as it had when John had been five, and his grandfather had ruled the kitchen with a wooden spoon.
James Watson hadn't been in the Empire kitchen for nearly thirty years. John hadn’t been in it since the summer before he’d left for university, nearly twenty years before, but when he thought of the Empire, he didn’t remember the kitchen where he’d logged more hours washing dishes and chopping vegetables than most kids spent on homework or video games. He remembered the kitchen as his Granddad had ruled it, bright and sparkling in the haze of childhood memories. He didn't imagine it was the same anymore, not with thirty years of appliances malfunctioning and oven replacements and rusted trays and broken stemware. His legs might have remembered the way to the Empire, but John had no intention of leaving the dining room.
It was a quick walk to the center of town, and John found himself on the opposite side of the street from the Empire before he even realized it. He stared at the front, holding tight to the cane.
It looked exactly the same, if a little more worn down. Down to the bright red door, which was a bit dusty with age, and the striped awning above, which was faded and threadbare. The entire building looked tired, almost slumped to the side as if it'd had an extremely hard night. John wanted to give it a bit of a shove to get it sitting upright again, but even tired, it looked comfortable and familiar. John imagined that he walked straight across the road, without a hitch in his step, to push open the front door. There’d be Mum to show him to a familiar seat, and Cathy to bring him something to drink (chocolate milk when he was small, and fizzy drinks later as he grew bigger), and if he went into the kitchen, there'd be Granddad at the range, shouting orders to his sous, incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't napped in the manager's office as a toddler.
Except Granddad and Mum weren't alive anymore, and Cathy had retired ten years back. And the last conversation he'd had in the dining room wasn't one John was keen to relive. Too many people he'd loved weren't ever going to put their heads out the door and demand that he come in and sit for a spell.
"John Watson," said a familiar, friendly voice, and John straightened, automatically going to attention, and then he heard the laugh.
"Mrs Hudson," he said, and turned sharply - or as sharply as he dared, with his leg - to the right, to see the older lady standing outside her door, apron dusted with flour and her hair in its familiar sticky-uppy style.
"Harry said you were back," said Mrs Hudson, pleased, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek. "A week ago, she said, and here I am making lemon biscuits for you every day."
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," said John, sheepish. "I didn't know-"
Mrs Hudson patted his arm. "It's all right. Going over to see the old place, are you?"
John glanced at the Empire across the street; he thought he could see a flicker of movement from the curtains, a bit like Harry knew he hesitated on the other side of the street.
"Harry's expecting me."
"So good to have you home again," said Mrs Hudson. "And in one piece!"
"Or nearly," said John, and he tapped his cane against his leg gently.
"Oh, tosh. I have a hip."
"Mrs Hudson, you were born with that hip."
Mrs Hudson playfully swatted John's arm. "The whole town’s missed you, John. Tell me you're going to stay with us for a bit before you flit off somewhere else?"
"Don't know," said John, and pointedly did not glance at the Empire. "I was thinking London. Always wanted to live in London."
"You in London?" Mrs Hudson made a face. "Bit exciting, after Afghanistan, I should think."
"Bit dull here, after Afghanistan," said John, glancing up and down the empty street.
"Maybe for a little while. But I know you - you're the quiet sort."
"Not the same as I was fifteen years ago," said John.
"Nooooo," said Mrs Hudson thoughtfully. "But I don't suppose you're much different, scratch your surface a bit. Still do anything for a lemon biscuit, I shouldn't wonder."
"Only if they're yours, Mrs Hudson. Other lemon biscuits have no sway over me."
"There's the charm," said Mrs Hudson. "Oh, it'll be good to have you back again. Just what the Empire needs."
John caught the hint of wistful longing in her voice, and coupled with Harry's nerves the previous night, suddenly wanted to do anything but walk across the street and into the restaurant that waited for him.
"Wouldn't mind one or two of those lemon biscuits now," said John. "And a cuppa to go along with?"
"No, best not to keep Harry waiting - she'll have the lunch hour on her before you can blink, and it'll be busy then."
"There's time."
But Mrs Hudson shook her head and tapped her finger on John's chest. "John Watson. I'm properly ashamed of you. You are avoiding your sister."
"Yes, I am," said John.
