Fic: Mise en Place (4/25)
Title: Mise en Place (4/25)
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.
A/N: Thanks to ladyprydian, who made the Japanese noodles last week and graciously supplied me with a GORGEOUS photograph for it, which you can see here. (She also said they were yummy.)
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three
Chapter Four
Our first lunch together, in cold, gray December, was at a bistro near the Now offices on the rue Saint-Honore. Seeing boudin blanc listed on the menu, we asked what it was, and the waiter gave us a detailed description of this special holiday sausage made with white poultry meat, veal, cream, and bits of black truffle. We both thought it tasted marvelous, delicate and succulent, and somehow it sealed bond between us. Taste can do that.
--Judith Jones
John and Harry didn’t realize that filming was over until Artie came out with the rubbish.
“What do you mean, done?” demanded John. “Why didn’t anyone come to get me?”
“It happened fast, boss! One minute Mary’s giving him pie and the next minute he’s telling us Clara’s whole life story!”
“Pie?” asked Harry. “What pie? There’s no pie on the menu.”
“Molly brought it in for us to eat after service - Mary gave it to Sherlock instead of the tiramisu.”
Harry sat up. “Is there any left?”
“Two pieces,” said Artie, and Harry was off and inside like a shot.
John watched her go. “Pie?”
“It’s really good pie,” said Artie.
“What’d he think of the rest of the meal?”
“Largely awful. He liked the pie, though. He said he’d be back in the morning. I think Molly’s going to try to drown herself in the whipped cream.”
John groaned, and hit the back of his head against the brick wall.
“Don’t do that,” said Artie. “I’ve seen what the rubbish collectors do back here.”
John covered his face with his hands. Artie was probably right, but John didn’t want to move or think too hard about it. “Artie, go away.”
“I can bring you pie.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
Artie went back into the kitchen; John let out a deep sigh.
Well, it wasn’t as though the news was a surprise. Sherlock Holmes made his living from rebuilding restaurants, and if he had actually liked anything about the Empire (the pie, being Molly’s, didn’t count), then John wouldn’t have needed his help.
But all the same. Knowing it was one thing. Knowing he was going to hear it was something else. Actually hearing that the restaurant was complete crap was a thousand times worse than John had imagined.
“Oh, fuck me,” said John, and dropped his hands to stare Sherlock Holmes in the face. “Oh, fuck. Me.”
“If you insist, but you’ll have to buy me a decent dinner first,” said Sherlock Holmes. The man had the audacity to look comfortable, dressed in clothes that had to cost more than John had earned in half a year in Afghanistan, while standing in a pungent and rather disgusting alleyway. “I’d ask if you knew any good places to eat here, but…well…” He shrugged. “At the moment, your opinion is somewhat suspect as you’re running the worst restaurant in town.”
“Oi,” said John, sitting up. “No one ever said the Empire is the worst restaurant in town.”
“Yes, and your customers are so quick to say otherwise,” countered Sherlock. “On the other hand, I fancy Chinese. There’s a good place in Shappley, I don’t suppose you have a car?”
John began to laugh. “You’re…you’re asking me out?”
“If you like. I’m feeling rather peckish, and Sally doesn’t let me drive the studio’s car. I have no idea why; I’m far less destructive when my hands are busy, but she seems to think I would be a menace to society, or at least to those on the pavement.”
“Why on earth would I go out to dinner with you? You just ate at my restaurant, decided it’s the worst one in the town - which, by the way, you’ve been in for less than two hours, so that’s quite the statement - and made my chef cry. I should be kicking your arse from here to Yorkshire.”
Sherlock frowned. “I gave her a compliment.”
“What compliment was that? Congratulations, you didn’t poison me?”
“A perfectly reasonable compliment, and also true in this case, but not what I said.”
The kitchen door opened, and Artie appeared, carrying the pie plate, heaped with whipped cream. “Here you are, boss, last piece of pie. Hope you don’t mind the pie plate, that’s one less dish for me to wash.”
“Thank you, Artie,” said John, and reached for the pie.
“Oho,” said Sherlock, and was faster.
“Oi!” shouted Artie as Sherlock took the pie plate and walked to the end of the alley. “That’s not your pie!”
“John!” called Sherlock, turning around. He held the pie plate over his head, where neither John nor Artie had any hope of actually reaching it. “I find myself in possession of the last piece of your chef’s quite delicious pie. Do you want it?”
“As it’s my piece, yes!”
“Come along, then, John. Can’t have you spoiling your dinner by eating the pie first.”
“What?”
“You can have the pie after we’ve had Chinese.”
Artie turned to John. “Chinese?”
“It’s a long story,” said John grimly.
“Hardly long, John,” scolded Sherlock gently. “I’ve asked you to accompany me to Chinese. You’ve been dithering about it for five minutes, without actually refusing. I’m simply making my offer more attractive by use of Mary’s-”
“Molly’s.”
“Ah, yes, Molly is the chef, Mary is the waitress. Bit similar, aren’t they?”
“Maybe he’s blind,” said Artie. “Or deaf.”
“Pie, John!”
“I could tackle him,” said Artie.
“You’d knock the pie on the ground,” said John. “And you know what the rubbish collection men do to the ground.”
“Yeah, but it might be worth it,” said Artie.
“I could eat the pie myself,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully.
John stood up. “Fine. I have a car. And there’s a better Chinese in Brompton.”
“Oh, good,” said Sherlock. “You saw reason.”
“You’re honestly going out to dinner with that wanker?” asked Artie.
“Only because he doesn’t deserve a second slice of Molly’s pie,” said John grimly, and tugged on his shirt sleeves.
“What should I tell them inside?” asked Artie.
“Tell them anything and you’re fired, Artie.”
“I was fired yesterday.”
“I won’t rehire you this time.” John turned to follow Sherlock out of the alley.
“Boss-” Artie shifted from foot to foot. “You sure this is a good idea?”
“Artie,” said John patiently, “it’s just dinner. We’ll probably talk about his plan for the Empire. I’ll pay my half, he’ll pay his, I’ll drop him off at his hotel. There is nothing untoward going on here.”
“It’s just he’s a handsome bloke, and you’re recently back from the war, and I think I’ve seen some porn that starts that way…”
John sighed. “Artie.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, boss.”
“Go away, Artie,” said John firmly, and hoped his ears weren’t burning. He turned and walked back to Sherlock, the cane tapping on the ground.
“I want that pie plate back in pristine condition!” Artie yelled at Sherlock. “Do you hear me? Pris-tine. I see one scratch that I didn’t put there myself, and I’m pushing you over a fucking waterfall.”
“Understood,” said Sherlock. “John? Shall I drive?”
“My car.”
Sherlock sighed. “Fine.”
“No means no!” yelled Artie as they turned the corner, and John stifled the groan.
“Fired. He is absolutely fired,” said John. “I will do the bloody washing up myself, but I’m not paying him for another day.”
“He may be the best employee you have,” said Sherlock.
John gave him a sideways glare. “Insult my restaurant and my food, but don’t you dare insult Molly or Mary.”
“I haven’t seen evidence of their loyalty, apart from Mary’s desire to feed me the better dessert,” said Sherlock. “Artie, however, is quite attached to you, and merely doesn’t wish you to be hurt or risk being taken advantage of by me.”
John laughed. “You, take advantage of me? Doubtful. Strong wind could knock you over.”
“Let us hope I’m not standing by Artie’s proverbial waterfall at the time,” said Sherlock dryly. “You said you had a car?”
“I do. But it’s parked at the house. I walk to the restaurant. Or couldn’t you tell?”
Sherlock frowned. “I must be off my game today. I thought you’d been back from Iraq for longer. Or was it Afghanistan? If you walk to the restaurant and back - it can’t have been long. A month? Two?”
“Two months in England, five and a half weeks in Upper Brickley,” said John carefully. “Was that in the restaurant profile?”
“I never read the profiles,” said Sherlock. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Repeating history,” said Sherlock. “Your great-great-grandfather, the original John Watson, he was in Afghanistan, of course.”
“How did you-?”
