Fic: Mise en Place (5/25)
Title: Mise en Place (5/25)
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: Huge shout-out to dduane on Tumblr who modified Molly’s pie recipe for non-American cooks. Be sure to check out her posts here and here to see what she did (and some truly scrumptious pictures of pie. Mmm, pie.
Thanks to lady_of_clunn, who has volunteered to serve as hospitality!picker for the remainder of the fic. Those who despaired of the creeping Americanisms with stovetops and napkins and oh-my-goodness-no-restaurant-manager-would-do-that, fear no longer. (I’ve also made minor alterations to previously posted chapters, for those of you who are reading this in one big gulp.)
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four
Chapter Five
Chefs are nutters. They're all self-obsessed, delicate, dainty, insecure little souls and absolute psychopaths. Every last one of them.
--Gordon Ramsay
[EXTERIOR, Upper Brickley, sunrise. It is a gorgeous wintery day. The sky is a bit hazy, but nothing that won’t burn off by lunchtime, the frost is thin and sparkling on the ground. It’s the sort of shot that you expect on a postcard.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Friday, Observation Day. A good restaurant manager will always see what goes on both in the front and the back of his house. But seeing is not the same thing as observing, and so I’ll spend the day observing how the Empire kitchen and staff cope with something they don’t have much experience in having: customers.
[EXTERIOR, Training Field. A group of Army recruits, hair recently shorn, wearing combat uniform, stands in formation. A single word, and they shout in unison as they move to parade rest. The camera swoops alongside them, showing sturdy young men staring resolutely ahead of them.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The Empire provides the food, we’ll provide the customers. Considering the history of the Empire’s owners, it’s only appropriate that the guests are some of the British Army’s newest recruits, who have been eating Army grub for the last two weeks. Certainly anything the Empire has to give them, they’ll appreciate, which is good, because I’m not entirely sure anyone else would.
*
John was awake at sunrise. He had, much to his surprise, slept incredibly well, and was strangely buoyant when his eyes opened.
“It’s going to be a good day,” he said, and he almost believed it.
“Bloody hell,” said Harry when she found John in the kitchen cooking breakfast an hour later. “What is that?”
“Sausages,” said John, and tipped the sausages onto a waiting plate. “When did you come home? I thought you were at the flat?”
Harry sat at the kitchen table and looked somewhat green as she stared at the plate of sausages. “Too many ghosts, not enough alcohol. Do you have to be so cheerful in the mornings?”
“It’s going to be a good day,” John told her, and put the plate, piled with sausages, eggs, and toast, in front of her.
Harry stared at the breakfast before pushing the plate away. “Did we jump in time?”
“No.”
“Because today’s the day that Sherlock Holmes is going to rip our hearts out and eat them while a film crew cheers him along. Or did you miss that memo?”
“Well, yeah,” said John. “I meant before that. We’re going to have customers today, Harry.”
“Christ,” said Harry.
“Hopefully not.”
Harry reached for the toast. “Customers. Do we even know who they’re springing on us?”
“No idea,” said John. “Just that we’ll have sixteen tables of four for lunch.”
Harry dropped the toast. “Sixteen tables of…Christ, John! That’s…” Harry’s face wrinkled for a moment before she gave up on trying to do the maths. “Bloody hell, that’s a lot of people!”
“Sixty-four.”
“We can’t serve sixty-four people! We can barely serve six people! The biggest service we’ve had in the last four months was twenty people, and that was before Clara left!”
“It’ll be fine. I have complete faith that we can rise to the challenge.”
Harry snorted.
“What did Mum always say? ‘Be a soufflé, not an omelet’?”
“Soufflés fall,” said Harry darkly, and ate her toast.
*
John’s bravado began to slip the closer he got to the Empire. He had started the day feeling good, feeling positive, and he folded the blue scarf and tucked it under his arm as he set out. Just touching the soft weave, he thought of Sherlock, of soft, hesitant lips - and the almost content expression on Sherlock’s face folding into the hurt before every shield was hastily raised against him.
Something else to fix, thought John. Assuming he wanted it fixed at all. John supposed it would depend on what Sherlock said, when he arrived at the Empire that day. Would he carry on as if nothing had happened? Would he increase the snide and snotty remarks? Or would be pander and put on the pleasant veneer that he used for those he truly could not stand?
He waved to the neighbors, exchanged smiles and pleasant greetings, but he noticed that they were giving him closer looks, their gazes lingering just a little bit too long.
“Exciting weekend plans?” asked Tom on the corner, far too casually, and John realized that he knew. About Sherlock Holmes, about the film crew, about everything.
“Ah, a bit,” said John, disconcerted. “Sorry, have to run, we’ll catch up later, right, Tom?”
“Of course, always look forward to a bit of gossip,” said Tom, and John tried to pick up the pace and avoid anyone else. He was almost successful; everyone seemed to want to drop not entirely veiled innuendo about him, the Empire, or his upcoming plans for the weekend.
He was nearly there when he ran into Jim Moriarty from the bank.
“John,” said Jim, so smoothly and pleasantly, the vowel drawn out in a purr. “So exciting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said John, tired of playing that he had no idea what anyone was talking about. “We’ve got some high hopes, at least.”
“Good to hear,” said Jim, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Imagine. Earning - what was it, seven hundred thousand pounds-”
“Six hundred.”
“Plus interest, don’t forget. Do you think Sherlock can get you that much in three weeks? That’ll make for some absolutely compelling telly, wouldn’t it? I’ll be pulling for you, of course.”
“Ta, appreciate it,” said John. “If you don’t mind-”
“Oh, of course, don’t mean to impede you,” said Jim, and stepped aside. “My best to your sister!”
“Right,” said John, more of a mutter under his breath, and he kept walking.
He was exhausted by the time he reached the restaurant, and instead of going in the back, John fumbled with the keys and entered through the front door. The blinds were still closed; he made no move to open them, and instead collapsed on the nearest chair, and rubbed his leg where it was stiff.
“Christ,” he said under his breath, and glanced at the blue scarf where he’d dropped it on the table.
Could Sherlock turn the Empire around well enough that they’d be able to raise the six hundred thousand pounds? John counted the tables, tried to work out the math, and gave up. It’d take filling the restaurant nearly every night, if not several times over, in order to make that much. Working Mary and Molly and even Artie to the bone, maybe even refraining from hiring additional staff.
They’d need lunches like today. Lunches with customers, lunches where the food was enjoyed, the bills were paid, the kitchen ran smoothly and they were able to close before the dinner rush with smiles on their admittedly exhausted faces.
Today had to be a good day. Because if John was going to save the Empire - if Sherlock Holmes was going to save the bloody Empire - today was going to be the template. If it was anything less than a good day, John didn’t stand a chance.
John hadn’t prayed often in his life, not since he was small and his mother watched his prayers before bed. Once or twice when James had died, and his world was falling apart. When Mary had split with him, and he wasn’t sure where to go next.
Once, in the desert, bleeding out onto the sand.
And now, his heart in this throat, his hands on the rough wooden desk where James and Hamish had once ruled the empire John was trying desperately to save.
“Please, God. Let it be a good day.”
“Boss?”
John opened his eyes. Artie stood at the door to the kitchen, a curious and worried expression on his young face. John wondered if Artie had heard him, and couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he struggled to reach his cane, which had fallen to the floor, and tried to stand.
“Artie. Sorry, I - ah - thought I was alone.”
“Veg order is here,” said Artie, somewhat awkwardly. “They shorted us tomatoes.”
John sighed, and he picked up the scarf from the table. “Right. Ta. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Artie nodded, his eyes still on the scarf. “That yours?”
“No. Just returning it.”
“It’s his, isn’t it?” asked Artie, quite calmly.
“Yes,” said John, and tucked it under his arm. “He left it behind last night.”
Artie nodded, bit his lip, and went back into the kitchen.
“Artie!”
“Veg order!” shouted Artie, not returning, and John sighed and followed him.