"None of that, now." Mrs Hudson took John by the shoulders, spun him around, and gave him a light shove toward the Empire. "Tea and bikkies waiting when you're done, and we'll have a proper chat then. Give Molly my best, if you would."
"Right," said John, and felt the dread pool in his stomach as he walked across the road. The rain picked up, just a bit, and by the time he reached the awning, he could feel the dampness under his collar.
John took a breath as he rested his hand on the knob, and opened the door. The rush of warm air, scented with cinnamon and paprika, enveloped him, and for half a minute, John fully expected to hear the familiar voices calling out his name in cheerful greeting, the way they would have done when he was in school. “Johnny! You’re home!”
But instead, all he heard was the beat-beat-beat of the music from the kitchen in the back, where Harry and Clara were surely holding court, going through the morning’s vegetable deliveries and bickering about the dessert tray. There was always bickering about the dessert tray. John closed the door behind him and decided to be grateful for the moment alone, before Harry tried to suck him back into the business.
The dining room looked exactly the way he remembered it: a bit dark and mysterious, like walking into a fortune teller’s tent. The walls were papered in an odd maroon shade that had faded into something garish and strangely bright, almost pink but not quite. There were sconces on the wall to provide extra lighting, and in between, pictures of far-off places: Japan, or Egypt, or Kenya. Other things filled in the blank spots - masks and hats, bits and pieces of souvenirs picked up from around the world by one relative or another. There was a bar in the back corner, next to the kitchen door - big enough for a register and a few stools, but not much else - and there was a window where Harry could talk to the staff, or the kitchen staff could sneak peeks at the dining room in their more worried moments.
Twenty tables were strewn around the room, set up for parties of two, four or six. They were already set with tablecloths and candles, silverware shining from their serviette envelopes. John thought it was a bit formal for lunch, but then, Harry had been in charge the last six years, not him.
John frowned as he looked around the room. Something not quite right. It was…the same. Exactly the same, the wallpaper and the dim lighting and the ridiculous flowers on the tables. John reached out and touched one, and then trailed his hand along the tablecloth. He was halfway to the back of the room when he realized what wasn’t quite right.
Thirty years later, and John was used to seeing the portrait of his grandfather along the back wall, next to the portraits of his namesakes. The three of them stared out onto the dining room of the Empire Restaurant, like three kings looking out over their own empire, proud forefathers all. But now there was a fourth portrait hanging with them, smiling and looking right at John, as if to say “welcome home, welcome back, eat something”.
“John,” said Harry, appearing in the kitchen door, and she stopped in her tracks, eyes wide. “I thought you’d be longer - I saw you with Mrs Hudson-”
“Wanted to get it over with,” said John, still staring at the portrait. “When did you put up Dad’s picture?”
Harry let out a quick laugh. “Six years ago, when he died.”
John winced. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”
“No kidding,” said Harry, and she walked behind the bar. John joined her, sliding onto one of the stools, and watched while Harry pulled out a tumbler and poured herself a whiskey. “Have to admit, I didn’t think you’d want to come in at all.”
“I told you I would.”
“You’ve been back a week. I was beginning to wonder if you even remembered where the Empire was.”
Harry took a long drink, and John frowned. “Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?”
“Nearly noon,” said Harry. “And I’ve been up for hours already.”
“Mum would say you’re drinking away your profits,” said John pointedly, and Harry glared at him.
“My profits, of course,” said Harry. “Quick to forget that we own the Empire together, baby brother. Mum and Dad left it to the two of us, you know. Not that you’d have noticed, running off to play hero in the desert. You’ve got no idea, do you? What it’s like to come in and work your fingers to the bone-”
“I think I know a bit about what it’s like to work,” said John coolly. “And trying to save someone’s life as they’re bleeding out into the ground is a damned sight more important than serving someone a plate of chicken.”
Harry slammed the glass back on the counter and took a few sharp breaths before she spoke. “Wanker.”
John struggled to his feet. “Forget it. I’m going to say hello to Clara.”
“You can’t.”
“My restaurant, too,” John reminded her, but Harry’s didn’t meet John’s eyes. He frowned. “Harry. What’s wrong?”
Harry didn’t answer. She gripped the edge of the bar so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Harry.”