“The portrait, John, the portrait! A thousand and one little clues that indicate the Anglo-Afghan War. Likely the second one, in the late 1870s, based on the date of the portrait and the age of the subject. Married shortly after returning to England and produced your great-grandfather, who followed in his father’s footsteps and also joined the Army, likely at the outbreak of the Great War, but he must have done well because he also participated in the Russian Civil War just afterward, to some degree, before being invalided home and producing your grandfather, the patriarch of the restaurant. James, is that right? Now, James bucked the trend and joined the Navy, perhaps to annoy his father, more likely because he was fascinated with travel and wanted to see more of the world than Europe, and spent most of his time in the Pacific Theater, narrowly escaped being caught in Singapore when it fell, and was unlucky enough to help with the cleanup following Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I say unlucky because of course the radiation he received is what may have caused the cancer that killed him in the end. Your father-”
“That’s enough,” said John, and stopped walking. He closed his eyes and listened as Sherlock stopped next to him, and heard his shoes grind the pavement slightly as the man turned to face him. “I know about my father’s history, you don’t need to repeat it.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock, and the voice which had sounded so self-assured and confident only moments before now sounded awkward and uncomfortable. John opened his eyes.
“That…that was incredible. Amazing, really.”
Sherlock looked away, and then back at John, full-force, with a half smile on his face. “That’s not what people usually say.”
“Oh? What do they say?”
“Piss off.”
John waited to see if Sherlock was joking; but the man was utterly and completely serious. He couldn’t help it; he began to laugh.
“Well,” he said, “that too. Come on, the house is just down this road.”
John walked past Sherlock, ignoring the somewhat surprised expression on the other man’s face. He’d gone several paces past him when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps pick back up again, and he kept his pace slower than usual to let him catch up. Not that slow was difficult; John’s leg was beginning to throb. The idea of Sherlock driving didn’t sound half bad, suddenly.
“Where were you injured?” asked Sherlock suddenly.
John glanced at him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the cane.”
“No, but I know your leg pain is psychosomatic. Clearly not the reason you were invalided out of the Army.”
“Right,” muttered John. “Shoulder. There was a firefight.”
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “You weren’t always a soldier.”
“You weren’t always a television celebrity,” countered John.
“And the nightmares?”
John stopped dead on the pavement. “Excuse me?”
Sherlock turned to face him. “Bags under your eyes. You aren’t sleeping well. Combined with the wartime experience and the injuries, not to mention the imagined pain in your leg, it stands to reason you have nightmares.”
“You know what I said earlier? I take it back. Piss off.” John shoved past Sherlock and tried to pick up the pace, leaning heavily on his cane.
“John-”
“Meant it!”
“John,” said Sherlock, and kept up a steady pace behind him.
“No,” said John, crossly. “Don’t you have establishing shots to take around town?”
“No,” said Sherlock, but his phone beeped out an incoming message.
John rolled his eyes. He stopped walking and turned to face Sherlock, trying to hold in his annoyance. “Look. I have two hours to not think about the restaurant before I have to go back and deal with dinner service. So I’d very much appreciate it if you would kindly shove off.”
“No,” repeated Sherlock.
“Why not?” John kept his gaze firm and steady on Sherlock. It was what Harry called his Do-Not-Mess-With-Me look, the sort he gave the subordinates in his unit when they were being particularly cheeky, or when customers tried to argue the final cheque. It nearly always worked.
“I…” Sherlock glanced away from the gaze, and John smirked just a little. “I want to know more.”
“More?”
“About the restaurant. It’s necessary, for background information, to learn as much as I can about its origins and history and what it means to the people who work there as well as the occupants of Upper Brickley.”
“All right,” said John slowly. “The Empire was opened by my grandfather in 1949. It’s operated out of the same location for the last sixty years, has always had a small staff, and was thought to be one of the best restaurants in the 1960s and 1970s. I don’t want to see it die.”
“Why not?” asked Sherlock.
“Why-?” John stared at him. “If you can’t deduce that, after everything else you’ve figured out on your own, then fuck me if I’ll just tell you.”
John turned and started to walk away. He managed two paces before he turned and went back again. “And I want my pie.”
Sherlock handed him the pie plate without saying a word.
“Thank you,” said John, with as much dignity as he could muster while holding a pie plate with a single piece of pie. He turned again, as sharply as he could manage, and walked briskly away, and despite trying to pretend to himself that he didn’t care, listened for Sherlock’s footsteps to either follow or turn away.
He never heard a sound.
*
Sherlock Holmes watched John Watson walk down the pavement, thinking hard.
Military, of course. Psychosomatic injury to his leg, of course. Those things were evident from the perfect about-face that John had executed on his retreat. No man with an actual leg injury could have performed it half as well, not without losing balance, at least. John walked to the end of the pavement and then turned down one of the smaller side streets and was lost to view, but Sherlock Holmes remained standing on the pavement, his mind still calculating and swirling through the facts that he could determine about John Watson.
The man was fit. His injuries were several months old, and yet there was no sign of accumulated weight from time spent convalescing. He valued traditions, history, accuracy, and above all, family. All of these would be reasons enough to want the Empire to succeed - Sherlock had the idea of the four, it was family that meant the most to him, and specifically, his grandfather James Watson, the WW2 veteran who began it all.
Family. Sherlock didn’t know what to think of that. It wasn’t as though family was an unfamiliar concept, just the idea that anyone could be so devoted to them that they would ignore all other points of reason.
Because the Empire was failing, and spectacularly so. Sherlock may have arrived at the end of the lunch hour, but he had no illusions that there had been anyone there before him. The kitchen had been too jittery, too anxious for his arrival. The mise had been untouched; the chef’s apron had been clean and pressed, and the dishwasher’s shirt had been dry. They had not changed between customers, of that Sherlock was certain, because while the recent spat of cleaning had been quite obvious (and in truth, Sherlock had been somewhat relieved to see that he wouldn’t need to berate the staff on cleaning habits, even if they had been warned of his arrival and thus been out of their normal routine), he’d still noticed the perfectly clean and cool range. The chef had leaned against it, and no chef would lean against a range that was still hot to the touch.
It was the small things, really: the way that John held tightly to his cane, and kept his left hand clenched or in his pocket, out of view. The firmness to his handshake, the intense gaze - and the nervousness he’d shown when service began. That he couldn’t watch Sherlock taste the food.
And the sister - Harry. Who refused to be on camera, who had left the dining room shortly after greeting him, to slip outside and drink her booze in peace, unable to stay but unable to go far.
John was willing to shield her from the public’s scrutiny by taking sole managerial responsibility on himself, when he could not have been more unused to the position. Any restaurant manager worth his salt would never have left the building between lunch and dinner services.
Oh, yes. John was invested in this week. Heavily. Family, tradition, history.
Sherlock had no doubt that Harry was equally invested - and for entirely different reasons.
His mouth quirked, and Sherlock turned back to the restaurant. It wasn’t the perfect turn of John Watson’s military training, but it was no less graceful. Sherlock continued to smile to himself as he walked, thinking of Harry Watson, in the flat waiting for them all to leave, and he began to plan his strategy.
He noticed the man who stepped out in front of him just before he ran him over.
“Sorry,” said Sherlock automatically, was about to move past him when the man spoke.
“Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, delighted, and inwardly, Sherlock groaned. A fan, no doubt. There were two sorts, he’d found. The kind who were desperate to prove themselves worthy, to be the one chef who could make him eat an entire meal and compliment them afterwards; and then there were the type who just wanted him, preferably naked, preferably soon.
This one was dressed in a well-fitted grey suit and tie, with a dark black overcoat. He was thin, nearly reed-like, and beneath the pleasant smile, Sherlock sensed something manic about his eyes. It put him on guard, instantly.
“Yes,” said Sherlock shortly. “I suppose you’ll want me to sign something.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely offer, but perhaps later,” said the man. He couldn’t stop moving, and Sherlock watched him, already growing tired of the man’s incessant energy. After the quiet, calm stoicism of John, the man seemed like an annoying mosquito. “I’m quite the fan, you see.”
“Then I’m sorry to inform you that I don’t sign photographs in public,” said Sherlock. “If you contact my studio, they’ll be more than happy to provide you a signed photograph.”
“Really? How disappointing.” The man made a little moue, very much the false pout. “Here to save a restaurant? The Empire, I imagine. Well, I don’t imagine, but that can keep. Do you really think you can do it? The great Sherlock Holmes, whose opinion is never heeded by those who ought to engrave his words on their hearts?”
Sherlock frowned. “I never comment on a restaurant’s viability before I have all the facts at my disposal.”
“Very wise, very wise,” said the man, pulling back just a bit. “Well, I’ll be watching. With bated breath and a great amount of interest.”
The man set off down the pavement, back into the town, and Sherlock, after a moment, began to follow - less because he wanted to know where the man was going, and more because it was in the same direction as the Empire.
The beep from the mobile in his pocket caught him off guard; Sherlock pulled it out and opened the incoming text.
Where the bloody fuck are you? We needed to get the establishing shots today! GL.
Sherlock frowned, and glanced back up. The man was gone from view, and Sherlock swore under his breath and began to type his reply.