He put the scarf in the bottom drawer of the desk in the manager’s office, before anyone else saw it and jumped to a conclusion he wasn’t ready to reach himself.
*
[INTERIOR: The Empire Kitchen. The staff of the Empire stands in the kitchen, looking apprehensive and a little bit brave, listening to SHERLOCK.]
SHERLOCK: So today I’m going to be watching your lunch service. I know that customers can be a bit problematic, so we’ve taken the liberty of inviting the most recent batch of Army recruits to have their first non-Army provided meal here.
[Mouths drop open. In particular, the manager, JOHN, looks most affected; he wheels back a bit, but then stands solid, almost at attention, as he tries to conceal his surprise.]
SHERLOCK cont.: They’ll be hungry and they’ll need to be in and out in two hours, and to make it a little bit easier, we’re only going to offer them a choice of soup or salad, and one of three entrees.
MARY: Not the Russian Herring Salad?
SHERLOCK: Well, we’d rather not kill them.
[Nervous laughter.]
SHERLOCK cont.: Is everyone ready? Wonderful. Off you go.
[SMASH CUT to the Manager’s Office, where SHERLOCK changes from his shirt to a chef’s white button-up jersey. He talks directly to the camera.]
SHERLOCK: Cutting the menu only made sense; Molly is untested as a chef and out of her element at the best of times. And without any help in the kitchen, I believe even three entrees might be too much for her. This bodes to be the worst Observation Day I’ve ever seen.
*
“Ibuprofen,” said Sherlock as Anderson lowered the camera from his shoulder.
“Sorry?”
“Or paracetamol. Christ, I’ll take Lemsip if you have it.”
Lestrade frowned at him. “Are you getting sick?”
“No. I’m going to have a headache.”
“Going to have?”
“She’s not ready for this,” said Sherlock firmly. “None of them are. Sixty-four customers and one chef, one waitress, and one dishwasher? This is a joke. This is an insult.”
Lestrade shrugged. “This is good television.”
“I never thought of you as heartless,” snapped Sherlock as he continued to button his shirt.
“We could have had more than that,” said Lestrade. “You know we don’t pack more in the restaurant than we’re told it can hold, and when Watson signed up, he said they could fit eighty.”
“I need to get into the kitchen,” said Anderson.
“Go,” Lestrade told him, and as soon as he was gone, he lowered his voice. “Look, Sherlock - I don’t like Observation Day any more than you do. But they’ve seen the show. They know what they’re getting into. This isn’t like the first series, when it came as a shock.”
“It’s always a shock,” muttered Sherlock, unable to look at Lestrade. “The managers and chefs - they think they know. But you can’t really until you’re in it.”
“Here,” said Lestrade, and dug into his pocket. “Take these.”
He shoved the half-crumpled box to Sherlock, who peered at the lettering.
“Nicotine patches?” Sherlock frowned and looked up. “You don’t smoke. You’ve never smoked.”
“Not since I’ve known you, no,” said Lestrade, and pulled his sleeve up to show the patch on his forearm. “Go on. I can have Sally run to Boots and pick you up some ibuprofen later, but these should take the edge off.”
Sherlock tore into the box, pulled out the remaining patches, and slapped all three on his arm in a row.
“Ah, Sherlock?”
“I’ll still want the ibuprofen,” said Sherlock, tossing the wrappings.
“Three?”
“I suspect today is going to be a three-patch problem,” said Sherlock dryly.
*
[INTERIOR, Empire dining room. The young recruits are all at their tables, laughing and talking and being very cheerful. Every so often one will shout something and the others will respond, and MARY moves between the tables, trying desperately to serve the various drink orders. And then she lets out a squawk and leaps into the air.]
MARY: Oi!
[The recruits hold up their water glasses like beer steins, jovial and cheerful as can be.]
CUSTOMERS: OI!
MARY: Touch my bum again and I’ll wipe you all from here to Sunday!
CUSTOMER #1: To Sunday!
CUSTOMERS: TO SUNDAY!
*
“I’m going to kill them,” Mary hissed to John when she returned to the bar for more drinks.
“What?”
“He pinched my bum!”
“Rise above it,” said John. “They’re Army, they haven’t seen a bird in weeks.”
“You were in the Army, and you hadn’t seen me in weeks, and you never pinched my bum.”
“Mary…”
“Why was that, anyway?”
“Mary, now is not the time.”
“If another one pinches my bum, I’m going to whack him over the head with my tray,” said Mary, and went to deliver more drinks.
“By all means,” said John, and let his forehead hit the bar.
*
[INTERIOR, Empire Kitchen. Bowls of soup and plates of salad are sitting on the warming table, waiting.]
[Smash cut to SHERLOCK, standing in the corner and looking pained.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Salad on the warming table. Cold salad on the warming table, which is meant to heat things up. Should I tell the soldiers to be thankful it isn’t herring?
*
Mary flew into the kitchen, her eyes wild. “Help,” she gasped. “Artie, help.”
Artie poked his head out of the annex. “What?”
“Artie, I will give you ten percent of my tips, but please, take four bowls of soup to the idiots at Table Four.”
“You can’t have him!” cried Molly. “I need him to dress the salad!”
“You’re the chef!”
“I’m trying to make the Omani chicken!”
“It’s Omani chicken, it’s tomatoes and ginger, how complicated can it be?”
“It’s complicated!” wailed Molly.
Mary glared at Molly. “The idiots at Table Four tried to put their hands up my skirt.”
Molly sucked in her breath. “But they’re on television!”
“I don’t think that’s stopping them,” said Mary crossly. “But they won’t put their hands up Artie’s skirt. ”
“I’m not wearing a skirt,” said Artie.
“Exactly.”
“Molly has me dressing salad,” said Artie.
“I’ll give you ten percent of my tips!”
“Fifty,” said Artie.
“Oh, piss off,” said Mary, and flew out the door with four plates of salad in her arms.
“Artie, I need tomatoes.”
“I brought you tomatoes.”
“I need more tomatoes.”
“Why do you need more tomatoes?”
“It’s chicken with tomatoes, that generally implies that there are tomatoes.”
“I can’t bring you more tomatoes, I’m dressing the salad.”
“Then stop dressing the salad and get me more tomatoes.”
“Why can’t you get the tomatoes?”
“I’m grating ginger.”
“Weren’t you meant to grate ginger earlier?”
“I ran out. Everyone wanted the chicken, no one wanted the noodles.”
Mary flew back into the kitchen.
“Twenty percent.”
“Fifty,” said Artie. “And no skirt.”
Mary made a face, took four salads, and stormed out again.
“I need another pan,” gasped Molly, and reached up for one of the hanging pots. “Artie, where’s my chicken pan?”
“I washed it and put it away.”
“Then why isn’t it here?”
Mary flew back in. “Artie! Forty percent.”
“Fifty!”
Mary let out a groan, grabbed two soups and two salads, and went back out.
“Artie, tomatoes.”
“I can’t get you tomatoes, we’re out of tomatoes.”
Molly turned and stared at him. “Say. That. Again.”
“The veg order was short!” shouted Artie. “And everyone wanted salad and tomatoes go on the salad!”
Molly began to shake. Her face grew red and her hands flexed, and it might have gone badly from there, except Mary raced back in, fit to burst.
“Artie!”
“Forty percent!” said Artie, grabbed four soups, and raced out to deliver them to Table Four.
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. ARTIE delivers soup to the jovial customers at Table Four, who shout happily at his arrival and slap him on the back, nearly knocking ARTIE off his feet and into the next table, where four customers are eating salad. The water glasses tumble, and spill over one of the soldiers, who is pleasant and doesn’t seem to mind too much. JOHN comes over, leaning on his cane, carrying some of the towels from behind the bar.]
JOHN: Sorry, so sorry, corporal.
WET CUSTOMER: It’s all right. Army man?
JOHN: Demobbed a few weeks ago.
WET CUSTOMER: Afghanistan or Iraq?