“Clara’s gone,” said Harry quietly.
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
John walked past the bar and into the kitchen before he even paused to think. The moment he was through the swinging door, he realized what he’d done, because the kitchen was the one place that didn’t look exactly as it did in his childhood memories.
The kitchen, strangely enough, wasn’t quite as small as he remembered. To the left of the door, just under the window behind the bar, was the small table where he and Harry would sit as children, coloring and eating tidbits of food. In his memory, the table was a bright white, but he could see the paint chipping at the edges of the table, and the stains and spots from dripped bits of sauce and fizzy lemonade.
Just in front of him was the warming table that served as the Line, the clear division that separated the kitchen from the rest of the world. The table was high, to make it easier for busy wait staff to take the food, and the warming lamps were turned off now, but John remembered their orange-red glow.
Beyond the table, on the left, were the grill, the ovens, and the range. There were shelves just above the range, places for the chef to stick tickets of orders for cooking, rows of bottles and bowls for the mise-en-place. Above that were the hanging hooks for the pots and pans and an extra shelf for the tangines, but now the hooks were empty, and the pots and pans were piled precariously on the shelves. They looked as if they’d topple if anyone so much as breathed wrong. The tangines were nowhere to be seen.
The prep table, in the center of the kitchen, was covered in papers, books, dishes, towels, half-filled bottles of olive oil and vinegar. John couldn’t imagine anyone actually trying to work on it. It was an utter mess, and it ought to have been cleared. There were drawers and shelf spaces below the table for storage, but as John took a few heavy steps closer, he could see that the shelf spaces were stuffed with additional ridiculous debris - glasses, bottles, boxes, more books and loose papers, and a pile of towels that looked yellow and dusty.
On the other side of the table, against the wall, was a small fridge, the larger walk-in, and another range. But the range was clearly not in use; it was piled high with plates of varying sizes and more pots and pans. The walk-in door was covered in food-stained papers, hastily taped.
Beyond all of this was the door leading to the annex, where the small dishwashing station was located, and a stairwell leading to the flat upstairs, where there was a washer and an ironing board, and where Harry and Clara lived. Well, John supposed, just Harry now. John saw the piles of pots and pans and dishes and other debris presumably remaining from the previous night’s service, and didn’t want to even consider what the inside of the walk-in looked like.
In the center of all of this, standing over the range, was Molly Hooper. John had always liked Molly; she was young and quick on her feet, with a friendly smile. She’d started waitressing just before his last tour had started, so he didn’t know her very well, but Mary Morstan, the other waitress, spoke well of her, and John trusted Mary’s judgment. In the kitchen, wearing a chef’s coat that was just a little too big for her, with the sleeves rolled up inexpertly, face bright red with heat and sweating just a little, Molly looked out of place and somewhat sheepish, as if she’d been caught out with her hand in the biscuit tin.
“Molly,” said John, unable to think of what else to say.
“Oh. Hi, John,” said Molly, nervous and startled, and the wooden spoon clattered as she dropped it to the range. “Harry said you might be in. I heard about your leg, does it hurt very terribly?”
“At times.”
“Must have been awful being shot. Do you think about it often?”
“I wouldn’t say it was the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had, no,” said John carefully, and Molly’s eyes widened with what might have been embarrassment.
There was a commotion from the kitchen’s annex, where the sinks and industrial dishwasher were located; a gangly young man with a smudge on his chin and his shirt damp from washing dishes popped his head out, rolling his eyes. “Cor, Molly. Queen of the inappropriate comment.”
“Sorry,” said Molly, and was saved by the timer on the oven. She turned her back to John to pull a tray of something out of the oven, and John frowned at the young man.
“Artie,” said John. “What are you doing here? Your shift doesn’t start for two hours.”
“Have to do my laundry somewhere, boss,” said Artie Wiggins cheerily.
John tried not to sigh out of sheer exasperation; some things about the Empire would probably never actually change. One of them was Artie. “You’re not using the laundry upstairs, Artie.”
Artie looked highly affronted. “Of course not. I wash all my things by hand, thank you.”
“Artie, tell me you’re not using the sink.”
“All right, I won’t tell you.”
John was about to protest again, when he caught sight of the casseroles Molly was moving to the prep table.
