Fic: Mise en Place (7/25)
Title: Mise en Place (7/25)
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: I went away this weekend, and when I returned, I discovered that a reader who wishes to remain anonymous had sent me a lovely book cover for Mise. I’m quite overwhelmed and terribly in love with it, and I’ve posted it on the prologue so you can all enjoy it too!
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six
Chapter Seven
Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: They distract the mind from food!
--Agatha Christie (Death on the Nile)
[Interior, Dining Room, Friday night service. It’s busy and loud and energetic. MARY is talking to some guests.]
MARY: The chicken is very good, I had it myself tonight.
CUSTOMER #1: And no stomach aches yet?
[Laughter, but MARY’s is somewhat strained. Cut to the bar, where JOHN is serving up drinks. His hands are steady, but his grin is a bit brittle, and he keeps glancing behind him, into the kitchen.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The dinner rush is somewhat more rushed than normal; word is out in town that there’s someone at the Empire, and people are coming in droves. Which for the Empire, means there are more customers in one night than they’ve seen in a week.
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MOLLY is already spinning like a top, eyes wide, hair falling from her ponytail, five things on the stove and four in the oven and she spins so quickly, she runs into ARTIE and sends a tray of puddings flying.]
MOLLY: Ack!
SHERLOCK V.O.: Par for the course, actually.
[Montage. MOLLY drops a pan of chicken onto the floor. MOLLY spills olive oil onto the range. MOLLY backs into ARTIE, knocking the prep table, and a half dozen eggs roll off.]
MOLLY: Can I go home now?
[INTERIOR, Dining room. People are looking somewhat impatient. Other people are trying their first bites of dinner.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: It takes well over an hour before anyone is given food to eat. The reactions are predictable.
CUSTOMER #2: Eugh. Was this a shoe once?
[One person puts a forkful of food in their mouth, and removes the fork a moment later, the food still intact. Another person takes a bite, and immediately chugs their glass of wine.]
CUSTOMER #3 (to the camera, red-faced and cheery): How do I like the meal? Well, with enough alcohol, anything’s possible.
*
Dinner went somewhat more smoothly than lunch, despite the return of the full menu. At least, John thought so, but he was kept busy either at the bar, serving up drinks, or showing the rush of customers to their seats. Apart from the tables who’d actually bothered to make their reservations for the night, there were another couple of dozen diners who just showed up, either familiar enough with the Empire’s track record that they didn’t believe a reservation was necessary (and in truth, it seldom was anymore), or they noticed the busy dining room and decided to drop in and see what was going on.
Or at least try for a glimpse of Sherlock. Everyone was made to sign a waiver before so much as entering the restaurant, and John saw nearly everyone twist and turn and vie for seats with better views of the kitchen doors, eager for a look of the celebrity in town.
“Sell more booze,” Harry muttered to John from the kitchen, where she was taking Artie place in the annex. It was a safer location than the bar, where she’d continue to be dodging the cameras, and also kept her away from the alcohol - although John wasn’t about to admit that was a reason to keep Harry in the back. At least by the sink, her back was to the camera, and Artie, whose hand was still bandaged, was at least useful in clearing tables, and helping Molly from time to time.
“Why do I need to sell more booze?” asked John. “The kitchen’s a bit slow, but it’s not that bad.”
“We get great markup on the booze,” said Harry. “If there’s customers, we might as well make some money off of them.”
John opened his mouth to object, but rolled his eyes instead. He gathered all the tumblers he could carry and went back out to the front of house.
The other advantage to being behind the bar was that it gave John a good view of the dining room, as well as the kitchen through the window. It didn’t hurt that Sherlock sat on the other side of the window, quietly observing the evening’s action from a stool in the corner. John was too busy to really sit and look at him, but every time he caught a glimpse, Sherlock looked lost in thought, his fingers steepled beneath his nose. Every so often, he would wince, somewhat pained, and let out a paper-thin elongated sigh.
“What?” asked John finally, unable to keep the question bottled in. It was barely an hour into the dinner service; the first tables seated were only now getting their main courses, and nearly everyone was perfectly happy to booze it up while they waited, though John could see plenty of people glancing at their watches with amused looks, and digging into their purses or pockets for snacks. Well, at least they’d come prepared. Molly was in the weeds, and John wasn’t all that confident she’d find her way out before midnight, even with Artie’s assistance. “What did you see?”
“Please don’t disturb me,” was all Sherlock said, and John turned his back on him and concentrated on making a whiskey sour.
It was a long night, and when John finally closed the door on the last customer, it was gone eleven, and Molly was a crying wreck on the kitchen floor. The dining room was a shambles, Artie was nowhere to be seen, Mary was trying to comfort Molly, and Harry was doggedly determined to wash every last dish before anyone went home to sleep.
John threw the lock on the door, and let his forehead rest against the glass. Somewhere behind him, the camera recorded him doing this. It seemed natural, somehow, to remain standing and let Anderson get the footage he needed, and John waited patiently, wondering what the shot would look like in the end. He could almost hear Sherlock’s voice-over, saying something in that dry and barely amused voice which would make him look rather pitiful and hopeless. John felt almost pitiful and hopeless, and that was stupid, because it’d been a good night, the restaurant had been full, Mary had been working her very best, they’d brought in well over four thousand quid on alcohol alone.
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough. Four thousand a night, times twenty nights - they might make a dent in what they owed the bank, but it wouldn’t be enough, not with the type of loan Harry had been stupid enough to negotiate.
Molly might have been in the weeds. But John and Harry were in the fucking swamp.
“Sod it all,” said John to the doorknob, and reached up to turn the sign to “closed”. He lowered the blinds and went to strip the tables of the tablecloths.
Over to the side, Anderson switched off the stationary camera. “That went well.”
“Did it?” asked John evenly. He didn’t know what sort of “well” Anderson meant, and didn’t much care.
“Got a lot of good footage,” said Anderson. “Always hard to get the right reaction shot, you have to really pick who you’re going to try for, who might make the best expression when they taste something vile. Half the time it’s over the top, because everyone wants to be on the telly, so they play up their disgust, you know? But your customers like you, they kept their disgust pretty natural. It’ll look great on telly.”
John sighed. “Thanks for that.”
“Big day tomorrow,” said Anderson, as he packed the shoulder-mounted camera away.
“Oh?”
“Sure,” said Anderson. “Tomorrow’s when the real work starts. You think today was hard? Wait until Sherlock gets his hands on you.”
John flashed back to the manager’s office, and the feel of Sherlock’s hands against his skin.
“Ah,” he said, and it came out somewhat mangled. Anderson gave him an odd look, but went back to packing the camera.
“Don’t know what they see in him,” continued Anderson. “Right tosser, but he’s never wanting for someone to warm his bed, wherever we go. Guess that’s what comes with celebrity.”
John held himself still. “Is that right.”
“I remember this one bird in Edinburgh - or was it a bloke? No, the bloke was Truro, the bird in Edinburgh, though she was-”
“Sam.” Sally Donovan’s voice cut through just as Anderson was clearly getting warmed up to his story, and Anderson turned back to his camera equipment. “Are you about done? I’m knackered.”
“Right, sorry,” said Anderson, and he slung the bag of tapes over his shoulder. “See you in the morning mate.”
“Right,” said John, and he watched Anderson unlock the front door and head out into the street, the bell on the door tinkling merrily as it swung closed. Sally stayed behind a moment, biting her lip. “Was there anything you needed?”