[The question throws JOHN for a moment and he blinks, and almost smiles, clearly thinking of something else.]
JOHN: Afghanistan. You headed there?
WET CUSTOMER: If we’re lucky!
[Smash cut: the Kitchen. SHERLOCK’s face is contorted, as if he’s struggling against both a headache, and intense need for either nicotine of the non-patch variety, or a gun to shoot himself in the foot. MOLLY whimpers to herself, trying desperately to split one tomato among ten dishes, while at the same time trying to fry the noodles.]
MOLLY (desperately): Tinned tomatoes are all right, aren’t they? Tinned tomatoes. Everyone loves tinned tomatoes. Hurrah tinned tomatoes!
*
John, back at the bar, caught Artie by the arm as he headed into the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing out here, Artie?”
“Mary needed help.”
“What about the dishes?”
“Molly said to leave them, she needed me to dress the salads.”
John frowned. “Then why aren’t you helping Molly?”
“Molly needed tomatoes.”
“Tomatoes?”
John was about to ask what tomatoes had to do with anything when the explosion from the kitchen caught them off guard. For a moment, John forgot where he was, and dropped to the ground, taking Artie with him, as well as the half a dozen empty dishes and bowls, which fell to the floor with a clatter. The resulting crash brought John firmly back to the present.
A moment later, Sherlock put his head through the window.
“Perfectly all right,” he said calmly. “Molly’s noodles simply fried too long. Fire extinguisher?”
“By the annex door,” said John dully, already picking himself off the of the ground.
“Ah, thank you.” Sherlock disappeared again.
“I thought he wasn’t meant to help,” said Artie.
“I don’t think that rule stands when there’s a fire,” said John. He stood cautiously; his leg throbbed, but held as well as it ever did. “Sorry about that.”
“S’alright,” said Artie. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” said John, and shook it off. No time for it, not with a room full of green recruits and a camera watching his every move. “How many more salads and soups to deliver?”
“No idea.”
“Find out and deliver them.”
“What about the tomatoes?”
“Hang the bloody tomatoes.”
John reached under the bar and found the phone, already forming a plan.
*
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MOLLY continues to spin like a top, stirring a large pot of noodles while watching the chicken dishes with an eagle eye. ARTIE is behind her, chopping onions and carrots, and every so often opening a tin of tomatoes. Just visible through the annex door is JOHN, who is already fast at work, emptying and refilling the industrial dishwasher to keep up with the kitchen’s demands. He is sweating, though that’s likely the heat in the annex.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The first course is not the disaster I anticipated, but it was a close thing. The few mishaps in the dining room were accompanied by the train wreck in the kitchen, topped off by Molly’s exploding pasta.
MOLLY: I’m all right!
SHERLOCK: Ah, does this happen often? Exploding pasta?
MOLLY: Oh, not very.
ARTIE: Once or twice a week.
JOHN: Shut up, Artie.
SHERLOCK V.O.: It’s all hands on deck now, as Mary has been completely swamped with more customers than she can handle, and reserves have been called in. John, due to his war injury, cannot handle the trips back and forth and is doing his best with the washing up, while the dishwasher, Artie, has been temporarily promoted to sous.
[Smash cut to ARTIE, chopping carrots quickly. He’s not half bad at it.]
SHERLOCK V.O. cont.: It might be a permanent change, if he’s not fired first.
ARTIE: Bloody hell.
SHERLOCK V.O.: Or permanently injured.
[ARTIE holds his hand, blood already streaming down his arm and through his fingers. MOLLY turns to look and stares for a moment, oddly fascinated, until a small pop from the range catcher her attention again, and she whips her head back to the noodles.]
MOLLY: John!
JOHN: Bloody fuck, Artie.
ARTIE: I don’t feel very...
[ARTIE drops like a rock. MOLLY and JOHN scramble to him.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: So much for the sous.
*
“We can’t actually leave him in the alley,” said Molly, worried. “He’ll freeze.”
“Well, we can’t take him into the manager’s office, he’s out cold. The customers will think we’ve poisoned him,” said John grimly. “I’ve bound up his finger, the cold will slow down his circulation anyway.”
“Mrs Hudson,” gasped Molly. “She could take him for a bit, couldn’t she?”
John grabbed Molly’s face between his hands and kissed her square on the mouth. “Molly Hooper, you’re a genius.”
Molly’s eyes were wide. “I…”
“How do we get him there?”
“I’ll take him,” said Sherlock from the doorway, and John jumped to his feet.
“I forgot you were here,” he said, eyes wide, and realized how stupid that was. Sherlock Holmes was the entire reason for the crowd inside the restaurant.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk this morning.”
“No, it’s all right, I know we were a bit busy-”
“I was running late, the establishing shots-”
“Gorgeous morning for them, though, not too terribly cold either-”
“You weren’t trudging up a deserted country road pretending to be a weary traveler!”
“Just trudging to work, but it was hardly deserted, I think the whole town knows you’re here now-”
“Boys,” said Molly sweetly, “but if you don’t mind, Artie’s bleeding out on the snow.”
“Bugger,” said John, and bent over to grab at Artie’s bandages. “Look, I know you’re not meant to help. We can get this.”
“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, and he walked into the snow and knelt by Artie. “Molly needs to cook lunches and you can hardly carry him yourself. I’ll only be a few minutes, and believe me, it’s a few minutes out of the kitchen that I will well appreciate, as I cannot help in any other way.”
As Sherlock spoke, he lifted Artie’s arms and pulled him into a sitting position. Then, with a practiced ease, he lifted Artie onto his shoulder and stood, carrying the young man in a fireman’s hold.
“Wow,” said Molly, eyes wide.
“Mrs Hudson’s establishment is close by, I assume?”
“The bakery across the street,” said John, his mouth dry.
“Please leave the door unlocked, I’ll return presently,” said Sherlock, and left, Artie’s arms dangling behind him.
“Wow,” breathed Molly again. “He picked up Artie like he didn’t weigh anything.”
“Artie doesn’t weigh anything,” said John, but he couldn’t take his mind of the image of Sherlock, lifting the young man so effortlessly. He was still knelt on the ground where Artie had been. Despite his damp knees, John thought it was probably a very good thing that he was in a position where certain bulges were less noticeable.
“He’ll be all right?”
“Yes, Mrs Hudson will take care of him.”
“All right.” Molly moved back to the door. “John? Are you coming?”
“Oh, in a minute,” said John, and waited for Molly to go back inside before he covered his face with his hands.
“Well, fuck me,” he said to the empty alleyway, and couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.
*
Mary was in the kitchen when Molly came in.
“Where’s John? Where’s Artie?” Mary frowned. “Where’s Sherlock?”
“Sherlock’s carrying Artie to Mrs Hudson,” said Molly. “John is taking care of the resulting hard-on.”
Mary stared at Molly. “You…I…Molly. And here I thought you were innocent.”
Molly turned beet red.
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. Lunch service continues, with the main courses now being delivered. MARY is whipping through tables, setting down plates as fast as she can; she’s assisted by a woman whose face is fuzzed out, clearly someone who did not want to be seen on camera.]
*
“Thanks, Harry,” gasped Mary on her fourth return to the kitchen. “I would never have been able to do this without you.”
“Fine,” said Harry, glancing at the camera nervously. “You’re not filming me, right?”
“I can’t exactly avoid you,” said Anderson.
“Molly! I need more chicken!”
“Five minutes!”
“I don’t want to be on camera!” shrieked Harry.
“I need more chicken now!”
“Deliver noodles instead!”
“I need more noodles, too!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll fuzz out your face. No one will know it’s you.”
“I’ll know it’s me!”
“Well, then don’t tell anyone it’s you!”
“Harry, less chatter, more service!” gasped Mary, and flew out the door and into the dining room again.
“Film me and I will eat your liver for a bedtime snack,” Harry told Anderson, and followed Mary, ducking as she passed in front of the camera.