Returning now. Establishing shots tomorrow. SH.
When? Ten minutes to midnight? GL.
If necessary. SH
The dishwasher says you went to dinner with the manager. What the bloody fuck are you trying to pull, Sherlock? Don’t you dare do this again. GL
Please stop texting, I’m quite busy. SH.
Sherlock dropped the mobile into his pocket; mercifully, it stayed silent. Probably because Lestrade had long since determined that telling Sherlock he was a wanker wasn’t worth the texting fee, particularly since Sherlock didn’t care what Lestrade thought of him.
The Empire’s windows were dark; there was a dim light in the flat above, obviously from a low lamp in the back of the room. Sherlock found the entrance to the upstairs flats easily, and was pleasantly pleased to discover that a gentle shove was all it took to open the door. The staircase was steep and plain, and Sherlock closed the door carefully before ascending. The door leading to the first-storey flat boasted a peephole and a buzzer, but Sherlock knocked anyway.
After a few minutes, and without the tell-tale sound of locks being unfastened, Harry Watson opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair hung in damp ropes, and over her shoulder, Sherlock could see the now empty bottle of brandy next to the tumbler. She stared up at him, not surprised or shocked, but looking exactly as if she’d expected him five minutes before.
“Hello,” said Sherlock. “I think there are some things you want to tell me, aren’t there?”
“Yes,” said Harry, and stepped aside to let him in.
*
John was exhausted. It had been a ridiculously long dinner service, on top of the lunch service that had culminated in Sherlock Holmes’ first visit and consequent dismantling of his staff’s egos. Well, egos in the case of Artie; John doubted Molly had any ego to damage. She had spent the evening on the verge of tears, Mary had spent the evening glaring at anyone who looked at her cross-eyed, and Artie had…well, Artie had inspected the pie plate as though it were a diamond he was buying on spec.
John’s leg hurt, his shoulder hurt, his head hurt, his feet hurt. All of this paled to the fact that his heart wasn’t in the keenest shape either; he’s spent the entire dismal evening trying to walk eggshells around Molly, dodge Harry’s unbridled wrath, deflect Mary’s obvious attempts at match-making, remind Artie that he held the power of life or unemployment over him, and what was worse, avoid the gaze of his father and grandfathers from their bird’s-eye view of the dining room.
Ridiculous, to be avoiding the stares of men long dead. John didn’t tend to think that anyone was looking over him; he was sure his forefathers had better things to do. But all the same, every time he glanced at the portraits of the Johns, James, and Hamish, he felt as though they were watching him with equal parts expectation and disappointment.
It didn’t help that Harry was avoiding him as well. John spent an hour trying to corner her to find out what she’d thought of the afternoon, before finally giving up and just concentrating on making sure the four people who showed up for dinner were treated well. Mary actually had a ten-quid tip, so it couldn’t have been half bad.
Or maybe it was pity. John couldn’t really decide.
It wasn’t raining on the walk home, that was something. And Harry had disappeared again, probably to the upstairs flat. John left her to it. If she wanted to wallow in memories of Clara, he wasn’t going to stop her. He planned to do some wallowing back at home himself, or at least some kind of distraction with the hopes of going to sleep without nightmares. Wasn’t much of a hope, but it might have been nice.
John saw the lights in the kitchen the moment he opened the gate, and for a moment, he thought it might have been Harry, drinking herself into a stupor most likely. John swore under his breath, and closed the gate behind him. He didn’t make any effort to keep quiet, even though it would have been good to surprise Harry and maybe shock her into realizing she had a problem. John was past caring about it, frankly. The front door was unlocked; he pushed in, and was about to hang his coat on the hook when he saw it.
A long wool coat that looked oddly familiar, and a blue scarf peeking out from under the collar. Not to mention the music playing on the kitchen radio; instrumental, something classical that John recognized but wouldn’t have been able to name at gunpoint, And the scent - rich and comforting. The sharp scent of ginger, the round comfort of tomatoes, and the tickle in the back of his throat that hinted at onions recently chopped. It was absolutely mouth-watering. Not Harry’s coat; not Harry’s choice in musical selections; definitely not Harry’s cooking. John stilled, instantly on guard.
“Hello?” he called out, and there was a clatter from the kitchen. Motion, and then a tall, slender figure appeared in the doorway.
“Hello,” said Sherlock Holmes, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “I’ve prepared dinner.”
“Excuse me?” asked John, blinking in confusion. He might have been dreaming - Sherlock Holmes, in his kitchen, obviously having cooked something. In his kitchen. Backlit and looking fantastic.
In his kitchen.
“Dinner. A meal one has at the end of the day,” said Sherlock. “It’ll be ready in a moment, I’ve set a place for you at the kitchen table.”
Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen again; John followed him, unsure what else he was supposed to do. The smells intensified when he entered the kitchen, the heady aroma of something appetizing mixing with the sudden realization that John was, in fact, rather hungry. When Sherlock dropped a steaming hot plate of food on the table, between the knife and fork and glasses of water and wine, John correspondingly dropped onto the chair in front of them, and without another word, began to eat.
The chicken had been marinated in the ginger and the onions, sprinkled with salt and pepper and some combination of spices that included cinnamon and cloves. The sweetness of the cinnamon and cloves worked with the tang of the ginger at the back of his tongue, and the skin crackled as he bit into it. Broiled; it would have been better grilled, but John knew the limitations of cooking in late January. The skin kept the meat moist, and it was so tender, it nearly melted in his mouth. John closed his eyes and swallowed.
“Wow,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, and when John opened his eyes, Sherlock was sitting on his right, a pleased expression on his face.
“You’re not eating?” asked John as he cut another piece of chicken.
“I tasted as I cooked,” said Sherlock. “Rather complicated little dish, and I wasn’t entirely certain of the tomato to ginger ratio.”
John frowned. “Wait. Tomatoes and ginger?” He looked down at the meal. “This isn’t the Omani chicken from earlier, is it?”
“I would hope not. Mine is better.”
John was about to defend Molly’s cooking, except he realized that there wasn’t much point, Sherlock was right. He shook his head and had another bite. “Well, it’s fantastic. I haven’t had it this good since-well, in a few years. Did Molly give you the recipe?”
“Please,” said Sherlock crossly. “I do know my craft, thank you, John.”
“You barely had one bite this afternoon!”
Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t need to try any more to determine what was involved. And I wasn’t going to take another bite merely to be polite.”
John shook his head. “How can anyone be such a good cook if they don’t like food?”
“You think I don’t like food?”
“Well, you certainly don’t seem to eat much of it.”
“Because most of the time, it’s not worth eating,” said Sherlock. “I’m hardly going to waste energy on digesting something subpar. Some people might like chips that are coated in oil and salt to the point that it’s all you can taste. Some people might not mind having an overcooked chicken smothered in sauce. If I’m going to eat something, I want it to be worth the effort.”
“If you don’t love it, you don’t swallow?” asked John dryly.
“Precisely,” said Sherlock, and frowned when John snorted. “What?”
“The critic? From the movie?”
“What movie?”
“About the rat who cooks?”
“John. Rats can’t cook.”
John let out a peal of laughter. “You’ve never seen Ratatouille?”
Sherlock frowned. “Is it French?”
John chuckled and turned back to his chicken dinner. “Not exactly. We’ll watch it later.”
“Oh.”
John shifted in his seat. “Or I’ll lend it to you.”
“That’s all right,” said Sherlock, and his voice sounded a bit strained, and strangely bright. “That would…yes.” He swallowed. “I purchased the ingredients for your meal before I came over. So you needn’t worry that I took anything from your larder.”
“Considering the quality of the meal, I wouldn’t have minded if you did.”
“I wasn’t sure what you would have on hand.”
“I do cook, you know,” said John. “I’ve got the basics.”
“There are a surprising number of frozen meals in your deep freeze for a man who can cook.”
“Well, I also work late,” said John.
“Hardly an excuse.”
“Right, sorry, didn’t realize I had to live up to your expectations,” said John, setting down his fork.
“No, John, I-” Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, exasperated. “Let me try again. I’m sure you are a perfectly adequate cook who does not burn the rice or leave the lasagne to bubble over in the oven.”
John gave Sherlock a careful look; the man did appear to be trying to make amends. “I’ve been known to over-salt the porridge, too.”
“As have we all,” said Sherlock gravely, and John chuckled, and picked up his fork again.
“So you went through my pots and pans, did you?”
“I admit, I did not purchase a new set this evening. I assumed you would have something useable here.”
“And you found it - adequate?”
“Quite.”
“And how did you find the house, anyway?” asked John suddenly, looking up. “Pretty sure you didn’t follow me home earlier.”