“No,” said Sally, but she didn’t sound certain. And then she dove right in. “Look…I don’t want to interfere, but - stay away from him.”
“Anderson?”
“Sherlock. You know why he does this, right? He doesn’t really want to help you or the Empire. He doesn’t care about any of the restaurants he visits. He doesn’t even get paid all that much. He gets off on it, on everyone else’s failure. And the worse the restaurant, the more he gets off. One day there’s a restaurant what’s going to actually go up in flames, and he’s going to be the one telling us where to point the camera.”
John held the cane tightly in his hand. Sally’s face was quiet and serious, and he knew without having to ask that she wasn’t joking.
“He’d let a restaurant fail? Just…for the telly ratings?”
There was a sharp rap against the window; Anderson, carrying the bag, and looking cold and impatient. He tapped his watch and looked pointedly at Sally.
“Just…be careful,” said Sally, and she turned to go.
The bell tinkled her departure; John limped slowly over to throw the lock again. His leg ached; his shoulder throbbed, and he felt like sitting down on the closest chair and going to sleep on the spot.
Instead, John pushed through to the kitchen, his arms full of discarded napkins and stained tablecloths. Molly was at least no longer sitting on the kitchen floor; she was leaning against the prep table now, wiping the last of the tears away while Mary talked to her in low, almost furiously serious tones.
“All right, Molly?” called John.
“Yes,” said Molly, sniffling. “Just…not looking forward to tomorrow.”
“It’ll be fine. Whatever Sherlock’s got planned, I’m sure he means well.”
Mary gave him an odd look. “John, we know what he’s got planned, he’s giving Molly a master-class in cooking.”
John frowned. “What? When-?”
“About an hour ago. He left right after. I thought you knew?”
The tablecloths were slipped, and John struggled to get a better hold. “Ah - no. I didn’t. He left?”
“Yeah. You all right?”
“Yeah, of course, don’t be stupid,” said John, and he turned to the stairs leading up to the first floor flat. “I’ve got to get this in the wash - Mary, can you get the Hoovering tonight? Ta.”
John shoved the wash into the machines and upended the soap. It was probably too much soap, but he didn’t care, and he set the wash to go, and leaned against the washer, rubbing his eyes.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” John muttered to himself. It was ridiculous, really, the way John felt abandoned, that Sherlock had left the restaurant an hour before, without saying goodbye, without so much as a word or a wave or anything to acknowledge him. Stupid because honestly, what did he expect? The man was a fucking celebrity, he probably tried to hit up all the managers of all the restaurants, and certainly the number of pretty young birds in the dining room, he could have had his pick of them and gone home with any of them. Stupid to think he’d actually want John, a middle-aged near-broke gimpy restaurant manager who couldn’t even keep his business in the black.
No. John was not going to stand about and moon over Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
John dropped his arms and took a deep breath. There was too much to do to get ready for the next day, and then he was going to walk home, pour himself a fucking large snifter of brandy, and sleep until morning, and if he was lucky, he wasn’t going to think anymore about Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
With this decided, John went back down the stairs, and set to work.
*
[Interior, Kitchen. MOLLY looks tired and bright-eyed. ARTIE looks pained and exhausted and half-asleep. MARY has her arms crossed and her lips are pursed. She keeps glancing back and forth between the door to the dining room and MOLLY. SHERLOCK leans on the warming table (which is happily turned off) and speaks.]
SHERLOCK: Right, so. I think we know where we’re headed.
MOLLY: I need help.
SHERLOCK: Yes. Eight a.m., Molly and Artie.
ARTIE: Me?
SHERLOCK: I believe you’re the only Artie in this establishment, so yes, Artie, you. I’ll see you here. Bring coffee.
ARTIE: Oh, and how do you like it?
SHERLOCK: You’re supposedly a clever lad, deduce it.
*
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he found himself in the park, sitting on a bench under a tree. The world was silent, still, and cold, and the stars shone overhead like bits of sparkling sugar on a dark chocolate biscuit.
It took him several minutes to realize where he was. Cold, faint hint of sea in the air, so near the coast. Birdsong and clear view of the stars, not in the city. The sky is dark but there are traces of light on the horizon to the…northwest, a city of some sort, but not quite as bright as London, and certainly the air is fresher. Kent. A bench, a path - I’m in a park. Ah yes.
He remembered now. He’d gone for a walk, blindly leaving the Empire, his head pounding and his stomach in knots, all of the thoughts and deductions and observations running into themselves. It was always the same at the end of an Observation Day, there was too much information to sift through, too many things that had gone wrong and too many times he’d wanted to jump in, shout at the people who were destroying food which ought to have been sublime, or at the very least, edible. And yet, he was forced to sit in the corner and watch, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.
Sherlock hated Observation Day. What was the point of observing if he couldn’t use what he learned? Except, of course, he would use it - the following two days. That didn’t keep his skin from crawling, his fingers from itching, desperate to do something about it now.
The first year, he’d tried calming the itch with cocaine. That hadn’t worked very well; it’d calmed him, yes, but it also meant that he couldn’t have given a fuck the rest of the week, and the minute Lestrade had realized what he was doing, he’d put a stop to it.
Sherlock barely remembered what he’d said to the staff before he left the restaurant. Some sort of platitude, commending them on finishing the night, telling them he’d see them in the morning, ready to work. He’d review it later. Anderson was useless about many things; he was never in quite the right place at the right time, never had the angle Sherlock would have preferred to show the food or the technique in quite the right light, but one thing he was very good at was having the daily footage in Sherlock’s hotel room, ready for viewing.
And anyway, the hours spent on the park bench, mentally reviewing every scrap of information he’d observed over the last day and a half, had made one thing abundantly clear: the Empire, as it was now, didn’t stand a chance of lasting the month. It was bleeding money, the food was horrible, the chef was incompetent, and its owner was blind.
Owner. John.
Sherlock frowned. John wasn’t blind. John might be many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He had the wherewithal to call in Sherlock, for one thing, and the stomach to stand up and demand assistance. There weren’t a hundred restaurant owners with the courage to do that.
There was something else about John, too, something that set him apart from any other restaurant owner who’d called on Sherlock for help. Because at the end of the day, anyone calling for Sherlock Holmes had some amount of courage. But John...it wasn’t desperation, because John didn’t strike Sherlock as desperate. It wasn’t the fear of impending financial loss. There was something else entirely, something missing in John, and Sherlock wanted to figure out what it was.
“Out for a midnight stroll?”
Sherlock stopped on the pathway. The speaker was behind him, the silky voice recognizable and smooth. He tensed, and waited.
“I give them…oh, a month at best, don’t you?” continued the man, and Sherlock heard his shoes clip-clip along the pavement as he drew closer.
“I don’t make predictions about the longevity of restaurants,” said Sherlock quietly. “It’s a foolhardy practice at best.”
“And a worthless pastime, to be sure, when no one listens to your advice,” continued the man, and drew up next to Sherlock. He let out a withering sigh. “No idea why they didn’t just cut and run when they could have, those Watson siblings, but intelligence and good-looks never go hand-in-hand. Well, not always.”
Sherlock held himself still, but he could feel the man’s eyes graze over him, head to toe. “Are you going to start with the little chef?” asked the man casually. “Or the owner?”