“She’s a bit tetchy,” said Lestrade, and Molly snorted, peering at the chicken still cooking in the pan.
“You should see her on a bad day.”
“She’s worse?”
“She’s drunker.” Molly stood up, eyes wide. “Oh, wait. I didn’t say that. Don’t put that in.”
Lestrade thought he probably wouldn’t - a drunk manager didn’t much lend itself to gaining the sympathy of the audience. “I won’t,” he promised Molly, and she beamed at him, entirely trusting that he was telling her the truth.
Bit heady, that.
One of the alarms on the oven starting chiming, and Molly jumped to it, quickly moving back into the swing of it. “You’re getting the hang of it,” Lestrade said, watching her.
“Am I? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well, I’m not Sherlock, but it looks to me like you’re doing all right. I’ve seen enough kitchens where the chef has broken into tears by this point.”
“Oh,” said Molly, “there’s still a lot of week left.”
Lestrade laughed as the back door opened and John came in. He glanced at Molly. “Did I miss something?”
“Harry’s helping Mary,” said Molly. “Is Sherlock back?”
“You’d know before I would,” said John, entirely too defensive, and he gathered some of the dirty pans and went back to the sink.
Molly glanced at Lestrade, and gave out a small squeak when she realized that Lestrade was watching her, too. His mouth quirked, just a bit, and he turned his gaze on John again, and lost himself in thought.
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. MARY and the mysterious waitress are dashing around with full trays of food. Every time the mysterious waitress comes anywhere near the camera, she ducks and bends, and turns her face away from the camera, clearly untrusting that the fuzz will hide her identity.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Kitchen fire, spilled water, chopped off finger, lack of key ingredients. Could the kitchen’s day be any worse?
[Desperate to remain anonymous, the mysterious server doesn’t see MARY coming right for her. They crash together, plates of chicken and noodles go flying, sending the food over the pair of them as well as the nearest table and its occupants.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Oh dear. Yes. It could.
[The recruits burst into cheers, catcalls, and laughter. The soldier who has received the brunt of the food stands and gallantly helps MARY and the mysterious server to their feet. The camera zooms in a little on him. He’s got an impressive array of medals on his chest.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Is that…why, yes it is. The Unit Sergeant Major of Chavasse Company from ATC Pirbright. Oh, dear, indeed.
*
“I can’t go back out there,” said Harry in the kitchen. She sat on the stool next to the warming table and wailed. Mary had her arm around her, and was patiently picking noodles out of her hair. “I can’t.”
“Harry, you have to go, there’s no one else!” John had abandoned the washing up in favor of trying to bolster his sister’s confidence. He wasn’t sure which was the more ridiculous task. “It’s just dessert left, very easy, they’re not even being given options.”
“What is dessert?” asked Mary.
“Tiramisu,” said Molly, coming out of the walk-in. She was carrying plates of the dessert in both arms and looked both relieved and completely knackered. “Already plated and ready to go. Best dessert ever.”
“Sherlock liked the pie yesterday,” said Mary, eyeing the tiramisu apprehensively. It wobbled a little on the plate; she could see the water already beginning to form a puddle around the base.
“Well, I can’t make eight pies in one night. But the tiramisu has been defrosting since this morning, it’ll be fine.”
Harry looked up. “This morning?”
“I took it out just before we opened the doors,” said Molly.
“That was two hours ago,” said Harry. “Tiramisu doesn’t defrost that quickly. It needs at least six.”
The kitchen fell silent.
“Oh,” said Molly, faintly. “Well.”
“I’ll tell them it’s a frozen version,” said Mary. “Can we give them beer? Maybe if they’re pissed enough, they won’t notice the ice crystals.”
“No beer,” said John. “But I plan on getting absolutely sloshed when service is over.”
“Oh, good,” said Mary. “I’ll join you.”
*
Sherlock returned, Artie in tow, while Mary slung half-frozen tiramisus at the soldiers. He glanced at Molly, elbow-deep in the sink, and then at Lestrade, who was leaning against the doorframe, chatting her up.
“Hi,” said Artie cheerfully. “I’m on Percocet.”
“Are you now?” asked Lestrade, amused.
“Artie!” said Molly, relieved and concerned all at once; she didn’t see the jealous dismay on Lestrade’s face. “Are you all right?”
“Stitches,” said Sherlock, and dropped Artie to lean on the prep table. He raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, who instantly schooled his expression to something more even-keel. “There’s a walk-in clinic around the corner, as it turns out.”
“Sarah fixed me up,” said Artie, with a goofy grin on his face. “Took me right in front of half the town, she did. Sarah’s lovely.” He sighed, and dropped his head to the table. “The prep table smells like tinned tomatoes.”
“Thank you,” Molly said to Sherlock.
“Did I miss anything?” Sherlock asked Lestrade.
“Bit of a crash while serving out the chicken and noodles, but it’s all cleaned up now,” said Lestrade. “Serving out dessert at the mo. Do you want to review the footage before the all-hands?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, I think I’ve seen enough. Where’s John?”
“Behind the bar,” said Lestrade.
Sherlock nodded absently, and then turned and went back out into the alley. Lestrade frowned, watching him go.
“Do you know what else is lovely? Percocet’s lovely,” said Artie to the prep table. “I think I’ll have it for breakfast from now on. Whoever invented Percocet is lovely.”
“How long have you known John Watson?” Lestrade asked Molly.
“I invented John Watson,” said Artie behind them. “Or maybe the Percocet did.”
“Only since he’s come back from Afghanistan,” said Molly.
“Afghanistan’s lovely, too. It sounds lovely. Afghanistan. Afghanistan. Aff-gann-niss-taaaan.”
“Good bloke? Solid head? Willing to listen to reason, or stubborn as an old goat?” asked Lestrade.
“He’s very focused. I think…he was a bit lost, when he came back. And then he found out the Empire was in trouble, and it’s like every bit of his concentration has been centered here.” Molly strained up on her toes to put one of the pots on the hooks above her station. “It’s a bit intense, sometimes. I think he wants the Empire to succeed more than anything.”
The pot began to slip; Lestrade stepped forward and caught it before it could crash to the floor. He grinned at Molly; she smiled shyly back, and handed him another pot to hang.
“Do anything to achieve that, will he?” asked Lestrade.
Molly glanced at him. “Not very good at casual snooping, are you?”
“Not very, no.”
“He wants to save the Empire, but I don’t think he’s willing to hurt anyone to do it,” said Molly. “He was a doctor, you know. Before he was in the Army.”
“I think I did know, yeah.”
“Well, there you are. Hippocratic oath and all that.”
Lestrade smiled. “I don’t think the Hippocratic oath extends to hurting someone’s feelings.”
Molly frowned. “Sorry?”
“Never mind,” said Lestrade, and he reached for a skillet. “Where’s this go?”
“On a hook by the stove,” said Molly. “You don’t have to help, I know you’re busy.”
“It’s all right,” said Lestrade. “I don’t mind.”
Lestrade glanced at Artie on the prep table as he passed. The boy was giving him something of a manic grin.
“Sherlock’s lovely. So’s John. Think they’re in love yet?” asked Artie, dreamily.
“Hopefully not,” said Lestrade. He hung the pot on its hook, and went back to help Molly with the rest of the pots and pans.
*
End A/N: No personal recipe to share today, but you all had such fun with the chocolate pie last week that I couldn’t help including these two. I made this tiramisu recipe once about two years ago, and it was delicious and worked perfectly. Then about six months ago I gave the recipe to a friend for a dinner party, and despite following the instructions to the letter, for some reason the custard didn’t set. (Neither of us know why.) We improvised by shoving the whole concoction into the freezer: and presto, frozen tiramisu. YUM! I think it actually tasted better this way!
If you’re looking for tiramisu with a twist - this recipe for peanut butter and jelly tiramisu is also pretty easy and tasty. I made it for my sister-in-law who’s a huge fan of pb&j sandwiches, and it was a hit.
Happy cooking, everyone!