“What are those?”
Molly frowned, looking at them. “I think they’re meant to be potatoes.”
“Molly. What the bloody hell are you doing back here?”
Molly dropped the tray of unidentified objects on the range with a rattle; John winced. “Clara left a month ago.”
“But - you’re a waitress.”
“Ladies and gentleman, the new king of inappropriate comments,” said Artie.
Molly sucked in her breath and opened her mouth. “I-I mean - Harry said…”
John wondered exactly how thunderous he looked right then, to put fear in the heart of Molly Hooper. He suspected it wouldn’t have taken much. “Right. Fine. Two minutes.”
John walked out of the kitchen and back into the dining room, where Harry was half cowering behind the bar.
“What the bloody hell, Harry?”
“It was the logical solution,” muttered Harry.
“Logical? Logical? Your chef leaves and instead of advertising for a new one, you replace her with the waitress?”
“There wasn’t anyone else-”
“What about the sous? What was his name, Martin?”
“Left a year ago.”
“What about his replacement?”
“He didn’t have a replacement.”
“Clara was back there alone? Christ, no wonder she left, she must have been exhausted.”
“Yes, but-”
“But nothing, your chef is exhausted, you bloody hire help for her. I’m not even in the restaurant business, Harry, and I know that much!”
“That’s right, you’re not in the restaurant business,” snapped Harry, slamming the half-full whiskey glass back on the bar. “You’re off saving Afghanistan just like your forefathers, aren’t you? Have to uphold the family honor by getting yourself shot up in the name of Queen and Country! Well, bloody good on you, mate! I’ll just stay here and work my fingers to the bone and never see my wife to the point that she wonders why she’s even bothering to stay with me. I don’t half blame her, either.”
Harry’s hands shook so hard she couldn’t even pour the whiskey straight. John took the bottle from her and set it down on the counter, while Harry buried her face in her arms.
“Harry,” he asked, quiet but firm, barely holding his anger in check. “Molly says Clara left a month ago.”
“She quit a month ago,” mumbled Harry into the bar. “But I moved back home two months before that.”
John sighed, and sat on a stool opposite his sister. “You said you were at the house to keep me company.”
“Yeah, well,” said Harry, and she lifted her head to wipe the tears from her face. “I was always a better liar than you were, even on the worst days.”
John reached over and poured a finger-full of whiskey into the glass, and drained it himself. He slammed the glass back on the table; it made a satisfying hollow-sounding thwap.
“Molly, though.”
Harry groaned. “I know, I know.”
“You can cook,” John pointed out. “I know Mum taught you the basics. And it’s not like anything on the menu here is that hard, we’ve been making it since we were in nappies.”
“John,” said Harry. “You do not want me in the kitchen. No one wants me in the kitchen.”
“Got that right,” shouted Artie from the kitchen.
“Artie!” yelled Harry. “Have you been listening to this entire conversation? I will so bloody fire you it’s not even funny.”
“No, you won’t,” came Artie’s voice, and Harry sat back down with a groan.
“He’s right, that’s the worst part,” she told John, and reached for the whiskey. John held it out of reach.
“Tell him what you did to the pasta!”
“Shut it, Artie,” Harry yelled over her shoulder.
“What about the pasta?” asked John.
“Nothing about the pasta,” grumbled Harry. “There is absolutely nothing to tell about the pasta. No one is telling you about the pasta.”
John sighed. “Fine. You aren’t the chef. Why didn’t you advertise?”
“I tried. John, don’t look at me like that, I really did try.”
“She did,” offered Artie, now looking through the kitchen window. “The notice is still in the trade mags and papers, and she even plastered a few of the culinary colleges nearby. There’s been a couple of kids showing interest-”
John raised an eyebrow. “Kids, Artie?”
“They’re worse than I am,” said Harry glumly.
“And that’s not easy,” added Artie. “No offense, Harry.”
Harry waved him off.
“But - this is the Empire,” said John, looking around the room. “We’ve got a history, a reputation - we’re a bloody landmark. When Dad died, there were chefs from three counties around coming by and giving their condolences. Half of them were mad that they’d never had a chance to work here with him.”
“Christ, John, don’t tell me you believed them?” said Harry, and John pushed away from the bar and went to look at the portraits on the wall. “It was a wake, Johnny. They were being nice.”