Sherlock turns to look at the man, to really look at him, despite the thin light from the streetlamps and the moon. “Why do you - oh. Oh. I see. This is professional, isn’t it, your interest in the Empire. A suit, trousers more wrinkled than the jacket, tie loosened and tightened in turns over the course of a day, shoes worn for several months but still exhibiting signs of a squeak, indicating that you walk very little in them. All of which are signs of sitting for long periods at a desk, such as one who works in a bank. Mr Moriarty, I presume?”
Moriarty made a small, snorting sort of noise, and glared at Sherlock. “A chef? Really? That sort of deductive power and you chose to play with your food all day?”
“Rather more interesting than sitting at a computer terminal, I should think.”
“But far less productive. You eat what you make. I spend it.”
Somehow, Sherlock had the idea that Moriarty wasn’t talking about his paycheck. He waited while Moriarty began to circle around him.
“So what are your big plans for the Empire, Sherlock Holmes? Going to revamp their menu? Teach their mouse of a chef to cook? A simple redecoration, maybe change the name to something a little less overbearing and everything will be fixed, fine and dandy, carry on to the next problem to be solved? You and I both know there’s no hope for the Empire. They could have a hundred nights like this one, and they’d still be lost. And they don’t even have that many. It’s a lost cause, Mr Holmes. Throw in the towel before you waste any more film.”
“Rather certain of that, aren’t you?”
“I know that John Watson is going to fail.”
“Is he?”
Moriarty practically wiggled with amusement. “That’s what people do, Mr Holmes. I just pick up the pieces. To the victor go to spoils, and all that.”
“Curious,” said Sherlock carefully. “Your clients are about to default on a loan, costing your bank hundreds of thousands of pounds, and you’re quite gleeful about it.”
Moriarty stiffened. “Late for you to be out, I should think. Early days for both of us, Mr Holmes. The chef or the manager?”
“The show will air in two months; you’ll have to wait to see,” replied Sherlock.
“The chef, then,” said the man thoughtfully. “Well, the restaurant won’t be around in two months’ time, so I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. Best get some rest, it’ll be quite the interesting day, teaching that child to boil water. Toodles!”
The man set off through the grass at a brisk pace, and Sherlock watched him go, halfway tempted to follow him, just to see where he would go. A fan, he’d called himself the night before. Sherlock didn’t quite believe it.
But one thing he said was correct: it was near midnight. Sherlock glanced up at the moon and the stars, felt the cold air on his freshly exposed neck, and continued walking, letting his feet set the pace. The road at the edge of the park was quiet, and Sherlock took a guess and turned right. Within moments he was on a somewhat busier road, and quickly hailed a taxi.
“Late night,” said the cabbie, conversationally. “Where to, guv?”
The hotel and Anderson’s tapes beckoned. But.
“Baker Street,” said Sherlock, and shut the door.
*
There was something ironic, of course, about a restaurant owner living on Baker Street. Sherlock supposed John had heard every incarnation of every possible joke, and decided to say nothing at all. However, it still made him smile when he saw the street sign and walked the last few feet to the front gate.
It was probably one of the more ridiculous things he’d ever done, but Sherlock Holmes tended not to think in those measures, so he couldn’t be certain. The fact that the house on Baker Street was dark was surely a sign that John was asleep, and not elsewhere, because Sherlock didn’t want John to be elsewhere. He’d never find John if John was elsewhere, because Sherlock very much doubted that John was still at the Empire.
And besides; he’d made the cabbie drive by the restaurant, and it was dark too.
The gate was unlocked; Sherlock walked right in. The front door, however, was bolted tight against him, and inspection of the windows and back door proved a similar situation. Sherlock stood as far back to the hedge in the narrow front garden as he could, and looked up. There were three windows on the first floor, all of which were likely to be bedrooms, given the layout of the ground floor. Sherlock put some thought into it, and decided on the bedroom on the right. The center bedroom was sure to be the smallest, and the bedroom on the left looked as though the curtains hadn’t been shifted in weeks. But there was a small chink in the curtains on the bedroom on the right, showing they’d been moved aside at some point recently. It was the safest bet.
Sherlock didn’t stop to consider if a “safe bet” included climbing a somewhat questionable trellis and breaking into the room of a sleeping man. He probably should have done.
Sherlock scaled the trellis easily, grateful for the leather gloves that protected his hands from the rough wood and the sharp ivy. It was a bit precarious, leaning over to jostle the window, but eventually he was able to pull it open. There was one rather frightening moment when he thought he would fall, and was halfway braced to take the fall in his knees rather than his back, but eventually his fingers caught on the other side of the sill, and he managed to work his way into the room, where he tumbled onto the floor with a thump and a faint “Ow”.
Two seconds later, he found himself pinned to the ground by his waist, with an arm snaked around his neck, pulling him up and choking the breath out of him.
“Who are you?” demanded his assailant, the voice gritty and low and nearly not recognizable, but even if the blood flow to his brain wasn’t quite what it had been when he started the evening, Sherlock was at least able to determine who was meant to be in the bedroom he’d just infiltrated.
“John,” gasped Sherlock, and the arm loosened a little.
“Sherlock?!” And then John tightened the arm again. “What the bloody hell are you doing sneaking into my bedroom window?”
“Wanted a word.”
“What sort of idiot sneaks into the bedroom window of a soldier?” snapped John. “I killed people, Sherlock.”
“You were a doctor!”
“I had bad days!”
“I can’t breathe.”
John let him go, and Sherlock fell back to the floor with a thump. He coughed; the cold air against his throat hurt, and he felt the blood flood into his brain. “What sort of idiot leaves his windows unlocked?”
“It’s the first floor.”
“There’s a trellis.”
“You climbed the trellis?” John started to laugh, and Sherlock sat up, rubbing his throat sulkily. “I’m amazed you didn’t pull the whole thing into the garden, that trellis is at least as old as I am.”
“John, I’m insulted. I’m very nimble.”
“You’re very egotistical, is what you mean,” said John, and he reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. Sherlock winced at the sudden flood of light; by the time his eyes had adjusted, John was shrugging into a terry-cloth bathrobe over his pajamas, and Sherlock took his distraction as opportunity to examine the room. It was somewhat plain, with tan walls and some generic artwork. But there were touches that had to be John as well - a poster of Iron Maiden, edges curled with age. A framed photograph of John and what was presumably his family, with John dressed in a graduation robe. Another of John wearing Army uniform, and a few plaques with his name and various ranks in front of it. The bookshelves held a mix of medical journals and spy novels. John’s room, clearly - but not one he’d lived in for any great length of time.
“You were - sixteen, seventeen, when you moved into this room?” asked Sherlock, looking around.
“Sixteen. Used to be Harry’s, but when she went to uni, I moved in. She kips out in the flat above the restaurant most nights now.” John pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down, rubbing his leg. “Christ, I’m too old to be crawling around on the floor.”
“It’s not real,” said Sherlock. “The leg pain. Or you wouldn’t have been able to move as quickly as you did.”
“Great,” said John dryly. “That’s what I’ll tell myself when I try to go down the stairs without the cane, and land flat on my face.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Sherlock.
“Why are you here? It’s not to tell me what injuries I don’t have.”
“I was in the park-” But Sherlock swallowed the rest of the sentence. The conversation with Harry, still only 24 hours old, rang in the back of his head.