Chapter Six
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: Huge shout-out to dduane on Tumblr who modified Molly’s pie recipe for non-American cooks. Be sure to check out her posts here and here to see what she did (and some truly scrumptious pictures of pie. Mmm, pie.
Thanks to lady_of_clunn, who has volunteered to serve as hospitality!picker for the remainder of the fic. Those who despaired of the creeping Americanisms with stovetops and napkins and oh-my-goodness-no-restaurant-manager-would-do-that, fear no longer. (I’ve also made minor alterations to previously posted chapters, for those of you who are reading this in one big gulp.)
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four
Chapter Five
Chefs are nutters. They're all self-obsessed, delicate, dainty, insecure little souls and absolute psychopaths. Every last one of them.
--Gordon Ramsay
[EXTERIOR, Upper Brickley, sunrise. It is a gorgeous wintery day. The sky is a bit hazy, but nothing that won’t burn off by lunchtime, the frost is thin and sparkling on the ground. It’s the sort of shot that you expect on a postcard.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Friday, Observation Day. A good restaurant manager will always see what goes on both in the front and the back of his house. But seeing is not the same thing as observing, and so I’ll spend the day observing how the Empire kitchen and staff cope with something they don’t have much experience in having: customers.
[EXTERIOR, Training Field. A group of Army recruits, hair recently shorn, wearing combat uniform, stands in formation. A single word, and they shout in unison as they move to parade rest. The camera swoops alongside them, showing sturdy young men staring resolutely ahead of them.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The Empire provides the food, we’ll provide the customers. Considering the history of the Empire’s owners, it’s only appropriate that the guests are some of the British Army’s newest recruits, who have been eating Army grub for the last two weeks. Certainly anything the Empire has to give them, they’ll appreciate, which is good, because I’m not entirely sure anyone else would.
*
John was awake at sunrise. He had, much to his surprise, slept incredibly well, and was strangely buoyant when his eyes opened.
“It’s going to be a good day,” he said, and he almost believed it.
“Bloody hell,” said Harry when she found John in the kitchen cooking breakfast an hour later. “What is that?”
“Sausages,” said John, and tipped the sausages onto a waiting plate. “When did you come home? I thought you were at the flat?”
Harry sat at the kitchen table and looked somewhat green as she stared at the plate of sausages. “Too many ghosts, not enough alcohol. Do you have to be so cheerful in the mornings?”
“It’s going to be a good day,” John told her, and put the plate, piled with sausages, eggs, and toast, in front of her.
Harry stared at the breakfast before pushing the plate away. “Did we jump in time?”
“No.”
“Because today’s the day that Sherlock Holmes is going to rip our hearts out and eat them while a film crew cheers him along. Or did you miss that memo?”
“Well, yeah,” said John. “I meant before that. We’re going to have customers today, Harry.”
“Christ,” said Harry.
“Hopefully not.”
Harry reached for the toast. “Customers. Do we even know who they’re springing on us?”
“No idea,” said John. “Just that we’ll have sixteen tables of four for lunch.”
Harry dropped the toast. “Sixteen tables of…Christ, John! That’s…” Harry’s face wrinkled for a moment before she gave up on trying to do the maths. “Bloody hell, that’s a lot of people!”
“Sixty-four.”
“We can’t serve sixty-four people! We can barely serve six people! The biggest service we’ve had in the last four months was twenty people, and that was before Clara left!”
“It’ll be fine. I have complete faith that we can rise to the challenge.”
Harry snorted.
“What did Mum always say? ‘Be a soufflé, not an omelet’?”
“Soufflés fall,” said Harry darkly, and ate her toast.
*
John’s bravado began to slip the closer he got to the Empire. He had started the day feeling good, feeling positive, and he folded the blue scarf and tucked it under his arm as he set out. Just touching the soft weave, he thought of Sherlock, of soft, hesitant lips - and the almost content expression on Sherlock’s face folding into the hurt before every shield was hastily raised against him.
Something else to fix, thought John. Assuming he wanted it fixed at all. John supposed it would depend on what Sherlock said, when he arrived at the Empire that day. Would he carry on as if nothing had happened? Would he increase the snide and snotty remarks? Or would be pander and put on the pleasant veneer that he used for those he truly could not stand?
He waved to the neighbors, exchanged smiles and pleasant greetings, but he noticed that they were giving him closer looks, their gazes lingering just a little bit too long.
“Exciting weekend plans?” asked Tom on the corner, far too casually, and John realized that he knew. About Sherlock Holmes, about the film crew, about everything.
“Ah, a bit,” said John, disconcerted. “Sorry, have to run, we’ll catch up later, right, Tom?”
“Of course, always look forward to a bit of gossip,” said Tom, and John tried to pick up the pace and avoid anyone else. He was almost successful; everyone seemed to want to drop not entirely veiled innuendo about him, the Empire, or his upcoming plans for the weekend.
He was nearly there when he ran into Jim Moriarty from the bank.
“John,” said Jim, so smoothly and pleasantly, the vowel drawn out in a purr. “So exciting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said John, tired of playing that he had no idea what anyone was talking about. “We’ve got some high hopes, at least.”
“Good to hear,” said Jim, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Imagine. Earning - what was it, seven hundred thousand pounds-”
“Six hundred.”
“Plus interest, don’t forget. Do you think Sherlock can get you that much in three weeks? That’ll make for some absolutely compelling telly, wouldn’t it? I’ll be pulling for you, of course.”
“Ta, appreciate it,” said John. “If you don’t mind-”
“Oh, of course, don’t mean to impede you,” said Jim, and stepped aside. “My best to your sister!”
“Right,” said John, more of a mutter under his breath, and he kept walking.
He was exhausted by the time he reached the restaurant, and instead of going in the back, John fumbled with the keys and entered through the front door. The blinds were still closed; he made no move to open them, and instead collapsed on the nearest chair, and rubbed his leg where it was stiff.
“Christ,” he said under his breath, and glanced at the blue scarf where he’d dropped it on the table.
Could Sherlock turn the Empire around well enough that they’d be able to raise the six hundred thousand pounds? John counted the tables, tried to work out the math, and gave up. It’d take filling the restaurant nearly every night, if not several times over, in order to make that much. Working Mary and Molly and even Artie to the bone, maybe even refraining from hiring additional staff.
They’d need lunches like today. Lunches with customers, lunches where the food was enjoyed, the bills were paid, the kitchen ran smoothly and they were able to close before the dinner rush with smiles on their admittedly exhausted faces.
Today had to be a good day. Because if John was going to save the Empire - if Sherlock Holmes was going to save the bloody Empire - today was going to be the template. If it was anything less than a good day, John didn’t stand a chance.
John hadn’t prayed often in his life, not since he was small and his mother watched his prayers before bed. Once or twice when James had died, and his world was falling apart. When Mary had split with him, and he wasn’t sure where to go next.
Once, in the desert, bleeding out onto the sand.
And now, his heart in this throat, his hands on the rough wooden desk where James and Hamish had once ruled the empire John was trying desperately to save.
“Please, God. Let it be a good day.”
“Boss?”
John opened his eyes. Artie stood at the door to the kitchen, a curious and worried expression on his young face. John wondered if Artie had heard him, and couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he struggled to reach his cane, which had fallen to the floor, and tried to stand.
“Artie. Sorry, I - ah - thought I was alone.”
“Veg order is here,” said Artie, somewhat awkwardly. “They shorted us tomatoes.”
John sighed, and he picked up the scarf from the table. “Right. Ta. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Artie nodded, his eyes still on the scarf. “That yours?”
“No. Just returning it.”
“It’s his, isn’t it?” asked Artie, quite calmly.
“Yes,” said John, and tucked it under his arm. “He left it behind last night.”
Artie nodded, bit his lip, and went back into the kitchen.
“Artie!”
“Veg order!” shouted Artie, not returning, and John sighed and followed him.