“They were being honest,” insisted John.
“They were saying what we wanted to hear. They sure as hell weren’t going to tell us the truth.”
“Oh?” John rounded on Harry. “And what’s the truth, then?”
“That the Empire is past its prime. There’s no place for us anymore, John. We’re an ethnic restaurant with no ethnicity. We showcase dishes from around the world, from places where the British Empire used to have control, but the thing is that there isn’t a British Empire anymore. There hasn’t been in years. Everyone’s figured that out but us, Johnny. We’re not even unique - if you want Thai, there’s Papaya Garden on Kensworth Lane. If you want Indian, you go to Bombay Towers four doors down. There’s even a sushi place in the next town over, and they deliver.”
“That’s not the point,” said John.
“It is the point,” said Harry, and she stood up and walked over to her brother. “I’m sorry, John. But it’s over.”
“No,” said John firmly, and he changed the grip on his cane. “The lights are still on, you’re still getting food deliveries, there’s still customers for lunch and dinner.”
“John-”
“You aren’t honestly going to tell me that you’ve taken a restaurant that has succeeded for nearly sixty years and run it into the ground, are you, Harry?” demanded John.
“What was I supposed to do, John? Change the menu? Redecorate? Add a buffet? Granddad would have rolled over in his grave and you know it.”
“This was Granddad’s legacy.”
“I know that! And I’m trying to stay true to it.”
“You and I grew up here. Don’t you dare tell me you’ve drunk it under the table.”
“I’m not the one at fault!” shouted Harry.
“Then who the fuck is? It wasn’t me - I wasn’t here!”
“You’re right!” shouted Harry, throwing her arms in the arm. “You weren’t here! So don’t you dare tell me what I should have done to save the restaurant. I’ve done everything I can think of to keep it afloat, and I can’t, I just can’t, not without destroying everything Granddad was trying to do. I’ve taken out loans, I’ve tried having daily specials, Clara even had a whole educational program worked up. And none of it worked. The Empire doesn’t have history - it is history. It’s the last holdover of an era where people dressed up to go to dinner and left the kids at home, went to have something fancy and special because they didn’t do it every day. But that’s not what the world is like anymore - people eat out when they feel like it, not because it’s special, and the kids come along, because no one bothers with babysitting.
“And the worst is - no one cares about what Granddad was trying to do. The whole ‘British Empire’ theme is just a holdover of an era that doesn’t exist anymore. The last couple of years, I’ve found it harder to explain the whole idea behind the menu. Especially when I’m trying to tell someone from Hong Kong or India or Pakistan.
“I’m sorry, John. I know you loved the Empire. But the Empire you love doesn’t exist anymore. It hasn’t for years. And unless a miracle happens, and it turns around, we’re going to lose it.”
John took a breath. “What do you mean, lose it?”
“I can’t pay the loans, John,” said Harry quietly. “I can barely pay out salaries for Artie and Molly and Mary. I told Clara to leave because I wasn’t even going to be able to pay her, and she deserved the chance to find a new place. We’re going to default on the loan in another two months, unless something changes.”
John closed his eyes, and kept breathing.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Harry.
“Yeah,” said John, and opened his eyes again to stare at the portraits of his father and grandfathers. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”
John made a clean, quick about-face, and went for the door.
“John-”
“No, Harry,” said John, and pushed open the door. The rain hit him in the face, and John walked steadfastly into it, blinking rapidly in order to see where he was going.
Home, he thought. But instead of turning left, he turned right, and went further into the town, not quite knowing where he was going until he found himself standing outside the little whitewashed brick building with the familiar multi-colored logo on the window.
Loans, Harry had said. If Harry had taken out loans on the Empire, there was only one person who would have given it to her. John stared into the window, felt the cold rain on the back of his neck. A woman with a baby buggy struggled with the door; John jumped forward and held it open for her, and when she was through, followed her inside.
*
“Hello, sorry, I’m looking for Sebastian Wilkes?”
The woman behind the front desk at the bank looked up from her computer, giving John a half-hearted glance. “I’m sorry, Mr Wilkes no longer works for Lloyd’s.”