“All right,” said John, who hadn’t noticed the odd pause in Sherlock’s voice. “You were in the park?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You broke into my house for nothing?”
“I hardly broke anything, your window was already unlocked.”
“You could have broken my trellis.”
“I didn’t.”
“This is completely mental,” sighed John, and rubbed his face. “Look, I’m done with this conversation, so if you don’t mind, since you’re being spectacularly uncommunicative for someone who is talking so much, I’d like to get some sleep now.”
“Right,” said Sherlock, and he stumbled up to his feet. “I’ll just go then.”
“Window or door?” asked John when Sherlock didn’t move.
“Door,” said Sherlock, uncertain.
“Right then,” sighed John, and stood to show him out. Sherlock held his breath; John likely hadn’t meant to stand so close to him, but having stood, only hand’s width of distance between them, John didn’t move. Sherlock held his breath, and when he blinked, he found John looking up at him, his eyes darting between his mouth and his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.
“I-” said John, and didn’t say anything else.
They fell together, their lips crushing against each other. Their hands moved quickly to divest Sherlock of his clothing; John’s bathrobe fell to the floor with a soft thump. They broke their kiss only long enough pull John’s t-shirt over his head, and then it was back to tongue against tongue. John’s mouth was oddly dry and tasted of peppermint toothpaste, and Sherlock growled in frustration at the flavor that masked everything that was actually John. He felt John pull lightly on his hair, and squeezed the back of John’s neck in response.
John’s eyes were closed, squeezed tight as if in pain, but Sherlock didn’t want to stop looking at him, not for anything, not for a single second. John’s chest was compact and tight, still sleepy-warm and heaving with his rapid breath; the scar on his shoulder was a puckered bit of skin in the shape of a multi-pointed star. Sherlock rested the pad of his thumb in the indention, and he heard John’s breath hitch.
“No,” said John, but if Sherlock heard, he didn’t pay attention. He moved his kisses away from John’s mouth, down his neck to his throat. John was shorter, it meant having to bend at the waist, crouch down a little, and it might have been uncomfortable, if it weren’t for John’s hands in his hair, holding him steady, and then drifting to his shirt, and yanking at the front. One button went flying, and Sherlock heard the ping when it hit the wall.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, and moved his thumb to kiss the scar. His tongue worked into the indent; the skin tasted different there, smooth and plastic, not quite like skin at all, but that might have been the peppermint lingering on his lips. The ridges of the scar scraped against his tongue, and Sherlock was going in for another taste when John shoved his hands against his bare chest, knocking Sherlock off his feet, and back against the bed.
“No,” repeated John, firmly, and his face looked angry in the dim light. He straddled Sherlock, pushed against Sherlock again, pinning him against the mattress. And then plunged in again, a deep kiss while he held Sherlock’s wrists against the increasingly rumpled bedclothes. Sherlock arched his back in time with the moan in the back of his throat. John didn’t protest, and after a second arch, Sherlock pushed again, and almost flipped John over to his back.
“Idiot,” said John. “I was in the Army.”
“Fuck,” gasped Sherlock, and fought again. This time he managed to free one of his hands, but he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t because John didn’t let him have the win. It wasn’t much of a win. Sherlock pushed against John’s scar, and John let out a hiss and fell to his side. Sherlock reached down, into John’s pajama pants, and found his cock hard and hot and already leaking. He ran the tips of his fingers over the soft head to wet them with the precum, and as John’s hiss of pleasure filled his ear, wrapped his palm around the base of John’s cock. The soft satin of the skin slid easily over the hard length of him, just long enough for Sherlock’s hand to fit easily. Sherlock worked John’s cock, felt the muscles and sinew and veins pulsing under the skin, soft and damp and so wonderfully, perfectly warm.
John’s eyes sprang open, any sort of protest dying on his lips. Sherlock leaned in to kiss him again - Oh, God, don’t say anything, don’t take me out of this moment - but John pulled away. His hands pushed Sherlock’s trousers down from his hips, and then it was John’s hands on his cock, wrapping around him and covering him with hot, dry warmth, and Sherlock bucked into them, almost forgot he held John in his hand. They were kissing again, mouths open and pressed together, too shocked in each other to even touch their tongues.
Sherlock’s eyes closed, briefly, and when they did, he heard John’s strangled cry, felt the dampness on his wrist. Sherlock moved quickly, caught the semen in his hand, and when John was spent, moved his prize to his own cock. John seemed to catch on, or maybe was still riding his own release, because Sherlock was able to replace one of John’s dry hands with his wet one, and with John’s hand covering his, quickly pulled his own orgasm out.
The room went still as they breathed together, heads inches apart on the single pillow, hands still twisted as they lightly held each other. Sherlock opened his eyes, saw John looking back at him.
“Hi,” said John, and Sherlock let the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little, to acknowledge him. His heart pounded in his chest. John’s hair was grown out enough to look a mess; his chest rose and fell, the scar stood out in the yellow light of the bedside lamp.
“You were in the Army,” said Sherlock, unable to keep it in. “You were wounded in the chest, badly; the bullet was dug out in the field but the wound was repaired much later. Nicked a bone, severe muscle trauma and damage, the operation was probably ten or twelve hours long, with no guarantee of full mobility afterward. Recuperation three months with heavy physical therapy, which you’ve been ignoring. You could have it, you know.”
“Have what?” asked John evenly. Sherlock didn’t know him well enough to read if he was angry or upset.
“Full mobility. The strength is there, but not the control.”
“Who’s to say I don’t have it already?”
“I wouldn’t have been able to free my hand if you had been able to control your strength,” said Sherlock.
“Yeah, because I didn’t actually want your hand on me, thanks,” said John.
“How’d I do with the rest?”
“The sex or the analysis of my medical history?”
“Either,” said Sherlock after a moment’s thought. “Though it’s rather obvious this was your first sexual encounter since returning to England.”
“Piss off,” said John, but he was smiling, and Sherlock began to laugh. After a moment, John joined him, and rolled to his back. He pulled his hand away from Sherlock and covered his face with his arm. Sherlock got a good look at the tan line still visible on his wrist, and saw to his surprise that John’s skin wasn’t as fair as he’d thought originally.
“Several tours of duty,” he said, and John looked at him from under his arm.
“It’s a good assignment,” he said. “And me going meant some bloke with a wife and kids didn’t have to go in my place.”
“I didn’t think doctors served on the front lines.”
“They don’t,” said John. “But I wasn’t in the Army as a doctor. How’d you know - oh. Sarah at the clinic.”
“I assume she didn’t want you back as a receptionist.”
John was quiet for a moment. “No. I imagine she doesn’t.”
It was a good opening; Sherlock could have asked, prodded John into telling him about Sarah, to put that particular question to rest. But Sherlock thought he already knew the answer; besides, he had no reason to be jealous; it wasn’t as if he actually loved John Watson. “Why didn’t you join up as a doctor?”
“You tell me,” said John.
Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs. John rearranged himself to cross his arms behind his head, and watched him with an even gaze. But everything about John was even, apart from his still messed-up hair and asymmetrical scar patterns. His eyes, his mouth, even the way he held himself was as though he were balanced on a wire, trying not to teeter too far to either side.
Even sex, realized Sherlock. John had dated Mary, once.
“You had sex with Mary,” he said, and John’s eyebrows rose.
“You think that’s why I joined the Army?”
“No,” said Sherlock. “I think you had sex with Mary after you joined the Army. I’m just confirming a hypothesis.”