Sherlock had a good poker face; John couldn’t read it at all. “The address was in the restaurant profile, of course.”
John cocked his head and gave Sherlock a stern look. “I thought you didn’t read the profile?”
“Then I knocked on doors until I found your house,” said Sherlock, rather irritably. “An image which will undoubtedly give you plenty of amusement, I’m sure.”
John thought it would - if it were true. He didn’t believe it, but he let Sherlock think he did and went back to eating the dinner before it grew cold. The silence that fell over the table was comfortable and companionable, and John was hungry. It didn’t take long before he’d finished the meal, drunk the rest of the wine and the water, and stood, pushing the chair back as he stretched.
“That was delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Sherlock, and he reached for the plate. John was faster.
“No, I’ll do the washing up - that was always the rule when I was growing up. Whoever doesn’t cook, cleans.”
“You started as a dishwasher,” said Sherlock, watching John as he crossed to the sink.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m not surprised. Bit too posh to be washing up pots and pans while learning your way.” The hot water splashed as it filled up the sink. John upended the soap into the water for a moment, and started in on the utensils. “Anyway, if you’d been a dishwasher, you’d have known to start soaking or at least rinse out the pans.”
“Well done,” said Sherlock, and John caught the admiration in his tone.
“I might not be as brilliant as you are, but I’m not stupid,” said John.
“Indeed not.” John heard him shift the chair. “I assume Lestrade or Sally went over tomorrow’s schedule with you?”
“Yes. Observation Day - you’ll watch us cook and serve and we’ll presumably not flub anyone’s orders or serve undercooked chicken. Which is of course what the audience is hoping to see, the better to make our miraculous turn-around at the end of the week.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock with some amount of disdain.
“It can’t be any worse than today,” continued John. “We had Anderson with the camera in the corner and we did all right. And most of the customers will be regulars, or at least will be familiar with us, so it’s not as though we’re serving food to celebrities. We’ll just have one in the corner judging our every move.”
“That can be quite the challenge as well.”
“Yes, well, I’m trying to look on the positive. We’re over the worst part.”
“The worst part?”
“Well-” John turned to look at Sherlock, and flashed him a cheeky grin. “Meeting you, of course. But your bark’s worse than your bite, so I think we’ll be all right.”
John turned back to the dishes and began scrubbing at the pan. He heard Sherlock clear his throat. “I hate the observation days.”
“Oh?” asked John, almost absently as he worked at the burnt bits of sauce on the side of the pan. “I suppose they’re a little boring.”
“Not boring,” said Sherlock. “Infuriating.”
John turned to look at him again. There was something about the tone that made him think Sherlock was almost lonesome in the way he said it. Looking at Sherlock’s face confirmed it. The man looked pained.
“Infuriating?”
“Seeing other people try to cook dishes which ought to be simple, and yet they make them complex to the point of inedibility. It’s all I can do not to jump in and show them the proper way to chop vegetables or dress a salad, to present a hot meal on heated plates, to plate a dish so that someone might actually want to eat it and not think it’s a pile of shoe leather. The sheer of amount of idiocy I see on the observation day drives me to distraction, John. Lestrade has had to restrain me countless times from simply walking out and never returning, because there is always a point in which I realize that the restaurant I’m observing has no hope whatsoever of being any good, no matter what I do, because everyone in it is irredeemable. Before the lunchtime service is over, I want to bash my head in - a few times, I’ve wanted it before service even began. And worse is knowing that it’ll happen again tomorrow, and there is nothing I can do except sit there and suffer and know I cannot do anything to make it better.”
John leaned against the counter, a bit stunned at the force of Sherlock’s admission. He had absolutely no doubt that the man meant every word of it; he could see the pain and unsettled feelings on Sherlock’s face.
“But you are going to do something about it,” he said quietly. “You’re going to tell us how to improve. You’re going to fix the Empire.”
“You can’t know that,” said Sherlock. “And you may not like what I’m going to say about it.”
John shrugged. “Does anyone? I trust you, Sherlock. God knows you know more about it than I do. I’ve got to trust you, or I’m lost.”
“You trust me?”
Sherlock’s voice was tentative, and the surprise was etched on his face. John instantly felt small and rather stupid himself, and he turned back to the sink, and began to scrub at the sides of the basin with the sponge. “It’s late.”
“Yes.” Sherlock stood, not entirely sure what to do with his arms or hands. He folded them, then let them drop to his sides, then clasped his hands behind his back. “I should get to my hotel.” He paused. “I should probably find out what hotel I’m in.”
John’s chuckle was amused. “The Tremont, on the High Street. It’s not too far from the Empire. I overheard Sally and Anderson talking about it.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Sherlock paused. “If I do not talk to you tomorrow, you mustn’t be concerned. I’m not good on days like tomorrow. I’ll be rather in a dark mood. Don’t pay me any attention, I’ll come around when the day is over soon enough.”
“Right,” said John, and he turned back to Sherlock. “Well. Thank you for dinner.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock.
There was a half second when John saw the kiss coming, when he knew what was going to happen the moment before it did, when he might have had a chance to stop and think about it - except he didn’t. His mind was blissfully off considering water lilies or something equally ridiculous, and John decided that had to be the reason that one moment, Sherlock was at least four steps away, and the next, they were in each other’s arms, his lips under Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s lips were just a bit cool, but soft on his, and even though Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything, still tasted of pepper and tomatoes and ginger.
Sherlock’s hands were gentle on John’s face, and John’s arms wrapped around him of their own volition - maybe because that’s what arms did, maybe because John was holding him closer, wanting to draw in Sherlock’s cool calm. One thing John did not feel, of all the things he felt, was calm. His head swam, he couldn’t think of anything but the feel of Sherlock against him, in the kitchen with the scent of chicken still hanging in the air. Warm, and comforting, and perfectly delicious and right.
Sherlock’s lips paused, just over his. Millimeters; they still breathed the same air, and John opened his eyes, watched Sherlock’s closed lids pulse, his eyes darting beneath them. Almost as if Sherlock was afraid to open them, afraid of what he’d see. Sherlock’s muscles were tense; John could feel the man’s breath hitch in his chest. John didn’t move, and despite having just kissed a man he’d only seen on television until today, wasn’t tense or nervous or self-conscious. But Sherlock - Sherlock could well have been a skittish pony he was trying to tame, and the idea that Sherlock, self-possessed, egotistical Sherlock could be nervous was absurd. When he finally felt Sherlock relax in his arms, just a bit, the pleased laughter bubbled up inside of John. He chuckled, softly, in the back of his throat.
The chuckle changed everything. Sherlock tensed, opened his eyes, and stepped away. John watched him, and felt the tingle in his skin where Sherlock no longer touched him. His stomach sank as he watched Sherlock became conscious of his limbs and his height.
“Goodnight,” said Sherlock tersely, and the word was the slam of a door, quick and short. Sherlock left the kitchen abruptly, and a moment later, the door to the house echoed the word, with Sherlock’s step on the pavement outside fading into the distance.
John watched Sherlock’s retreat from the kitchen window. It had hardly been the most amazing or intense kiss he’d ever had - but somehow that hadn’t diminished the fact that somehow, John had the idea it might be the most important.
The look on Sherlock’s face when he pulled away, when John had laughed - it hadn’t been horror or regret. It’d been disappointment. John felt the small pang in his chest, and shoved ruthlessly at whatever joy still remained - because as wonderful as it had felt, it had sent Sherlock packing, as if…John groaned. As if he’d been laughing at Sherlock, and not because of the very fact of Sherlock. John wanted to run after him, tell him he was a fucking idiot, drag him back into the house and…
Bugger. Because shagging the man meant to save his restaurant wouldn’t end at all well.
John wondered if he could just stay home the next day. It wasn’t as though he was needed - Harry would just have to step up and run the front of the house. Mary was a good egg, she’d be fine. Molly was capable of running things in the back of the house. John trusted them.
Yes. Stupid notion, kissing Sherlock Holmes, the man meant to save them from ruin. John turned from the window, already planning to go straight to bed, to burrow under the covers and try to forget the kiss even happened, and immediately saw the blue scarf on the floor by the door.
John picked it up and held it in his hands. It was soft and cool, and as John moved the fabric in his hands, he caught the faint whiff of musk and sweat and something sharper and razor-thin, something that brought the gentle pressure of a stolen kiss to the forefront of his mind instantly.
Oh, no. He wasn’t going to make it that easy.
John smiled, folded the scarf, and put it on the kitchen table. He went to bed, and went to sleep, waiting for the nightmares to come.
End A/N: Recipe for Molly’s Chocolate Pie.