He put the scarf in the bottom drawer of the desk in the manager’s office, before anyone else saw it and jumped to a conclusion he wasn’t ready to reach himself.
*
[INTERIOR: The Empire Kitchen. The staff of the Empire stands in the kitchen, looking apprehensive and a little bit brave, listening to SHERLOCK.]
SHERLOCK: So today I’m going to be watching your lunch service. I know that customers can be a bit problematic, so we’ve taken the liberty of inviting the most recent batch of Army recruits to have their first non-Army provided meal here.
[Mouths drop open. In particular, the manager, JOHN, looks most affected; he wheels back a bit, but then stands solid, almost at attention, as he tries to conceal his surprise.]
SHERLOCK cont.: They’ll be hungry and they’ll need to be in and out in two hours, and to make it a little bit easier, we’re only going to offer them a choice of soup or salad, and one of three entrees.
MARY: Not the Russian Herring Salad?
SHERLOCK: Well, we’d rather not kill them.
[Nervous laughter.]
SHERLOCK cont.: Is everyone ready? Wonderful. Off you go.
[SMASH CUT to the Manager’s Office, where SHERLOCK changes from his shirt to a chef’s white button-up jersey. He talks directly to the camera.]
SHERLOCK: Cutting the menu only made sense; Molly is untested as a chef and out of her element at the best of times. And without any help in the kitchen, I believe even three entrees might be too much for her. This bodes to be the worst Observation Day I’ve ever seen.
*
“Ibuprofen,” said Sherlock as Anderson lowered the camera from his shoulder.
“Sorry?”
“Or paracetamol. Christ, I’ll take Lemsip if you have it.”
Lestrade frowned at him. “Are you getting sick?”
“No. I’m going to have a headache.”
“Going to have?”
“She’s not ready for this,” said Sherlock firmly. “None of them are. Sixty-four customers and one chef, one waitress, and one dishwasher? This is a joke. This is an insult.”
Lestrade shrugged. “This is good television.”
“I never thought of you as heartless,” snapped Sherlock as he continued to button his shirt.
“We could have had more than that,” said Lestrade. “You know we don’t pack more in the restaurant than we’re told it can hold, and when Watson signed up, he said they could fit eighty.”
“I need to get into the kitchen,” said Anderson.
“Go,” Lestrade told him, and as soon as he was gone, he lowered his voice. “Look, Sherlock - I don’t like Observation Day any more than you do. But they’ve seen the show. They know what they’re getting into. This isn’t like the first series, when it came as a shock.”
“It’s always a shock,” muttered Sherlock, unable to look at Lestrade. “The managers and chefs - they think they know. But you can’t really until you’re in it.”
“Here,” said Lestrade, and dug into his pocket. “Take these.”
He shoved the half-crumpled box to Sherlock, who peered at the lettering.
“Nicotine patches?” Sherlock frowned and looked up. “You don’t smoke. You’ve never smoked.”
“Not since I’ve known you, no,” said Lestrade, and pulled his sleeve up to show the patch on his forearm. “Go on. I can have Sally run to Boots and pick you up some ibuprofen later, but these should take the edge off.”
Sherlock tore into the box, pulled out the remaining patches, and slapped all three on his arm in a row.
“Ah, Sherlock?”
“I’ll still want the ibuprofen,” said Sherlock, tossing the wrappings.
“Three?”
“I suspect today is going to be a three-patch problem,” said Sherlock dryly.
*
[INTERIOR, Empire dining room. The young recruits are all at their tables, laughing and talking and being very cheerful. Every so often one will shout something and the others will respond, and MARY moves between the tables, trying desperately to serve the various drink orders. And then she lets out a squawk and leaps into the air.]
MARY: Oi!
[The recruits hold up their water glasses like beer steins, jovial and cheerful as can be.]
CUSTOMERS: OI!
MARY: Touch my bum again and I’ll wipe you all from here to Sunday!
CUSTOMER #1: To Sunday!
CUSTOMERS: TO SUNDAY!
*
“I’m going to kill them,” Mary hissed to John when she returned to the bar for more drinks.
“What?”
“He pinched my bum!”
“Rise above it,” said John. “They’re Army, they haven’t seen a bird in weeks.”
“You were in the Army, and you hadn’t seen me in weeks, and you never pinched my bum.”
“Mary…”
“Why was that, anyway?”
“Mary, now is not the time.”
“If another one pinches my bum, I’m going to whack him over the head with my tray,” said Mary, and went to deliver more drinks.
“By all means,” said John, and let his forehead hit the bar.
*
[INTERIOR, Empire Kitchen. Bowls of soup and plates of salad are sitting on the warming table, waiting.]
[Smash cut to SHERLOCK, standing in the corner and looking pained.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Salad on the warming table. Cold salad on the warming table, which is meant to heat things up. Should I tell the soldiers to be thankful it isn’t herring?
*
Mary flew into the kitchen, her eyes wild. “Help,” she gasped. “Artie, help.”
Artie poked his head out of the annex. “What?”
“Artie, I will give you ten percent of my tips, but please, take four bowls of soup to the idiots at Table Four.”
“You can’t have him!” cried Molly. “I need him to dress the salad!”
“You’re the chef!”
“I’m trying to make the Omani chicken!”
“It’s Omani chicken, it’s tomatoes and ginger, how complicated can it be?”
“It’s complicated!” wailed Molly.
Mary glared at Molly. “The idiots at Table Four tried to put their hands up my skirt.”
Molly sucked in her breath. “But they’re on television!”
“I don’t think that’s stopping them,” said Mary crossly. “But they won’t put their hands up Artie’s skirt. ”
“I’m not wearing a skirt,” said Artie.
“Exactly.”
“Molly has me dressing salad,” said Artie.
“I’ll give you ten percent of my tips!”
“Fifty,” said Artie.
“Oh, piss off,” said Mary, and flew out the door with four plates of salad in her arms.
“Artie, I need tomatoes.”
“I brought you tomatoes.”
“I need more tomatoes.”
“Why do you need more tomatoes?”
“It’s chicken with tomatoes, that generally implies that there are tomatoes.”
“I can’t bring you more tomatoes, I’m dressing the salad.”
“Then stop dressing the salad and get me more tomatoes.”
“Why can’t you get the tomatoes?”
“I’m grating ginger.”
“Weren’t you meant to grate ginger earlier?”
“I ran out. Everyone wanted the chicken, no one wanted the noodles.”
Mary flew back into the kitchen.
“Twenty percent.”
“Fifty,” said Artie. “And no skirt.”
Mary made a face, took four salads, and stormed out again.
“I need another pan,” gasped Molly, and reached up for one of the hanging pots. “Artie, where’s my chicken pan?”
“I washed it and put it away.”
“Then why isn’t it here?”
Mary flew back in. “Artie! Forty percent.”
“Fifty!”
Mary let out a groan, grabbed two soups and two salads, and went back out.
“Artie, tomatoes.”
“I can’t get you tomatoes, we’re out of tomatoes.”
Molly turned and stared at him. “Say. That. Again.”
“The veg order was short!” shouted Artie. “And everyone wanted salad and tomatoes go on the salad!”
Molly began to shake. Her face grew red and her hands flexed, and it might have gone badly from there, except Mary raced back in, fit to burst.
“Artie!”
“Forty percent!” said Artie, grabbed four soups, and raced out to deliver them to Table Four.
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. ARTIE delivers soup to the jovial customers at Table Four, who shout happily at his arrival and slap him on the back, nearly knocking ARTIE off his feet and into the next table, where four customers are eating salad. The water glasses tumble, and spill over one of the soldiers, who is pleasant and doesn’t seem to mind too much. JOHN comes over, leaning on his cane, carrying some of the towels from behind the bar.]
JOHN: Sorry, so sorry, corporal.
WET CUSTOMER: It’s all right. Army man?
JOHN: Demobbed a few weeks ago.
WET CUSTOMER: Afghanistan or Iraq?
[The question throws JOHN for a moment and he blinks, and almost smiles, clearly thinking of something else.]