“I don’t think that’s really any of your business,” said John.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Under the circumstances…”
“Fine, I had sex with Mary. We dated for a year and she broke it off with me but we’re still good friends. Your point?”
Sherlock nodded. Even keel, in every way. “You went to medical school, became a doctor. You clearly worked at the clinic with Sarah in some capacity for some time before joining the Army. You may have dated her. It ended before you joined up. It may have ended because you joined up. Maybe you told everyone you wanted something more exciting, that you wanted to make an actual difference. Stitching up wounds gained on the battlefield is more exciting than diagnosing UTIs for bored housewives, but that wasn’t what you did - you didn’t join the medical corps, you joined as a soldier. Maybe you carried a medical kit with you as part of your uniform, but you weren’t in the RAMC. It wasn’t so much the excitement or the danger you were seeking. It was the half of yourself you were missing. The darker half of the healer, the one who posed a real danger to those around you.”
“How would you know that?” asked John, his voice still even, still unreadable.
“I don’t know, I notice,” said Sherlock.
“You’re a bit of a pompous git, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
John shifted on the bed, propping one leg up. “You never said why you came here.”
“No,” said Sherlock. He swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, back to John. The mattress shifted as John moved again. He thought of Sarah at the clinic, chuckling over John’s handiwork, a soft look in her eyes. Moriarty in the park, the thin leer on his face. The despair and distress in Harry’s voice, the curl of her fingers around the bottle of vodka.
Don’t tell John that you know, she’d begged him. He could see how much she hated herself for pleading, for telling him, for having anything to tell at all. You can’t tell him. He doesn’t need your pity.
“Right,” said John after a moment. “If it’s about the Empire-”
“It’s not important,” said Sherlock quickly.
“Sherlock. It’s my restaurant.”
“It’ll keep until morning.”
More shifting; Sherlock could tell that John had moved further away.
John frowned. “Going to tell me saving the Empire is a fool’s errand? That I should just throw in the towel and close the doors for good?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” said Sherlock cautiously.
“Fuck you,” said John, and got to his feet. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked for your help.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Tell me how to make the Empire work.”
“It can’t. Not the way it has.”
“It’s worked fine before.”
“That was before,” snapped Sherlock, and he got to his feet to pace the room. “It can’t any longer. Times have changed, the food people want has changed. The food people expect has changed. Fifty years ago, no one knew kebab from hamburger. Now they’re ordering curries in twenty different styles from five different countries. The Empire isn’t dying, John. It’s already dead, you just weren’t paying attention.”
John stood up. “Get out.”
“John-”
“No. You’re honestly going to sneak into my bedroom past midnight and tell me that I’m supposed to let my grandfather’s restaurant just close, not even try to save it in any form? No. Get out. Take your fucking high horse and get out of here.” John picked up Sherlock’s coat and threw it at him.
“John, I-”
“Get out!” shouted John, and Sherlock went to the door. He paused as his hand touched the doorknob, and turned to see if John was watching. He wasn’t; he’d already climbed back into the bed, and was lying on his side, back to Sherlock. His breathing was heavy, and he was clearly awake and unwilling to discuss the matter further.
Sherlock decided to humor him. It wasn’t as though there was anything he could tell, anyway. He turned the knob, opened the door, and closed the door softly behind him.
The house was still and silent; Sherlock let his eyes adjust to the dark before he ventured to the steps and down to the ground floor. The stairwell was lined with photographs, and Sherlock squinted at them, trying to see in the dim moonlight, but all he could make out were shapes of people standing, or running, or playing in the sand. John’s family, his sister and parents and grandparents, and somehow, without even seeing them, Sherlock could imagine them smiling at the camera, smiling at each other, a happy little familial unit.
Sherlock knew, from the evening before, that there were additional pictures lining the wall of the foyer, including one of James Watson, the founder of the Empire. He wanted to see it again, take another look at the man who had started the restaurant that had become his grandson’s obsession, which would lead to the ruin of the family if it was allowed to continue. But Sherlock knew that upstairs, John Watson was still awake, still listening for the final slam of the front door. Might have even left the bed to stand at the window, watching for him to leave the house entirely.
Sherlock wondered what John would do if he didn’t leave. If he waited until morning.
It was an intriguing thought.
But there were tapes waiting to be viewed in his hotel room, and he would need to decide the best course of action to turn Molly and Artie into actual chefs instead of home-kitchen amateurs. Observation Day was over; the real work was beginning, and Sherlock did not have time to invest in…whatever this was, with John Watson.
Sherlock did not want to think about John Watson. He wanted to think about his restaurant, and how to save it. Because when he thought about it - he had no idea how it could be done.
Chapter Eight
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: I went away this weekend, and when I returned, I discovered that a reader who wishes to remain anonymous had sent me a lovely book cover for Mise. I’m quite overwhelmed and terribly in love with it, and I’ve posted it on the prologue so you can all enjoy it too!
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six
Chapter Seven
Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: They distract the mind from food!
--Agatha Christie (Death on the Nile)
[Interior, Dining Room, Friday night service. It’s busy and loud and energetic. MARY is talking to some guests.]
MARY: The chicken is very good, I had it myself tonight.
CUSTOMER #1: And no stomach aches yet?
[Laughter, but MARY’s is somewhat strained. Cut to the bar, where JOHN is serving up drinks. His hands are steady, but his grin is a bit brittle, and he keeps glancing behind him, into the kitchen.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: The dinner rush is somewhat more rushed than normal; word is out in town that there’s someone at the Empire, and people are coming in droves. Which for the Empire, means there are more customers in one night than they’ve seen in a week.
[INTERIOR, Kitchen. MOLLY is already spinning like a top, eyes wide, hair falling from her ponytail, five things on the stove and four in the oven and she spins so quickly, she runs into ARTIE and sends a tray of puddings flying.]
MOLLY: Ack!
SHERLOCK V.O.: Par for the course, actually.
[Montage. MOLLY drops a pan of chicken onto the floor. MOLLY spills olive oil onto the range. MOLLY backs into ARTIE, knocking the prep table, and a half dozen eggs roll off.]
MOLLY: Can I go home now?
[INTERIOR, Dining room. People are looking somewhat impatient. Other people are trying their first bites of dinner.]
SHERLOCK V.O.: It takes well over an hour before anyone is given food to eat. The reactions are predictable.
CUSTOMER #2: Eugh. Was this a shoe once?
[One person puts a forkful of food in their mouth, and removes the fork a moment later, the food still intact. Another person takes a bite, and immediately chugs their glass of wine.]
CUSTOMER #3 (to the camera, red-faced and cheery): How do I like the meal? Well, with enough alcohol, anything’s possible.
*
Dinner went somewhat more smoothly than lunch, despite the return of the full menu. At least, John thought so, but he was kept busy either at the bar, serving up drinks, or showing the rush of customers to their seats. Apart from the tables who’d actually bothered to make their reservations for the night, there were another couple of dozen diners who just showed up, either familiar enough with the Empire’s track record that they didn’t believe a reservation was necessary (and in truth, it seldom was anymore), or they noticed the busy dining room and decided to drop in and see what was going on.
Or at least try for a glimpse of Sherlock. Everyone was made to sign a waiver before so much as entering the restaurant, and John saw nearly everyone twist and turn and vie for seats with better views of the kitchen doors, eager for a look of the celebrity in town.