Chapter Five
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.
A/N: Thanks to ladyprydian, who made the Japanese noodles last week and graciously supplied me with a GORGEOUS photograph for it, which you can see here. (She also said they were yummy.)
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three
Chapter Four
Our first lunch together, in cold, gray December, was at a bistro near the Now offices on the rue Saint-Honore. Seeing boudin blanc listed on the menu, we asked what it was, and the waiter gave us a detailed description of this special holiday sausage made with white poultry meat, veal, cream, and bits of black truffle. We both thought it tasted marvelous, delicate and succulent, and somehow it sealed bond between us. Taste can do that.
--Judith Jones
John and Harry didn’t realize that filming was over until Artie came out with the rubbish.
“What do you mean, done?” demanded John. “Why didn’t anyone come to get me?”
“It happened fast, boss! One minute Mary’s giving him pie and the next minute he’s telling us Clara’s whole life story!”
“Pie?” asked Harry. “What pie? There’s no pie on the menu.”
“Molly brought it in for us to eat after service - Mary gave it to Sherlock instead of the tiramisu.”
Harry sat up. “Is there any left?”
“Two pieces,” said Artie, and Harry was off and inside like a shot.
John watched her go. “Pie?”
“It’s really good pie,” said Artie.
“What’d he think of the rest of the meal?”
“Largely awful. He liked the pie, though. He said he’d be back in the morning. I think Molly’s going to try to drown herself in the whipped cream.”
John groaned, and hit the back of his head against the brick wall.
“Don’t do that,” said Artie. “I’ve seen what the rubbish collectors do back here.”
John covered his face with his hands. Artie was probably right, but John didn’t want to move or think too hard about it. “Artie, go away.”
“I can bring you pie.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
Artie went back into the kitchen; John let out a deep sigh.
Well, it wasn’t as though the news was a surprise. Sherlock Holmes made his living from rebuilding restaurants, and if he had actually liked anything about the Empire (the pie, being Molly’s, didn’t count), then John wouldn’t have needed his help.
But all the same. Knowing it was one thing. Knowing he was going to hear it was something else. Actually hearing that the restaurant was complete crap was a thousand times worse than John had imagined.
“Oh, fuck me,” said John, and dropped his hands to stare Sherlock Holmes in the face. “Oh, fuck. Me.”
“If you insist, but you’ll have to buy me a decent dinner first,” said Sherlock Holmes. The man had the audacity to look comfortable, dressed in clothes that had to cost more than John had earned in half a year in Afghanistan, while standing in a pungent and rather disgusting alleyway. “I’d ask if you knew any good places to eat here, but…well…” He shrugged. “At the moment, your opinion is somewhat suspect as you’re running the worst restaurant in town.”
“Oi,” said John, sitting up. “No one ever said the Empire is the worst restaurant in town.”
“Yes, and your customers are so quick to say otherwise,” countered Sherlock. “On the other hand, I fancy Chinese. There’s a good place in Shappley, I don’t suppose you have a car?”
John began to laugh. “You’re…you’re asking me out?”
“If you like. I’m feeling rather peckish, and Sally doesn’t let me drive the studio’s car. I have no idea why; I’m far less destructive when my hands are busy, but she seems to think I would be a menace to society, or at least to those on the pavement.”
“Why on earth would I go out to dinner with you? You just ate at my restaurant, decided it’s the worst one in the town - which, by the way, you’ve been in for less than two hours, so that’s quite the statement - and made my chef cry. I should be kicking your arse from here to Yorkshire.”
Sherlock frowned. “I gave her a compliment.”
“What compliment was that? Congratulations, you didn’t poison me?”
“A perfectly reasonable compliment, and also true in this case, but not what I said.”
The kitchen door opened, and Artie appeared, carrying the pie plate, heaped with whipped cream. “Here you are, boss, last piece of pie. Hope you don’t mind the pie plate, that’s one less dish for me to wash.”
“Thank you, Artie,” said John, and reached for the pie.
“Oho,” said Sherlock, and was faster.
“Oi!” shouted Artie as Sherlock took the pie plate and walked to the end of the alley. “That’s not your pie!”
“John!” called Sherlock, turning around. He held the pie plate over his head, where neither John nor Artie had any hope of actually reaching it. “I find myself in possession of the last piece of your chef’s quite delicious pie. Do you want it?”
“As it’s my piece, yes!”
“Come along, then, John. Can’t have you spoiling your dinner by eating the pie first.”
“What?”
“You can have the pie after we’ve had Chinese.”
Artie turned to John. “Chinese?”
“It’s a long story,” said John grimly.
“Hardly long, John,” scolded Sherlock gently. “I’ve asked you to accompany me to Chinese. You’ve been dithering about it for five minutes, without actually refusing. I’m simply making my offer more attractive by use of Mary’s-”
“Molly’s.”
“Ah, yes, Molly is the chef, Mary is the waitress. Bit similar, aren’t they?”
“Maybe he’s blind,” said Artie. “Or deaf.”
“Pie, John!”
“I could tackle him,” said Artie.
“You’d knock the pie on the ground,” said John. “And you know what the rubbish collection men do to the ground.”
“Yeah, but it might be worth it,” said Artie.
“I could eat the pie myself,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully.
John stood up. “Fine. I have a car. And there’s a better Chinese in Brompton.”
“Oh, good,” said Sherlock. “You saw reason.”
“You’re honestly going out to dinner with that wanker?” asked Artie.
“Only because he doesn’t deserve a second slice of Molly’s pie,” said John grimly, and tugged on his shirt sleeves.
“What should I tell them inside?” asked Artie.
“Tell them anything and you’re fired, Artie.”
“I was fired yesterday.”
“I won’t rehire you this time.” John turned to follow Sherlock out of the alley.
“Boss-” Artie shifted from foot to foot. “You sure this is a good idea?”
“Artie,” said John patiently, “it’s just dinner. We’ll probably talk about his plan for the Empire. I’ll pay my half, he’ll pay his, I’ll drop him off at his hotel. There is nothing untoward going on here.”
“It’s just he’s a handsome bloke, and you’re recently back from the war, and I think I’ve seen some porn that starts that way…”
John sighed. “Artie.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, boss.”
“Go away, Artie,” said John firmly, and hoped his ears weren’t burning. He turned and walked back to Sherlock, the cane tapping on the ground.
“I want that pie plate back in pristine condition!” Artie yelled at Sherlock. “Do you hear me? Pris-tine. I see one scratch that I didn’t put there myself, and I’m pushing you over a fucking waterfall.”
“Understood,” said Sherlock. “John? Shall I drive?”
“My car.”
Sherlock sighed. “Fine.”
“No means no!” yelled Artie as they turned the corner, and John stifled the groan.
“Fired. He is absolutely fired,” said John. “I will do the bloody washing up myself, but I’m not paying him for another day.”
“He may be the best employee you have,” said Sherlock.
John gave him a sideways glare. “Insult my restaurant and my food, but don’t you dare insult Molly or Mary.”
“I haven’t seen evidence of their loyalty, apart from Mary’s desire to feed me the better dessert,” said Sherlock. “Artie, however, is quite attached to you, and merely doesn’t wish you to be hurt or risk being taken advantage of by me.”
John laughed. “You, take advantage of me? Doubtful. Strong wind could knock you over.”
“Let us hope I’m not standing by Artie’s proverbial waterfall at the time,” said Sherlock dryly. “You said you had a car?”
“I do. But it’s parked at the house. I walk to the restaurant. Or couldn’t you tell?”
Sherlock frowned. “I must be off my game today. I thought you’d been back from Iraq for longer. Or was it Afghanistan? If you walk to the restaurant and back - it can’t have been long. A month? Two?”
“Two months in England, five and a half weeks in Upper Brickley,” said John carefully. “Was that in the restaurant profile?”
“I never read the profiles,” said Sherlock. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Repeating history,” said Sherlock. “Your great-great-grandfather, the original John Watson, he was in Afghanistan, of course.”
“How did you-?”
“The portrait, John, the portrait! A thousand and one little clues that indicate the Anglo-Afghan War. Likely the second one, in the late 1870s, based on the date of the portrait and the age of the subject. Married shortly after returning to England and produced your great-grandfather, who followed in his father’s footsteps and also joined the Army, likely at the outbreak of the Great War, but he must have done well because he also participated in the Russian Civil War just afterward, to some degree, before being invalided home and producing your grandfather, the patriarch of the restaurant. James, is that right? Now, James bucked the trend and joined the Navy, perhaps to annoy his father, more likely because he was fascinated with travel and wanted to see more of the world than Europe, and spent most of his time in the Pacific Theater, narrowly escaped being caught in Singapore when it fell, and was unlucky enough to help with the cleanup following Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I say unlucky because of course the radiation he received is what may have caused the cancer that killed him in the end. Your father-”
“That’s enough,” said John, and stopped walking. He closed his eyes and listened as Sherlock stopped next to him, and heard his shoes grind the pavement slightly as the man turned to face him. “I know about my father’s history, you don’t need to repeat it.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock, and the voice which had sounded so self-assured and confident only moments before now sounded awkward and uncomfortable. John opened his eyes.