“Oh,” said John, momentarily flummoxed. “I didn’t know. Can you tell me where he’s gone?”
“Retired to Majorca,” said the woman, clearly uninterested. “Did you have business with Mr Wilkes on a personal matter, or can I direct you to another bank employee?”
“Ah, right. I’m not sure - it’s about a loan taken out a few months ago by my sister, Harriet-”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the woman, and turned back to her computer. “Any information regarding financial services between this bank and your sister would be confidential.”
“It wasn’t a personal loan, it was a business loan for our restaurant, the Empire.”
“If your name isn’t on the loan, sir, I’m afraid we can’t give you any details.”
“I’m the co-owner of the restaurant,” said John, trying not to grit his teeth. “So I’m afraid you probably can.”
The woman shrugged and kept typing. John thought about slamming his cane down on the desk to get her attention again, before realizing that being carried out of the bank would probably not go over very well if he was trying to negotiate whatever idiotic thing Harry had done. Instead, he took a deep breath and glanced at the nameplate on the desk.
“Anthea,” he said, and the woman glanced up, a bit startled, from her computer. “I’m sorry. I’m being boorish, and rude, and it’s certainly not in your job description to receive abuse from angry customers. If I could trouble you just a little further to determine who made the loan to my sister for our restaurant, I would very much appreciate the chance to talk to them.”
Anthea blinked at him and glanced at the computer screen again. She typed for a few moments, and then picked up the phone.
“Jim,” she said, “there’s someone here to see you, are you free?”
John couldn’t quite make out what Jim said on the other end of the line, but he waited patiently, and hoped Jim wasn’t head of security.
“Right, cheers,” said Anthea, and hung the phone back up. She turned to the computer again. “You can go on back to see him. First door on the left. He’s expecting you.”
“Thanks,” said John. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Righto,” said Anthea, never looking away from the computer screen.
The bank offices were small and somewhat cramped, and John had only been in them twice before. Both times were to arrange the financial handlings of the Empire - once after his grandfather’s death, and the second after his father’s. Sebastian had handled both transactions; he hadn’t been that young, but John hadn’t expected him to be so old as to actually retire.
But as soon as John saw the open door on the left, he realized it must have been true, because Jim was in what had once been Sebastian’s office. It didn’t look quite as John remembered it; Sebastian had been a collector of books, of photographs, of knick-knack souvenirs from his travels. The office had been a mess of ridiculous proportions, but the flotsam and jetsam was gone now, and instead the office had a clean, industrial, brisk feeling to it, as if the wooden furniture was actually cold steel, and the man who sat behind the desk, his pen scratching against the paper, was only an automaton performing a predesigned task.
“Ah - hello,” began John, but Jim lifted one hand, as if to hold John at bay, and kept writing for another moment. John shifted from one leg to the other. His muscles were beginning to complain; for a moment, John wished he was back in Afghanistan, if only for the heat and lack of rain.
Jim stopped writing and set down his pen, and then looked up with a friendly and thin smile. “Ah, you’re my visitor,” he said. “Pleasure. Do come in. Tea?”
“Yes, thanks,” said John, and Jim stood to shake John’s hand. His hand was cool, his fingertips cold, and he turned to the electric kettle on the credenza and flipped it on. “John Watson. I’m here about-”
“The Empire,” said Jim, and smiled at him as he sat back down. “Of course. I’ve been expecting you to stop by.”
“You have?” John sat down on a chair. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”
“Jim Moriarty. We’ve never been introduced formally, but your sister has told me about you, and of course I know all about the Empire. Lovely old place in its day, shame about the current situation.”
John had trouble not bristling. “The current situation is fine.”
“Is it?” asked Jim, nonchalantly. He spun back and forth in his chair. “Well, matter of opinion, I suppose. I imagine you’re here to ask about the loan your sister arranged.”
“Yes. I don’t have the paperwork naming me as co-owner with me-”
Jim waved him off. “Oh, no worries, Dr Watson, I am completely aware of the ownership of the Empire. Let’s see. Your sister took out a loan against the restaurant a year ago. Well, that’s not precisely true - she took out the original loan three years ago, and was making the payments as scheduled. A year ago she renegotiated the terms to draw more funds with the intention of expansion - I wasn’t quite certain what she was planning, but she seemed very certain and your family has always been such good clients, how could I refuse?”