“Sell more booze,” Harry muttered to John from the kitchen, where she was taking Artie place in the annex. It was a safer location than the bar, where she’d continue to be dodging the cameras, and also kept her away from the alcohol - although John wasn’t about to admit that was a reason to keep Harry in the back. At least by the sink, her back was to the camera, and Artie, whose hand was still bandaged, was at least useful in clearing tables, and helping Molly from time to time.
“Why do I need to sell more booze?” asked John. “The kitchen’s a bit slow, but it’s not that bad.”
“We get great markup on the booze,” said Harry. “If there’s customers, we might as well make some money off of them.”
John opened his mouth to object, but rolled his eyes instead. He gathered all the tumblers he could carry and went back out to the front of house.
The other advantage to being behind the bar was that it gave John a good view of the dining room, as well as the kitchen through the window. It didn’t hurt that Sherlock sat on the other side of the window, quietly observing the evening’s action from a stool in the corner. John was too busy to really sit and look at him, but every time he caught a glimpse, Sherlock looked lost in thought, his fingers steepled beneath his nose. Every so often, he would wince, somewhat pained, and let out a paper-thin elongated sigh.
“What?” asked John finally, unable to keep the question bottled in. It was barely an hour into the dinner service; the first tables seated were only now getting their main courses, and nearly everyone was perfectly happy to booze it up while they waited, though John could see plenty of people glancing at their watches with amused looks, and digging into their purses or pockets for snacks. Well, at least they’d come prepared. Molly was in the weeds, and John wasn’t all that confident she’d find her way out before midnight, even with Artie’s assistance. “What did you see?”
“Please don’t disturb me,” was all Sherlock said, and John turned his back on him and concentrated on making a whiskey sour.
It was a long night, and when John finally closed the door on the last customer, it was gone eleven, and Molly was a crying wreck on the kitchen floor. The dining room was a shambles, Artie was nowhere to be seen, Mary was trying to comfort Molly, and Harry was doggedly determined to wash every last dish before anyone went home to sleep.
John threw the lock on the door, and let his forehead rest against the glass. Somewhere behind him, the camera recorded him doing this. It seemed natural, somehow, to remain standing and let Anderson get the footage he needed, and John waited patiently, wondering what the shot would look like in the end. He could almost hear Sherlock’s voice-over, saying something in that dry and barely amused voice which would make him look rather pitiful and hopeless. John felt almost pitiful and hopeless, and that was stupid, because it’d been a good night, the restaurant had been full, Mary had been working her very best, they’d brought in well over four thousand quid on alcohol alone.
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough. Four thousand a night, times twenty nights - they might make a dent in what they owed the bank, but it wouldn’t be enough, not with the type of loan Harry had been stupid enough to negotiate.
Molly might have been in the weeds. But John and Harry were in the fucking swamp.
“Sod it all,” said John to the doorknob, and reached up to turn the sign to “closed”. He lowered the blinds and went to strip the tables of the tablecloths.
Over to the side, Anderson switched off the stationary camera. “That went well.”
“Did it?” asked John evenly. He didn’t know what sort of “well” Anderson meant, and didn’t much care.
“Got a lot of good footage,” said Anderson. “Always hard to get the right reaction shot, you have to really pick who you’re going to try for, who might make the best expression when they taste something vile. Half the time it’s over the top, because everyone wants to be on the telly, so they play up their disgust, you know? But your customers like you, they kept their disgust pretty natural. It’ll look great on telly.”
John sighed. “Thanks for that.”
“Big day tomorrow,” said Anderson, as he packed the shoulder-mounted camera away.
“Oh?”
“Sure,” said Anderson. “Tomorrow’s when the real work starts. You think today was hard? Wait until Sherlock gets his hands on you.”
John flashed back to the manager’s office, and the feel of Sherlock’s hands against his skin.
“Ah,” he said, and it came out somewhat mangled. Anderson gave him an odd look, but went back to packing the camera.
“Don’t know what they see in him,” continued Anderson. “Right tosser, but he’s never wanting for someone to warm his bed, wherever we go. Guess that’s what comes with celebrity.”
John held himself still. “Is that right.”
“I remember this one bird in Edinburgh - or was it a bloke? No, the bloke was Truro, the bird in Edinburgh, though she was-”
“Sam.” Sally Donovan’s voice cut through just as Anderson was clearly getting warmed up to his story, and Anderson turned back to his camera equipment. “Are you about done? I’m knackered.”
“Right, sorry,” said Anderson, and he slung the bag of tapes over his shoulder. “See you in the morning mate.”
“Right,” said John, and he watched Anderson unlock the front door and head out into the street, the bell on the door tinkling merrily as it swung closed. Sally stayed behind a moment, biting her lip. “Was there anything you needed?”
“No,” said Sally, but she didn’t sound certain. And then she dove right in. “Look…I don’t want to interfere, but - stay away from him.”
“Anderson?”
“Sherlock. You know why he does this, right? He doesn’t really want to help you or the Empire. He doesn’t care about any of the restaurants he visits. He doesn’t even get paid all that much. He gets off on it, on everyone else’s failure. And the worse the restaurant, the more he gets off. One day there’s a restaurant what’s going to actually go up in flames, and he’s going to be the one telling us where to point the camera.”
John held the cane tightly in his hand. Sally’s face was quiet and serious, and he knew without having to ask that she wasn’t joking.
“He’d let a restaurant fail? Just…for the telly ratings?”
There was a sharp rap against the window; Anderson, carrying the bag, and looking cold and impatient. He tapped his watch and looked pointedly at Sally.
“Just…be careful,” said Sally, and she turned to go.
The bell tinkled her departure; John limped slowly over to throw the lock again. His leg ached; his shoulder throbbed, and he felt like sitting down on the closest chair and going to sleep on the spot.
Instead, John pushed through to the kitchen, his arms full of discarded napkins and stained tablecloths. Molly was at least no longer sitting on the kitchen floor; she was leaning against the prep table now, wiping the last of the tears away while Mary talked to her in low, almost furiously serious tones.
“All right, Molly?” called John.
“Yes,” said Molly, sniffling. “Just…not looking forward to tomorrow.”
“It’ll be fine. Whatever Sherlock’s got planned, I’m sure he means well.”
Mary gave him an odd look. “John, we know what he’s got planned, he’s giving Molly a master-class in cooking.”
John frowned. “What? When-?”
“About an hour ago. He left right after. I thought you knew?”
The tablecloths were slipped, and John struggled to get a better hold. “Ah - no. I didn’t. He left?”
“Yeah. You all right?”
“Yeah, of course, don’t be stupid,” said John, and he turned to the stairs leading up to the first floor flat. “I’ve got to get this in the wash - Mary, can you get the Hoovering tonight? Ta.”
John shoved the wash into the machines and upended the soap. It was probably too much soap, but he didn’t care, and he set the wash to go, and leaned against the washer, rubbing his eyes.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” John muttered to himself. It was ridiculous, really, the way John felt abandoned, that Sherlock had left the restaurant an hour before, without saying goodbye, without so much as a word or a wave or anything to acknowledge him. Stupid because honestly, what did he expect? The man was a fucking celebrity, he probably tried to hit up all the managers of all the restaurants, and certainly the number of pretty young birds in the dining room, he could have had his pick of them and gone home with any of them. Stupid to think he’d actually want John, a middle-aged near-broke gimpy restaurant manager who couldn’t even keep his business in the black.