“That…that was incredible. Amazing, really.”
Sherlock looked away, and then back at John, full-force, with a half smile on his face. “That’s not what people usually say.”
“Oh? What do they say?”
“Piss off.”
John waited to see if Sherlock was joking; but the man was utterly and completely serious. He couldn’t help it; he began to laugh.
“Well,” he said, “that too. Come on, the house is just down this road.”
John walked past Sherlock, ignoring the somewhat surprised expression on the other man’s face. He’d gone several paces past him when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps pick back up again, and he kept his pace slower than usual to let him catch up. Not that slow was difficult; John’s leg was beginning to throb. The idea of Sherlock driving didn’t sound half bad, suddenly.
“Where were you injured?” asked Sherlock suddenly.
John glanced at him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the cane.”
“No, but I know your leg pain is psychosomatic. Clearly not the reason you were invalided out of the Army.”
“Right,” muttered John. “Shoulder. There was a firefight.”
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “You weren’t always a soldier.”
“You weren’t always a television celebrity,” countered John.
“And the nightmares?”
John stopped dead on the pavement. “Excuse me?”
Sherlock turned to face him. “Bags under your eyes. You aren’t sleeping well. Combined with the wartime experience and the injuries, not to mention the imagined pain in your leg, it stands to reason you have nightmares.”
“You know what I said earlier? I take it back. Piss off.” John shoved past Sherlock and tried to pick up the pace, leaning heavily on his cane.
“John-”
“Meant it!”
“John,” said Sherlock, and kept up a steady pace behind him.
“No,” said John, crossly. “Don’t you have establishing shots to take around town?”
“No,” said Sherlock, but his phone beeped out an incoming message.
John rolled his eyes. He stopped walking and turned to face Sherlock, trying to hold in his annoyance. “Look. I have two hours to not think about the restaurant before I have to go back and deal with dinner service. So I’d very much appreciate it if you would kindly shove off.”
“No,” repeated Sherlock.
“Why not?” John kept his gaze firm and steady on Sherlock. It was what Harry called his Do-Not-Mess-With-Me look, the sort he gave the subordinates in his unit when they were being particularly cheeky, or when customers tried to argue the final cheque. It nearly always worked.
“I…” Sherlock glanced away from the gaze, and John smirked just a little. “I want to know more.”
“More?”
“About the restaurant. It’s necessary, for background information, to learn as much as I can about its origins and history and what it means to the people who work there as well as the occupants of Upper Brickley.”
“All right,” said John slowly. “The Empire was opened by my grandfather in 1949. It’s operated out of the same location for the last sixty years, has always had a small staff, and was thought to be one of the best restaurants in the 1960s and 1970s. I don’t want to see it die.”
“Why not?” asked Sherlock.
“Why-?” John stared at him. “If you can’t deduce that, after everything else you’ve figured out on your own, then fuck me if I’ll just tell you.”
John turned and started to walk away. He managed two paces before he turned and went back again. “And I want my pie.”
Sherlock handed him the pie plate without saying a word.
“Thank you,” said John, with as much dignity as he could muster while holding a pie plate with a single piece of pie. He turned again, as sharply as he could manage, and walked briskly away, and despite trying to pretend to himself that he didn’t care, listened for Sherlock’s footsteps to either follow or turn away.
He never heard a sound.
*
Sherlock Holmes watched John Watson walk down the pavement, thinking hard.
Military, of course. Psychosomatic injury to his leg, of course. Those things were evident from the perfect about-face that John had executed on his retreat. No man with an actual leg injury could have performed it half as well, not without losing balance, at least. John walked to the end of the pavement and then turned down one of the smaller side streets and was lost to view, but Sherlock Holmes remained standing on the pavement, his mind still calculating and swirling through the facts that he could determine about John Watson.
The man was fit. His injuries were several months old, and yet there was no sign of accumulated weight from time spent convalescing. He valued traditions, history, accuracy, and above all, family. All of these would be reasons enough to want the Empire to succeed - Sherlock had the idea of the four, it was family that meant the most to him, and specifically, his grandfather James Watson, the WW2 veteran who began it all.
Family. Sherlock didn’t know what to think of that. It wasn’t as though family was an unfamiliar concept, just the idea that anyone could be so devoted to them that they would ignore all other points of reason.
Because the Empire was failing, and spectacularly so. Sherlock may have arrived at the end of the lunch hour, but he had no illusions that there had been anyone there before him. The kitchen had been too jittery, too anxious for his arrival. The mise had been untouched; the chef’s apron had been clean and pressed, and the dishwasher’s shirt had been dry. They had not changed between customers, of that Sherlock was certain, because while the recent spat of cleaning had been quite obvious (and in truth, Sherlock had been somewhat relieved to see that he wouldn’t need to berate the staff on cleaning habits, even if they had been warned of his arrival and thus been out of their normal routine), he’d still noticed the perfectly clean and cool range. The chef had leaned against it, and no chef would lean against a range that was still hot to the touch.
It was the small things, really: the way that John held tightly to his cane, and kept his left hand clenched or in his pocket, out of view. The firmness to his handshake, the intense gaze - and the nervousness he’d shown when service began. That he couldn’t watch Sherlock taste the food.
And the sister - Harry. Who refused to be on camera, who had left the dining room shortly after greeting him, to slip outside and drink her booze in peace, unable to stay but unable to go far.
John was willing to shield her from the public’s scrutiny by taking sole managerial responsibility on himself, when he could not have been more unused to the position. Any restaurant manager worth his salt would never have left the building between lunch and dinner services.
Oh, yes. John was invested in this week. Heavily. Family, tradition, history.
Sherlock had no doubt that Harry was equally invested - and for entirely different reasons.
His mouth quirked, and Sherlock turned back to the restaurant. It wasn’t the perfect turn of John Watson’s military training, but it was no less graceful. Sherlock continued to smile to himself as he walked, thinking of Harry Watson, in the flat waiting for them all to leave, and he began to plan his strategy.
He noticed the man who stepped out in front of him just before he ran him over.
“Sorry,” said Sherlock automatically, was about to move past him when the man spoke.
“Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, delighted, and inwardly, Sherlock groaned. A fan, no doubt. There were two sorts, he’d found. The kind who were desperate to prove themselves worthy, to be the one chef who could make him eat an entire meal and compliment them afterwards; and then there were the type who just wanted him, preferably naked, preferably soon.
This one was dressed in a well-fitted grey suit and tie, with a dark black overcoat. He was thin, nearly reed-like, and beneath the pleasant smile, Sherlock sensed something manic about his eyes. It put him on guard, instantly.
“Yes,” said Sherlock shortly. “I suppose you’ll want me to sign something.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely offer, but perhaps later,” said the man. He couldn’t stop moving, and Sherlock watched him, already growing tired of the man’s incessant energy. After the quiet, calm stoicism of John, the man seemed like an annoying mosquito. “I’m quite the fan, you see.”
“Then I’m sorry to inform you that I don’t sign photographs in public,” said Sherlock. “If you contact my studio, they’ll be more than happy to provide you a signed photograph.”
“Really? How disappointing.” The man made a little moue, very much the false pout. “Here to save a restaurant? The Empire, I imagine. Well, I don’t imagine, but that can keep. Do you really think you can do it? The great Sherlock Holmes, whose opinion is never heeded by those who ought to engrave his words on their hearts?”
Sherlock frowned. “I never comment on a restaurant’s viability before I have all the facts at my disposal.”
“Very wise, very wise,” said the man, pulling back just a bit. “Well, I’ll be watching. With bated breath and a great amount of interest.”
The man set off down the pavement, back into the town, and Sherlock, after a moment, began to follow - less because he wanted to know where the man was going, and more because it was in the same direction as the Empire.
The beep from the mobile in his pocket caught him off guard; Sherlock pulled it out and opened the incoming text.
Where the bloody fuck are you? We needed to get the establishing shots today! GL.
Sherlock frowned, and glanced back up. The man was gone from view, and Sherlock swore under his breath and began to type his reply.
Returning now. Establishing shots tomorrow. SH.