“What terms?” asked John, hoping he sounded calm. He didn’t feel calm. From the way Jim’s eyebrow raised, he didn’t sound particularly calm, either.
“Rather unconventional, I have to say, but then, I’m a gambling man. The terms were that if I gave her a year to halt payment on the loan, at the conclusion of the year, she would pay the amount in full, or lose ownership of the restaurant entirely.”
John stared at Jim. “That’s - that’s not legal.”
“I admit it took some rather fancy legwork,” said Jim, who managed to sound cheerful and sympathetic at the same time. “But I assure you, it’s quite legal. In this matter, anyway.”
John swallowed. “How much.”
“Hmm?”
“Harry said the loan is due in two months. How much will we owe?”
“Oh,” said Jim, and he shuffled the papers on his desk. “Here it is. Six hundred thousand pounds.”
Jim turned the paper around and pushed it toward John, who was already unable to think past the idea of six-hundred-thousand pounds. He stared at the paper, and seeing the numbers in black and white didn’t make them any more palatable.
“Plus interest,” added Jim helpfully. “I can compute that if you want.”
“No, that’s all right,” said John hazily. “Ah. Right. And due in two months.”
“Six weeks,” said Jim. “If we’re going to be particular about it. But seeing as I can tell you’re rather blown over…why don’t I just add another week to that? Would seven weeks suit you, Mr Watson?”
John couldn’t speak. He thought his heart was going to crawl out of his chest, jump into Jim’s smiling mouth, and choke the man.
Jim didn’t wait for a response; he turned and made a few notations on his computer. “There, done,” he said. “Seven weeks from tomorrow, Mr Watson. Payment can be made any way you like, of course. And here’s the tea ready. Milk and sugar?”
“I’m sorry,” said John, and still clutching the paper with the absurdly high number on it, he stumbled out of the room, down the hall, and back out into the rain.
*
The rain stopped somewhere near ten that night. John was only half aware of it; he’d spent the last seven hours on the couch in the sitting room, the telly providing a steady hum of background noise as the thin sunlight faded and turned into night. The exhaustion he’d been feeling since returning to England had compounded full-force, and he barely had the energy to flip between channels.
John wasn’t sure if he believed Harry, when she said that the Empire was finished. Maybe there’d been some bad times, growing up - but that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Waxing and waning and loyal customers always came back again, once they’d tired of something new. The platitudes people said at Hamish Watson’s funeral hadn’t been platitudes when they’d been said about his father James. People really had wanted to cook with, and for, James, who’d been a pioneer, opening an ethnic restaurant in 1948 when everyone had told him it couldn’t be done. Not with rationing worse than ever; not with people still trying to find their way in a new world order. And half of them still convinced that the world was going to break into war again any second….
But the visit to the bank, and the slick and smarmy Jim who glibly recited a number that was so astronomically high that John wasn’t even sure what so much money would look like - and to think it was due in seven weeks…
John wondered, briefly, what Harry had done with the money. She certainly hadn’t hired a chef or redecorated with it. And he hadn’t heard anything about plans for expansion. Given the way that Harry had been talking about the decline of the restaurant, expansion should have been the last thing on her mind.
No. The Empire had been through a hell of a lot worse. It had been born in a worse time. It had stayed open through recessions and rationing and the death of its patriarch. It would not close just because of a few bad months.
Seven weeks. John had seven weeks to turn the Empire around, to find six hundred thousand pounds, to save his family’s legacy.
He wondered if winning the lottery was a good bet.
“Coming up next - do not switch off!”
John flipped the channel. The blue light illuminating the room changed to green, to red, to yellow as he moved through American sitcoms and BBC costume dramas, Doctor Who reruns and commercials for air fresheners. He’d landed on a cooking show when the mobile in his pocket buzzed with an incoming text, and John dropped the remote to dig it out.
Harry.
On my way home. Hungry?
On the screen, a tall, thin, dark-haired man was talking to a sniveling teenager wearing a cook’s toque and coat. No, not talking to - talking at, in an angry stream of words that never rose above a spoken level but were clearly designed to hit the young man exactly where it would hurt most. John hit the mute button on the remote before shoving it to the side. It took a few minutes to type a negative reply to Harry’s request, and he reached for the remote, thinking to just turn off the telly entirely and go upstairs to bed.