No. John was not going to stand about and moon over Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
John dropped his arms and took a deep breath. There was too much to do to get ready for the next day, and then he was going to walk home, pour himself a fucking large snifter of brandy, and sleep until morning, and if he was lucky, he wasn’t going to think anymore about Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
With this decided, John went back down the stairs, and set to work.
*
[Interior, Kitchen. MOLLY looks tired and bright-eyed. ARTIE looks pained and exhausted and half-asleep. MARY has her arms crossed and her lips are pursed. She keeps glancing back and forth between the door to the dining room and MOLLY. SHERLOCK leans on the warming table (which is happily turned off) and speaks.]
SHERLOCK: Right, so. I think we know where we’re headed.
MOLLY: I need help.
SHERLOCK: Yes. Eight a.m., Molly and Artie.
ARTIE: Me?
SHERLOCK: I believe you’re the only Artie in this establishment, so yes, Artie, you. I’ll see you here. Bring coffee.
ARTIE: Oh, and how do you like it?
SHERLOCK: You’re supposedly a clever lad, deduce it.
*
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he found himself in the park, sitting on a bench under a tree. The world was silent, still, and cold, and the stars shone overhead like bits of sparkling sugar on a dark chocolate biscuit.
It took him several minutes to realize where he was. Cold, faint hint of sea in the air, so near the coast. Birdsong and clear view of the stars, not in the city. The sky is dark but there are traces of light on the horizon to the…northwest, a city of some sort, but not quite as bright as London, and certainly the air is fresher. Kent. A bench, a path - I’m in a park. Ah yes.
He remembered now. He’d gone for a walk, blindly leaving the Empire, his head pounding and his stomach in knots, all of the thoughts and deductions and observations running into themselves. It was always the same at the end of an Observation Day, there was too much information to sift through, too many things that had gone wrong and too many times he’d wanted to jump in, shout at the people who were destroying food which ought to have been sublime, or at the very least, edible. And yet, he was forced to sit in the corner and watch, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.
Sherlock hated Observation Day. What was the point of observing if he couldn’t use what he learned? Except, of course, he would use it - the following two days. That didn’t keep his skin from crawling, his fingers from itching, desperate to do something about it now.
The first year, he’d tried calming the itch with cocaine. That hadn’t worked very well; it’d calmed him, yes, but it also meant that he couldn’t have given a fuck the rest of the week, and the minute Lestrade had realized what he was doing, he’d put a stop to it.
Sherlock barely remembered what he’d said to the staff before he left the restaurant. Some sort of platitude, commending them on finishing the night, telling them he’d see them in the morning, ready to work. He’d review it later. Anderson was useless about many things; he was never in quite the right place at the right time, never had the angle Sherlock would have preferred to show the food or the technique in quite the right light, but one thing he was very good at was having the daily footage in Sherlock’s hotel room, ready for viewing.
And anyway, the hours spent on the park bench, mentally reviewing every scrap of information he’d observed over the last day and a half, had made one thing abundantly clear: the Empire, as it was now, didn’t stand a chance of lasting the month. It was bleeding money, the food was horrible, the chef was incompetent, and its owner was blind.
Owner. John.
Sherlock frowned. John wasn’t blind. John might be many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He had the wherewithal to call in Sherlock, for one thing, and the stomach to stand up and demand assistance. There weren’t a hundred restaurant owners with the courage to do that.
There was something else about John, too, something that set him apart from any other restaurant owner who’d called on Sherlock for help. Because at the end of the day, anyone calling for Sherlock Holmes had some amount of courage. But John...it wasn’t desperation, because John didn’t strike Sherlock as desperate. It wasn’t the fear of impending financial loss. There was something else entirely, something missing in John, and Sherlock wanted to figure out what it was.
“Out for a midnight stroll?”
Sherlock stopped on the pathway. The speaker was behind him, the silky voice recognizable and smooth. He tensed, and waited.
“I give them…oh, a month at best, don’t you?” continued the man, and Sherlock heard his shoes clip-clip along the pavement as he drew closer.
“I don’t make predictions about the longevity of restaurants,” said Sherlock quietly. “It’s a foolhardy practice at best.”
“And a worthless pastime, to be sure, when no one listens to your advice,” continued the man, and drew up next to Sherlock. He let out a withering sigh. “No idea why they didn’t just cut and run when they could have, those Watson siblings, but intelligence and good-looks never go hand-in-hand. Well, not always.”
Sherlock held himself still, but he could feel the man’s eyes graze over him, head to toe. “Are you going to start with the little chef?” asked the man casually. “Or the owner?”
Sherlock turns to look at the man, to really look at him, despite the thin light from the streetlamps and the moon. “Why do you - oh. Oh. I see. This is professional, isn’t it, your interest in the Empire. A suit, trousers more wrinkled than the jacket, tie loosened and tightened in turns over the course of a day, shoes worn for several months but still exhibiting signs of a squeak, indicating that you walk very little in them. All of which are signs of sitting for long periods at a desk, such as one who works in a bank. Mr Moriarty, I presume?”
Moriarty made a small, snorting sort of noise, and glared at Sherlock. “A chef? Really? That sort of deductive power and you chose to play with your food all day?”
“Rather more interesting than sitting at a computer terminal, I should think.”
“But far less productive. You eat what you make. I spend it.”
Somehow, Sherlock had the idea that Moriarty wasn’t talking about his paycheck. He waited while Moriarty began to circle around him.
“So what are your big plans for the Empire, Sherlock Holmes? Going to revamp their menu? Teach their mouse of a chef to cook? A simple redecoration, maybe change the name to something a little less overbearing and everything will be fixed, fine and dandy, carry on to the next problem to be solved? You and I both know there’s no hope for the Empire. They could have a hundred nights like this one, and they’d still be lost. And they don’t even have that many. It’s a lost cause, Mr Holmes. Throw in the towel before you waste any more film.”
“Rather certain of that, aren’t you?”
“I know that John Watson is going to fail.”
“Is he?”
Moriarty practically wiggled with amusement. “That’s what people do, Mr Holmes. I just pick up the pieces. To the victor go to spoils, and all that.”
“Curious,” said Sherlock carefully. “Your clients are about to default on a loan, costing your bank hundreds of thousands of pounds, and you’re quite gleeful about it.”
Moriarty stiffened. “Late for you to be out, I should think. Early days for both of us, Mr Holmes. The chef or the manager?”
“The show will air in two months; you’ll have to wait to see,” replied Sherlock.
“The chef, then,” said the man thoughtfully. “Well, the restaurant won’t be around in two months’ time, so I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. Best get some rest, it’ll be quite the interesting day, teaching that child to boil water. Toodles!”
The man set off through the grass at a brisk pace, and Sherlock watched him go, halfway tempted to follow him, just to see where he would go. A fan, he’d called himself the night before. Sherlock didn’t quite believe it.
But one thing he said was correct: it was near midnight. Sherlock glanced up at the moon and the stars, felt the cold air on his freshly exposed neck, and continued walking, letting his feet set the pace. The road at the edge of the park was quiet, and Sherlock took a guess and turned right. Within moments he was on a somewhat busier road, and quickly hailed a taxi.
“Late night,” said the cabbie, conversationally. “Where to, guv?”
The hotel and Anderson’s tapes beckoned. But.