When? Ten minutes to midnight? GL.
If necessary. SH
The dishwasher says you went to dinner with the manager. What the bloody fuck are you trying to pull, Sherlock? Don’t you dare do this again. GL
Please stop texting, I’m quite busy. SH.
Sherlock dropped the mobile into his pocket; mercifully, it stayed silent. Probably because Lestrade had long since determined that telling Sherlock he was a wanker wasn’t worth the texting fee, particularly since Sherlock didn’t care what Lestrade thought of him.
The Empire’s windows were dark; there was a dim light in the flat above, obviously from a low lamp in the back of the room. Sherlock found the entrance to the upstairs flats easily, and was pleasantly pleased to discover that a gentle shove was all it took to open the door. The staircase was steep and plain, and Sherlock closed the door carefully before ascending. The door leading to the first-storey flat boasted a peephole and a buzzer, but Sherlock knocked anyway.
After a few minutes, and without the tell-tale sound of locks being unfastened, Harry Watson opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair hung in damp ropes, and over her shoulder, Sherlock could see the now empty bottle of brandy next to the tumbler. She stared up at him, not surprised or shocked, but looking exactly as if she’d expected him five minutes before.
“Hello,” said Sherlock. “I think there are some things you want to tell me, aren’t there?”
“Yes,” said Harry, and stepped aside to let him in.
*
John was exhausted. It had been a ridiculously long dinner service, on top of the lunch service that had culminated in Sherlock Holmes’ first visit and consequent dismantling of his staff’s egos. Well, egos in the case of Artie; John doubted Molly had any ego to damage. She had spent the evening on the verge of tears, Mary had spent the evening glaring at anyone who looked at her cross-eyed, and Artie had…well, Artie had inspected the pie plate as though it were a diamond he was buying on spec.
John’s leg hurt, his shoulder hurt, his head hurt, his feet hurt. All of this paled to the fact that his heart wasn’t in the keenest shape either; he’s spent the entire dismal evening trying to walk eggshells around Molly, dodge Harry’s unbridled wrath, deflect Mary’s obvious attempts at match-making, remind Artie that he held the power of life or unemployment over him, and what was worse, avoid the gaze of his father and grandfathers from their bird’s-eye view of the dining room.
Ridiculous, to be avoiding the stares of men long dead. John didn’t tend to think that anyone was looking over him; he was sure his forefathers had better things to do. But all the same, every time he glanced at the portraits of the Johns, James, and Hamish, he felt as though they were watching him with equal parts expectation and disappointment.
It didn’t help that Harry was avoiding him as well. John spent an hour trying to corner her to find out what she’d thought of the afternoon, before finally giving up and just concentrating on making sure the four people who showed up for dinner were treated well. Mary actually had a ten-quid tip, so it couldn’t have been half bad.
Or maybe it was pity. John couldn’t really decide.
It wasn’t raining on the walk home, that was something. And Harry had disappeared again, probably to the upstairs flat. John left her to it. If she wanted to wallow in memories of Clara, he wasn’t going to stop her. He planned to do some wallowing back at home himself, or at least some kind of distraction with the hopes of going to sleep without nightmares. Wasn’t much of a hope, but it might have been nice.
John saw the lights in the kitchen the moment he opened the gate, and for a moment, he thought it might have been Harry, drinking herself into a stupor most likely. John swore under his breath, and closed the gate behind him. He didn’t make any effort to keep quiet, even though it would have been good to surprise Harry and maybe shock her into realizing she had a problem. John was past caring about it, frankly. The front door was unlocked; he pushed in, and was about to hang his coat on the hook when he saw it.
A long wool coat that looked oddly familiar, and a blue scarf peeking out from under the collar. Not to mention the music playing on the kitchen radio; instrumental, something classical that John recognized but wouldn’t have been able to name at gunpoint, And the scent - rich and comforting. The sharp scent of ginger, the round comfort of tomatoes, and the tickle in the back of his throat that hinted at onions recently chopped. It was absolutely mouth-watering. Not Harry’s coat; not Harry’s choice in musical selections; definitely not Harry’s cooking. John stilled, instantly on guard.
“Hello?” he called out, and there was a clatter from the kitchen. Motion, and then a tall, slender figure appeared in the doorway.
“Hello,” said Sherlock Holmes, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “I’ve prepared dinner.”
“Excuse me?” asked John, blinking in confusion. He might have been dreaming - Sherlock Holmes, in his kitchen, obviously having cooked something. In his kitchen. Backlit and looking fantastic.
In his kitchen.
“Dinner. A meal one has at the end of the day,” said Sherlock. “It’ll be ready in a moment, I’ve set a place for you at the kitchen table.”
Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen again; John followed him, unsure what else he was supposed to do. The smells intensified when he entered the kitchen, the heady aroma of something appetizing mixing with the sudden realization that John was, in fact, rather hungry. When Sherlock dropped a steaming hot plate of food on the table, between the knife and fork and glasses of water and wine, John correspondingly dropped onto the chair in front of them, and without another word, began to eat.
The chicken had been marinated in the ginger and the onions, sprinkled with salt and pepper and some combination of spices that included cinnamon and cloves. The sweetness of the cinnamon and cloves worked with the tang of the ginger at the back of his tongue, and the skin crackled as he bit into it. Broiled; it would have been better grilled, but John knew the limitations of cooking in late January. The skin kept the meat moist, and it was so tender, it nearly melted in his mouth. John closed his eyes and swallowed.
“Wow,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, and when John opened his eyes, Sherlock was sitting on his right, a pleased expression on his face.
“You’re not eating?” asked John as he cut another piece of chicken.
“I tasted as I cooked,” said Sherlock. “Rather complicated little dish, and I wasn’t entirely certain of the tomato to ginger ratio.”
John frowned. “Wait. Tomatoes and ginger?” He looked down at the meal. “This isn’t the Omani chicken from earlier, is it?”
“I would hope not. Mine is better.”
John was about to defend Molly’s cooking, except he realized that there wasn’t much point, Sherlock was right. He shook his head and had another bite. “Well, it’s fantastic. I haven’t had it this good since-well, in a few years. Did Molly give you the recipe?”
“Please,” said Sherlock crossly. “I do know my craft, thank you, John.”
“You barely had one bite this afternoon!”
Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t need to try any more to determine what was involved. And I wasn’t going to take another bite merely to be polite.”
John shook his head. “How can anyone be such a good cook if they don’t like food?”
“You think I don’t like food?”
“Well, you certainly don’t seem to eat much of it.”
“Because most of the time, it’s not worth eating,” said Sherlock. “I’m hardly going to waste energy on digesting something subpar. Some people might like chips that are coated in oil and salt to the point that it’s all you can taste. Some people might not mind having an overcooked chicken smothered in sauce. If I’m going to eat something, I want it to be worth the effort.”
“If you don’t love it, you don’t swallow?” asked John dryly.
“Precisely,” said Sherlock, and frowned when John snorted. “What?”
“The critic? From the movie?”
“What movie?”
“About the rat who cooks?”
“John. Rats can’t cook.”
John let out a peal of laughter. “You’ve never seen Ratatouille?”
Sherlock frowned. “Is it French?”
John chuckled and turned back to his chicken dinner. “Not exactly. We’ll watch it later.”
“Oh.”
John shifted in his seat. “Or I’ll lend it to you.”
“That’s all right,” said Sherlock, and his voice sounded a bit strained, and strangely bright. “That would…yes.” He swallowed. “I purchased the ingredients for your meal before I came over. So you needn’t worry that I took anything from your larder.”
“Considering the quality of the meal, I wouldn’t have minded if you did.”
“I wasn’t sure what you would have on hand.”
“I do cook, you know,” said John. “I’ve got the basics.”
“There are a surprising number of frozen meals in your deep freeze for a man who can cook.”
“Well, I also work late,” said John.
“Hardly an excuse.”
“Right, sorry, didn’t realize I had to live up to your expectations,” said John, setting down his fork.
“No, John, I-” Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, exasperated. “Let me try again. I’m sure you are a perfectly adequate cook who does not burn the rice or leave the lasagne to bubble over in the oven.”
John gave Sherlock a careful look; the man did appear to be trying to make amends. “I’ve been known to over-salt the porridge, too.”
“As have we all,” said Sherlock gravely, and John chuckled, and picked up his fork again.
“So you went through my pots and pans, did you?”
“I admit, I did not purchase a new set this evening. I assumed you would have something useable here.”
“And you found it - adequate?”
“Quite.”
“And how did you find the house, anyway?” asked John suddenly, looking up. “Pretty sure you didn’t follow me home earlier.”