The remote wasn’t there.
“Bugger,” he swore, and started digging in the cushions, trying to find it.
On the screen, the man was no longer talking; instead, he was walking through a farmer’s market with the kid, showing him various vegetables, arguing good-naturedly with the vendors, and clearly bargaining down the prices. John wasn’t sure why he had half an eye on the screen; he really couldn’t have cared less, particularly about a cooking show of all things, but when he found the remote under the couch and was about to hit the off switch, the scene that was showing caught his eye.
The man, and the young cook, walking into a restaurant, carrying their purchases. The restaurant was empty, but there was a crew repainting the interior and showing off the new designs for lighting. Clearly, there was some kind of renovation going on.
And then the man and the young cook were in the kitchen, cooking together - or rather, the man was explaining something, and the young cook was nodding intently, as though desperate to emulate him exactly. Or maybe fear that if he didn’t, the man would start ripping into him again.
John didn’t turn off the telly. He turned the sound back on.
The man’s voice, calm and collected and in the middle of a voice-over, wrapped John up like a bit of pastry and butter. “…will never be a great chef. He lacks the imagination, but he does not lack the drive, and it is Billy’s drive alone that might save the restaurant from failure. If he can manage to control his temper and not storm out to throw a wobbly when he gets in the weeds.”
“Not so hard,” said the young man, Billy, cheekily, and he pulled out a tray of turnovers, all perfectly golden brown. “Oi! Look at that!”
Billy grinned at the camera and turned to put the tray on the worktable behind him. Instead, he hit the tray on the corner of the table, accidentally overturning it, and the turnovers tumbled to the floor. Billy dropped the tray with a clatter, his mouth open in shock - and in the next moment, Billy had thrown the tray to the ground, stormed out of the kitchen in a rage, and the tall man slumped against the counter, shaking, though John couldn’t tell if it was with laughter or anger.
The voice-over continued, perfectly dry and unassuming. “That might be harder for Billy than it appears.”
John chuckled, and sat back on the couch, the remote still held loosely in his hand.
The scene changed - an establishing shot of a small, quaint little town, cobblestones and bustling pavements. The sun setting over the moor. A little inn with attached restaurant, and finally, a busy dining room.
The man’s voice came on again. “Two weeks ago, Gary and Billy would have killed to have half this many people eating at the Cross Keys. It’s been years since Billy has had to cook for so many tables in one night. It’s time for him to put the skills he’s learnt to the test: if he can keep a dining room of customers happy, they’ll come back for seconds. And thirds, and fourths.”
John sat straight up on the couch.
An empty dining room, now full. A chef, being shown how to cook properly. And a man who seemed to know exactly how to make a failing restaurant turn around.
John didn’t move a muscle, except for the very end, when he saw the credits roll, and two names stood out.
Sherlock Holmes’ Restaurant Reconstructed.
“Sherlock Holmes,” repeated John, and he scrambled for a piece of paper to write it down. When he glanced back up at the screen again, he caught sight of the second name, and broke into a grin.
“Well, bugger me,” he said, and reached for his mobile again, and dialed.
The man on the other end of the line picked up after two rings. He didn’t sound particularly upset at being called so late at night, which made John feel instantly better.
“Stamford.”
“Mike Stamford,” said John. “It’s John Watson. From Bart’s, we went to-”
“Watson!” said Mike, and the briskness dropped from his tone immediately. “Well, isn’t this a turn-up. Haven’t heard from you in ages. Thought you were in the Army getting shot. Where’ve you been?”
“Getting shot,” said John.
“Same old Watson, dry as brick,” said Mike with a chuckle.
“Same old Mike, twenty fingers in forty pies,” countered John. “What the hell are you doing producing television shows? You were in med school with me.”
“What were you doing invading Afghanistan?”
“Touché. Look, Mike - you work with that Sherlock Holmes bloke, don’t you?”
“Wish I didn’t. Why?”
“Because,” said John, watching as the television screen started in on the next episode of Sherlock’s show. “I think I’ve got a humdinger of a problem for him, and I could use your help convincing him.”
Chapter Two