JOHN: Afghanistan. You headed there?
WET CUSTOMER: If we’re lucky!
[Smash cut: the Kitchen. SHERLOCK’s face is contorted, as if he’s struggling against both a headache, and intense need for either nicotine of the non-patch variety, or a gun to shoot himself in the foot. MOLLY whimpers to herself, trying desperately to split one tomato among ten dishes, while at the same time trying to fry the noodles.]
MOLLY (desperately): Tinned tomatoes are all right, aren’t they? Tinned tomatoes. Everyone loves tinned tomatoes. Hurrah tinned tomatoes!
*
John, back at the bar, caught Artie by the arm as he headed into the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing out here, Artie?”
“Mary needed help.”
“What about the dishes?”
“Molly said to leave them, she needed me to dress the salads.”
John frowned. “Then why aren’t you helping Molly?”
“Molly needed tomatoes.”
“Tomatoes?”
John was about to ask what tomatoes had to do with anything when the explosion from the kitchen caught them off guard. For a moment, John forgot where he was, and dropped to the ground, taking Artie with him, as well as the half a dozen empty dishes and bowls, which fell to the floor with a clatter. The resulting crash brought John firmly back to the present.
A moment later, Sherlock put his head through the window.
“Perfectly all right,” he said calmly. “Molly’s noodles simply fried too long. Fire extinguisher?”
“By the annex door,” said John dully, already picking himself off the of the ground.
“Ah, thank you.” Sherlock disappeared again.
“I thought he wasn’t meant to help,” said Artie.
“I don’t think that rule stands when there’s a fire,” said John. He stood cautiously; his leg throbbed, but held as well as it ever did. “Sorry about that.”
“S’alright,” said Artie. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” said John, and shook it off. No time for it, not with a room full of green recruits and a camera watching his every move. “How many more salads and soups to deliver?”
“No idea.”
“Find out and deliver them.”
“What about the tomatoes?”
“Hang the bloody tomatoes.”
John reached under the bar and found the phone, already forming a plan.
*
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MOLLY continues to spin like a top, stirring a large pot of noodles while watching the chicken dishes with an eagle eye. ARTIE is behind her, chopping onions and carrots, and every so often opening a tin of tomatoes. Just visible through the annex door is JOHN, who is already fast at work, emptying and refilling the industrial dishwasher to keep up with the kitchen’s demands. He is sweating, though that’s likely the heat in the annex.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The first course is not the disaster I anticipated, but it was a close thing. The few mishaps in the dining room were accompanied by the train wreck in the kitchen, topped off by Molly’s exploding pasta.
MOLLY: I’m all right!
SHERLOCK: Ah, does this happen often? Exploding pasta?
MOLLY: Oh, not very.
ARTIE: Once or twice a week.
JOHN: Shut up, Artie.
SHERLOCK V.O.: It’s all hands on deck now, as Mary has been completely swamped with more customers than she can handle, and reserves have been called in. John, due to his war injury, cannot handle the trips back and forth and is doing his best with the washing up, while the dishwasher, Artie, has been temporarily promoted to sous.
[Smash cut to ARTIE, chopping carrots quickly. He’s not half bad at it.]
SHERLOCK V.O. cont.: It might be a permanent change, if he’s not fired first.
ARTIE: Bloody hell.
SHERLOCK V.O.: Or permanently injured.
[ARTIE holds his hand, blood already streaming down his arm and through his fingers. MOLLY turns to look and stares for a moment, oddly fascinated, until a small pop from the range catcher her attention again, and she whips her head back to the noodles.]
MOLLY: John!
JOHN: Bloody fuck, Artie.
ARTIE: I don’t feel very...
[ARTIE drops like a rock. MOLLY and JOHN scramble to him.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: So much for the sous.
*
“We can’t actually leave him in the alley,” said Molly, worried. “He’ll freeze.”
“Well, we can’t take him into the manager’s office, he’s out cold. The customers will think we’ve poisoned him,” said John grimly. “I’ve bound up his finger, the cold will slow down his circulation anyway.”
“Mrs Hudson,” gasped Molly. “She could take him for a bit, couldn’t she?”
John grabbed Molly’s face between his hands and kissed her square on the mouth. “Molly Hooper, you’re a genius.”
Molly’s eyes were wide. “I…”
“How do we get him there?”
“I’ll take him,” said Sherlock from the doorway, and John jumped to his feet.
“I forgot you were here,” he said, eyes wide, and realized how stupid that was. Sherlock Holmes was the entire reason for the crowd inside the restaurant.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk this morning.”
“No, it’s all right, I know we were a bit busy-”
“I was running late, the establishing shots-”
“Gorgeous morning for them, though, not too terribly cold either-”
“You weren’t trudging up a deserted country road pretending to be a weary traveler!”
“Just trudging to work, but it was hardly deserted, I think the whole town knows you’re here now-”
“Boys,” said Molly sweetly, “but if you don’t mind, Artie’s bleeding out on the snow.”
“Bugger,” said John, and bent over to grab at Artie’s bandages. “Look, I know you’re not meant to help. We can get this.”
“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, and he walked into the snow and knelt by Artie. “Molly needs to cook lunches and you can hardly carry him yourself. I’ll only be a few minutes, and believe me, it’s a few minutes out of the kitchen that I will well appreciate, as I cannot help in any other way.”
As Sherlock spoke, he lifted Artie’s arms and pulled him into a sitting position. Then, with a practiced ease, he lifted Artie onto his shoulder and stood, carrying the young man in a fireman’s hold.
“Wow,” said Molly, eyes wide.
“Mrs Hudson’s establishment is close by, I assume?”
“The bakery across the street,” said John, his mouth dry.
“Please leave the door unlocked, I’ll return presently,” said Sherlock, and left, Artie’s arms dangling behind him.
“Wow,” breathed Molly again. “He picked up Artie like he didn’t weigh anything.”
“Artie doesn’t weigh anything,” said John, but he couldn’t take his mind of the image of Sherlock, lifting the young man so effortlessly. He was still knelt on the ground where Artie had been. Despite his damp knees, John thought it was probably a very good thing that he was in a position where certain bulges were less noticeable.
“He’ll be all right?”
“Yes, Mrs Hudson will take care of him.”
“All right.” Molly moved back to the door. “John? Are you coming?”
“Oh, in a minute,” said John, and waited for Molly to go back inside before he covered his face with his hands.
“Well, fuck me,” he said to the empty alleyway, and couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.
*
Mary was in the kitchen when Molly came in.
“Where’s John? Where’s Artie?” Mary frowned. “Where’s Sherlock?”
“Sherlock’s carrying Artie to Mrs Hudson,” said Molly. “John is taking care of the resulting hard-on.”
Mary stared at Molly. “You…I…Molly. And here I thought you were innocent.”
Molly turned beet red.
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. Lunch service continues, with the main courses now being delivered. MARY is whipping through tables, setting down plates as fast as she can; she’s assisted by a woman whose face is fuzzed out, clearly someone who did not want to be seen on camera.]
*
“Thanks, Harry,” gasped Mary on her fourth return to the kitchen. “I would never have been able to do this without you.”
“Fine,” said Harry, glancing at the camera nervously. “You’re not filming me, right?”
“I can’t exactly avoid you,” said Anderson.
“Molly! I need more chicken!”
“Five minutes!”
“I don’t want to be on camera!” shrieked Harry.
“I need more chicken now!”
“Deliver noodles instead!”
“I need more noodles, too!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll fuzz out your face. No one will know it’s you.”
“I’ll know it’s me!”
“Well, then don’t tell anyone it’s you!”
“Harry, less chatter, more service!” gasped Mary, and flew out the door and into the dining room again.
“Film me and I will eat your liver for a bedtime snack,” Harry told Anderson, and followed Mary, ducking as she passed in front of the camera.
“She’s a bit tetchy,” said Lestrade, and Molly snorted, peering at the chicken still cooking in the pan.