Sherlock had a good poker face; John couldn’t read it at all. “The address was in the restaurant profile, of course.”
John cocked his head and gave Sherlock a stern look. “I thought you didn’t read the profile?”
“Then I knocked on doors until I found your house,” said Sherlock, rather irritably. “An image which will undoubtedly give you plenty of amusement, I’m sure.”
John thought it would - if it were true. He didn’t believe it, but he let Sherlock think he did and went back to eating the dinner before it grew cold. The silence that fell over the table was comfortable and companionable, and John was hungry. It didn’t take long before he’d finished the meal, drunk the rest of the wine and the water, and stood, pushing the chair back as he stretched.
“That was delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Sherlock, and he reached for the plate. John was faster.
“No, I’ll do the washing up - that was always the rule when I was growing up. Whoever doesn’t cook, cleans.”
“You started as a dishwasher,” said Sherlock, watching John as he crossed to the sink.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m not surprised. Bit too posh to be washing up pots and pans while learning your way.” The hot water splashed as it filled up the sink. John upended the soap into the water for a moment, and started in on the utensils. “Anyway, if you’d been a dishwasher, you’d have known to start soaking or at least rinse out the pans.”
“Well done,” said Sherlock, and John caught the admiration in his tone.
“I might not be as brilliant as you are, but I’m not stupid,” said John.
“Indeed not.” John heard him shift the chair. “I assume Lestrade or Sally went over tomorrow’s schedule with you?”
“Yes. Observation Day - you’ll watch us cook and serve and we’ll presumably not flub anyone’s orders or serve undercooked chicken. Which is of course what the audience is hoping to see, the better to make our miraculous turn-around at the end of the week.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock with some amount of disdain.
“It can’t be any worse than today,” continued John. “We had Anderson with the camera in the corner and we did all right. And most of the customers will be regulars, or at least will be familiar with us, so it’s not as though we’re serving food to celebrities. We’ll just have one in the corner judging our every move.”
“That can be quite the challenge as well.”
“Yes, well, I’m trying to look on the positive. We’re over the worst part.”
“The worst part?”
“Well-” John turned to look at Sherlock, and flashed him a cheeky grin. “Meeting you, of course. But your bark’s worse than your bite, so I think we’ll be all right.”
John turned back to the dishes and began scrubbing at the pan. He heard Sherlock clear his throat. “I hate the observation days.”
“Oh?” asked John, almost absently as he worked at the burnt bits of sauce on the side of the pan. “I suppose they’re a little boring.”
“Not boring,” said Sherlock. “Infuriating.”
John turned to look at him again. There was something about the tone that made him think Sherlock was almost lonesome in the way he said it. Looking at Sherlock’s face confirmed it. The man looked pained.
“Infuriating?”
“Seeing other people try to cook dishes which ought to be simple, and yet they make them complex to the point of inedibility. It’s all I can do not to jump in and show them the proper way to chop vegetables or dress a salad, to present a hot meal on heated plates, to plate a dish so that someone might actually want to eat it and not think it’s a pile of shoe leather. The sheer of amount of idiocy I see on the observation day drives me to distraction, John. Lestrade has had to restrain me countless times from simply walking out and never returning, because there is always a point in which I realize that the restaurant I’m observing has no hope whatsoever of being any good, no matter what I do, because everyone in it is irredeemable. Before the lunchtime service is over, I want to bash my head in - a few times, I’ve wanted it before service even began. And worse is knowing that it’ll happen again tomorrow, and there is nothing I can do except sit there and suffer and know I cannot do anything to make it better.”
John leaned against the counter, a bit stunned at the force of Sherlock’s admission. He had absolutely no doubt that the man meant every word of it; he could see the pain and unsettled feelings on Sherlock’s face.
“But you are going to do something about it,” he said quietly. “You’re going to tell us how to improve. You’re going to fix the Empire.”
“You can’t know that,” said Sherlock. “And you may not like what I’m going to say about it.”
John shrugged. “Does anyone? I trust you, Sherlock. God knows you know more about it than I do. I’ve got to trust you, or I’m lost.”
“You trust me?”
Sherlock’s voice was tentative, and the surprise was etched on his face. John instantly felt small and rather stupid himself, and he turned back to the sink, and began to scrub at the sides of the basin with the sponge. “It’s late.”
“Yes.” Sherlock stood, not entirely sure what to do with his arms or hands. He folded them, then let them drop to his sides, then clasped his hands behind his back. “I should get to my hotel.” He paused. “I should probably find out what hotel I’m in.”
John’s chuckle was amused. “The Tremont, on the High Street. It’s not too far from the Empire. I overheard Sally and Anderson talking about it.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Sherlock paused. “If I do not talk to you tomorrow, you mustn’t be concerned. I’m not good on days like tomorrow. I’ll be rather in a dark mood. Don’t pay me any attention, I’ll come around when the day is over soon enough.”
“Right,” said John, and he turned back to Sherlock. “Well. Thank you for dinner.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock.
There was a half second when John saw the kiss coming, when he knew what was going to happen the moment before it did, when he might have had a chance to stop and think about it - except he didn’t. His mind was blissfully off considering water lilies or something equally ridiculous, and John decided that had to be the reason that one moment, Sherlock was at least four steps away, and the next, they were in each other’s arms, his lips under Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s lips were just a bit cool, but soft on his, and even though Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything, still tasted of pepper and tomatoes and ginger.
Sherlock’s hands were gentle on John’s face, and John’s arms wrapped around him of their own volition - maybe because that’s what arms did, maybe because John was holding him closer, wanting to draw in Sherlock’s cool calm. One thing John did not feel, of all the things he felt, was calm. His head swam, he couldn’t think of anything but the feel of Sherlock against him, in the kitchen with the scent of chicken still hanging in the air. Warm, and comforting, and perfectly delicious and right.
Sherlock’s lips paused, just over his. Millimeters; they still breathed the same air, and John opened his eyes, watched Sherlock’s closed lids pulse, his eyes darting beneath them. Almost as if Sherlock was afraid to open them, afraid of what he’d see. Sherlock’s muscles were tense; John could feel the man’s breath hitch in his chest. John didn’t move, and despite having just kissed a man he’d only seen on television until today, wasn’t tense or nervous or self-conscious. But Sherlock - Sherlock could well have been a skittish pony he was trying to tame, and the idea that Sherlock, self-possessed, egotistical Sherlock could be nervous was absurd. When he finally felt Sherlock relax in his arms, just a bit, the pleased laughter bubbled up inside of John. He chuckled, softly, in the back of his throat.
The chuckle changed everything. Sherlock tensed, opened his eyes, and stepped away. John watched him, and felt the tingle in his skin where Sherlock no longer touched him. His stomach sank as he watched Sherlock became conscious of his limbs and his height.
“Goodnight,” said Sherlock tersely, and the word was the slam of a door, quick and short. Sherlock left the kitchen abruptly, and a moment later, the door to the house echoed the word, with Sherlock’s step on the pavement outside fading into the distance.
John watched Sherlock’s retreat from the kitchen window. It had hardly been the most amazing or intense kiss he’d ever had - but somehow that hadn’t diminished the fact that somehow, John had the idea it might be the most important.
The look on Sherlock’s face when he pulled away, when John had laughed - it hadn’t been horror or regret. It’d been disappointment. John felt the small pang in his chest, and shoved ruthlessly at whatever joy still remained - because as wonderful as it had felt, it had sent Sherlock packing, as if…John groaned. As if he’d been laughing at Sherlock, and not because of the very fact of Sherlock. John wanted to run after him, tell him he was a fucking idiot, drag him back into the house and…
Bugger. Because shagging the man meant to save his restaurant wouldn’t end at all well.
John wondered if he could just stay home the next day. It wasn’t as though he was needed - Harry would just have to step up and run the front of the house. Mary was a good egg, she’d be fine. Molly was capable of running things in the back of the house. John trusted them.
Yes. Stupid notion, kissing Sherlock Holmes, the man meant to save them from ruin. John turned from the window, already planning to go straight to bed, to burrow under the covers and try to forget the kiss even happened, and immediately saw the blue scarf on the floor by the door.
John picked it up and held it in his hands. It was soft and cool, and as John moved the fabric in his hands, he caught the faint whiff of musk and sweat and something sharper and razor-thin, something that brought the gentle pressure of a stolen kiss to the forefront of his mind instantly.
Oh, no. He wasn’t going to make it that easy.
John smiled, folded the scarf, and put it on the kitchen table. He went to bed, and went to sleep, waiting for the nightmares to come.
End A/N: Recipe for Molly’s Chocolate Pie.
Chapter Five