“You should see her on a bad day.”
“She’s worse?”
“She’s drunker.” Molly stood up, eyes wide. “Oh, wait. I didn’t say that. Don’t put that in.”
Lestrade thought he probably wouldn’t - a drunk manager didn’t much lend itself to gaining the sympathy of the audience. “I won’t,” he promised Molly, and she beamed at him, entirely trusting that he was telling her the truth.
Bit heady, that.
One of the alarms on the oven starting chiming, and Molly jumped to it, quickly moving back into the swing of it. “You’re getting the hang of it,” Lestrade said, watching her.
“Am I? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well, I’m not Sherlock, but it looks to me like you’re doing all right. I’ve seen enough kitchens where the chef has broken into tears by this point.”
“Oh,” said Molly, “there’s still a lot of week left.”
Lestrade laughed as the back door opened and John came in. He glanced at Molly. “Did I miss something?”
“Harry’s helping Mary,” said Molly. “Is Sherlock back?”
“You’d know before I would,” said John, entirely too defensive, and he gathered some of the dirty pans and went back to the sink.
Molly glanced at Lestrade, and gave out a small squeak when she realized that Lestrade was watching her, too. His mouth quirked, just a bit, and he turned his gaze on John again, and lost himself in thought.
*
[INTERIOR, Dining room. MARY and the mysterious waitress are dashing around with full trays of food. Every time the mysterious waitress comes anywhere near the camera, she ducks and bends, and turns her face away from the camera, clearly untrusting that the fuzz will hide her identity.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Kitchen fire, spilled water, chopped off finger, lack of key ingredients. Could the kitchen’s day be any worse?
[Desperate to remain anonymous, the mysterious server doesn’t see MARY coming right for her. They crash together, plates of chicken and noodles go flying, sending the food over the pair of them as well as the nearest table and its occupants.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Oh dear. Yes. It could.
[The recruits burst into cheers, catcalls, and laughter. The soldier who has received the brunt of the food stands and gallantly helps MARY and the mysterious server to their feet. The camera zooms in a little on him. He’s got an impressive array of medals on his chest.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: Is that…why, yes it is. The Unit Sergeant Major of Chavasse Company from ATC Pirbright. Oh, dear, indeed.
*
“I can’t go back out there,” said Harry in the kitchen. She sat on the stool next to the warming table and wailed. Mary had her arm around her, and was patiently picking noodles out of her hair. “I can’t.”
“Harry, you have to go, there’s no one else!” John had abandoned the washing up in favor of trying to bolster his sister’s confidence. He wasn’t sure which was the more ridiculous task. “It’s just dessert left, very easy, they’re not even being given options.”
“What is dessert?” asked Mary.
“Tiramisu,” said Molly, coming out of the walk-in. She was carrying plates of the dessert in both arms and looked both relieved and completely knackered. “Already plated and ready to go. Best dessert ever.”
“Sherlock liked the pie yesterday,” said Mary, eyeing the tiramisu apprehensively. It wobbled a little on the plate; she could see the water already beginning to form a puddle around the base.
“Well, I can’t make eight pies in one night. But the tiramisu has been defrosting since this morning, it’ll be fine.”
Harry looked up. “This morning?”
“I took it out just before we opened the doors,” said Molly.
“That was two hours ago,” said Harry. “Tiramisu doesn’t defrost that quickly. It needs at least six.”
The kitchen fell silent.
“Oh,” said Molly, faintly. “Well.”
“I’ll tell them it’s a frozen version,” said Mary. “Can we give them beer? Maybe if they’re pissed enough, they won’t notice the ice crystals.”
“No beer,” said John. “But I plan on getting absolutely sloshed when service is over.”
“Oh, good,” said Mary. “I’ll join you.”
*
Sherlock returned, Artie in tow, while Mary slung half-frozen tiramisus at the soldiers. He glanced at Molly, elbow-deep in the sink, and then at Lestrade, who was leaning against the doorframe, chatting her up.
“Hi,” said Artie cheerfully. “I’m on Percocet.”
“Are you now?” asked Lestrade, amused.
“Artie!” said Molly, relieved and concerned all at once; she didn’t see the jealous dismay on Lestrade’s face. “Are you all right?”
“Stitches,” said Sherlock, and dropped Artie to lean on the prep table. He raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, who instantly schooled his expression to something more even-keel. “There’s a walk-in clinic around the corner, as it turns out.”
“Sarah fixed me up,” said Artie, with a goofy grin on his face. “Took me right in front of half the town, she did. Sarah’s lovely.” He sighed, and dropped his head to the table. “The prep table smells like tinned tomatoes.”
“Thank you,” Molly said to Sherlock.
“Did I miss anything?” Sherlock asked Lestrade.
“Bit of a crash while serving out the chicken and noodles, but it’s all cleaned up now,” said Lestrade. “Serving out dessert at the mo. Do you want to review the footage before the all-hands?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, I think I’ve seen enough. Where’s John?”
“Behind the bar,” said Lestrade.
Sherlock nodded absently, and then turned and went back out into the alley. Lestrade frowned, watching him go.
“Do you know what else is lovely? Percocet’s lovely,” said Artie to the prep table. “I think I’ll have it for breakfast from now on. Whoever invented Percocet is lovely.”
“How long have you known John Watson?” Lestrade asked Molly.
“I invented John Watson,” said Artie behind them. “Or maybe the Percocet did.”
“Only since he’s come back from Afghanistan,” said Molly.
“Afghanistan’s lovely, too. It sounds lovely. Afghanistan. Afghanistan. Aff-gann-niss-taaaan.”
“Good bloke? Solid head? Willing to listen to reason, or stubborn as an old goat?” asked Lestrade.
“He’s very focused. I think…he was a bit lost, when he came back. And then he found out the Empire was in trouble, and it’s like every bit of his concentration has been centered here.” Molly strained up on her toes to put one of the pots on the hooks above her station. “It’s a bit intense, sometimes. I think he wants the Empire to succeed more than anything.”
The pot began to slip; Lestrade stepped forward and caught it before it could crash to the floor. He grinned at Molly; she smiled shyly back, and handed him another pot to hang.
“Do anything to achieve that, will he?” asked Lestrade.
Molly glanced at him. “Not very good at casual snooping, are you?”
“Not very, no.”
“He wants to save the Empire, but I don’t think he’s willing to hurt anyone to do it,” said Molly. “He was a doctor, you know. Before he was in the Army.”
“I think I did know, yeah.”
“Well, there you are. Hippocratic oath and all that.”
Lestrade smiled. “I don’t think the Hippocratic oath extends to hurting someone’s feelings.”
Molly frowned. “Sorry?”
“Never mind,” said Lestrade, and he reached for a skillet. “Where’s this go?”
“On a hook by the stove,” said Molly. “You don’t have to help, I know you’re busy.”
“It’s all right,” said Lestrade. “I don’t mind.”
Lestrade glanced at Artie on the prep table as he passed. The boy was giving him something of a manic grin.
“Sherlock’s lovely. So’s John. Think they’re in love yet?” asked Artie, dreamily.
“Hopefully not,” said Lestrade. He hung the pot on its hook, and went back to help Molly with the rest of the pots and pans.
*
End A/N: No personal recipe to share today, but you all had such fun with the chocolate pie last week that I couldn’t help including these two. I made this tiramisu recipe once about two years ago, and it was delicious and worked perfectly. Then about six months ago I gave the recipe to a friend for a dinner party, and despite following the instructions to the letter, for some reason the custard didn’t set. (Neither of us know why.) We improvised by shoving the whole concoction into the freezer: and presto, frozen tiramisu. YUM! I think it actually tasted better this way!
If you’re looking for tiramisu with a twist - this recipe for peanut butter and jelly tiramisu is also pretty easy and tasty. I made it for my sister-in-law who’s a huge fan of pb&j sandwiches, and it was a hit.
Happy cooking, everyone!
Chapter Six