“Baker Street,” said Sherlock, and shut the door.
*
There was something ironic, of course, about a restaurant owner living on Baker Street. Sherlock supposed John had heard every incarnation of every possible joke, and decided to say nothing at all. However, it still made him smile when he saw the street sign and walked the last few feet to the front gate.
It was probably one of the more ridiculous things he’d ever done, but Sherlock Holmes tended not to think in those measures, so he couldn’t be certain. The fact that the house on Baker Street was dark was surely a sign that John was asleep, and not elsewhere, because Sherlock didn’t want John to be elsewhere. He’d never find John if John was elsewhere, because Sherlock very much doubted that John was still at the Empire.
And besides; he’d made the cabbie drive by the restaurant, and it was dark too.
The gate was unlocked; Sherlock walked right in. The front door, however, was bolted tight against him, and inspection of the windows and back door proved a similar situation. Sherlock stood as far back to the hedge in the narrow front garden as he could, and looked up. There were three windows on the first floor, all of which were likely to be bedrooms, given the layout of the ground floor. Sherlock put some thought into it, and decided on the bedroom on the right. The center bedroom was sure to be the smallest, and the bedroom on the left looked as though the curtains hadn’t been shifted in weeks. But there was a small chink in the curtains on the bedroom on the right, showing they’d been moved aside at some point recently. It was the safest bet.
Sherlock didn’t stop to consider if a “safe bet” included climbing a somewhat questionable trellis and breaking into the room of a sleeping man. He probably should have done.
Sherlock scaled the trellis easily, grateful for the leather gloves that protected his hands from the rough wood and the sharp ivy. It was a bit precarious, leaning over to jostle the window, but eventually he was able to pull it open. There was one rather frightening moment when he thought he would fall, and was halfway braced to take the fall in his knees rather than his back, but eventually his fingers caught on the other side of the sill, and he managed to work his way into the room, where he tumbled onto the floor with a thump and a faint “Ow”.
Two seconds later, he found himself pinned to the ground by his waist, with an arm snaked around his neck, pulling him up and choking the breath out of him.
“Who are you?” demanded his assailant, the voice gritty and low and nearly not recognizable, but even if the blood flow to his brain wasn’t quite what it had been when he started the evening, Sherlock was at least able to determine who was meant to be in the bedroom he’d just infiltrated.
“John,” gasped Sherlock, and the arm loosened a little.
“Sherlock?!” And then John tightened the arm again. “What the bloody hell are you doing sneaking into my bedroom window?”
“Wanted a word.”
“What sort of idiot sneaks into the bedroom window of a soldier?” snapped John. “I killed people, Sherlock.”
“You were a doctor!”
“I had bad days!”
“I can’t breathe.”
John let him go, and Sherlock fell back to the floor with a thump. He coughed; the cold air against his throat hurt, and he felt the blood flood into his brain. “What sort of idiot leaves his windows unlocked?”
“It’s the first floor.”
“There’s a trellis.”
“You climbed the trellis?” John started to laugh, and Sherlock sat up, rubbing his throat sulkily. “I’m amazed you didn’t pull the whole thing into the garden, that trellis is at least as old as I am.”
“John, I’m insulted. I’m very nimble.”
“You’re very egotistical, is what you mean,” said John, and he reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. Sherlock winced at the sudden flood of light; by the time his eyes had adjusted, John was shrugging into a terry-cloth bathrobe over his pajamas, and Sherlock took his distraction as opportunity to examine the room. It was somewhat plain, with tan walls and some generic artwork. But there were touches that had to be John as well - a poster of Iron Maiden, edges curled with age. A framed photograph of John and what was presumably his family, with John dressed in a graduation robe. Another of John wearing Army uniform, and a few plaques with his name and various ranks in front of it. The bookshelves held a mix of medical journals and spy novels. John’s room, clearly - but not one he’d lived in for any great length of time.
“You were - sixteen, seventeen, when you moved into this room?” asked Sherlock, looking around.
“Sixteen. Used to be Harry’s, but when she went to uni, I moved in. She kips out in the flat above the restaurant most nights now.” John pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down, rubbing his leg. “Christ, I’m too old to be crawling around on the floor.”
“It’s not real,” said Sherlock. “The leg pain. Or you wouldn’t have been able to move as quickly as you did.”
“Great,” said John dryly. “That’s what I’ll tell myself when I try to go down the stairs without the cane, and land flat on my face.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Sherlock.
“Why are you here? It’s not to tell me what injuries I don’t have.”
“I was in the park-” But Sherlock swallowed the rest of the sentence. The conversation with Harry, still only 24 hours old, rang in the back of his head.
“All right,” said John, who hadn’t noticed the odd pause in Sherlock’s voice. “You were in the park?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You broke into my house for nothing?”
“I hardly broke anything, your window was already unlocked.”
“You could have broken my trellis.”
“I didn’t.”
“This is completely mental,” sighed John, and rubbed his face. “Look, I’m done with this conversation, so if you don’t mind, since you’re being spectacularly uncommunicative for someone who is talking so much, I’d like to get some sleep now.”
“Right,” said Sherlock, and he stumbled up to his feet. “I’ll just go then.”
“Window or door?” asked John when Sherlock didn’t move.
“Door,” said Sherlock, uncertain.
“Right then,” sighed John, and stood to show him out. Sherlock held his breath; John likely hadn’t meant to stand so close to him, but having stood, only hand’s width of distance between them, John didn’t move. Sherlock held his breath, and when he blinked, he found John looking up at him, his eyes darting between his mouth and his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.
“I-” said John, and didn’t say anything else.
They fell together, their lips crushing against each other. Their hands moved quickly to divest Sherlock of his clothing; John’s bathrobe fell to the floor with a soft thump. They broke their kiss only long enough pull John’s t-shirt over his head, and then it was back to tongue against tongue. John’s mouth was oddly dry and tasted of peppermint toothpaste, and Sherlock growled in frustration at the flavor that masked everything that was actually John. He felt John pull lightly on his hair, and squeezed the back of John’s neck in response.
John’s eyes were closed, squeezed tight as if in pain, but Sherlock didn’t want to stop looking at him, not for anything, not for a single second. John’s chest was compact and tight, still sleepy-warm and heaving with his rapid breath; the scar on his shoulder was a puckered bit of skin in the shape of a multi-pointed star. Sherlock rested the pad of his thumb in the indention, and he heard John’s breath hitch.
“No,” said John, but if Sherlock heard, he didn’t pay attention. He moved his kisses away from John’s mouth, down his neck to his throat. John was shorter, it meant having to bend at the waist, crouch down a little, and it might have been uncomfortable, if it weren’t for John’s hands in his hair, holding him steady, and then drifting to his shirt, and yanking at the front. One button went flying, and Sherlock heard the ping when it hit the wall.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, and moved his thumb to kiss the scar. His tongue worked into the indent; the skin tasted different there, smooth and plastic, not quite like skin at all, but that might have been the peppermint lingering on his lips. The ridges of the scar scraped against his tongue, and Sherlock was going in for another taste when John shoved his hands against his bare chest, knocking Sherlock off his feet, and back against the bed.
“No,” repeated John, firmly, and his face looked angry in the dim light. He straddled Sherlock, pushed against Sherlock again, pinning him against the mattress. And then plunged in again, a deep kiss while he held Sherlock’s wrists against the increasingly rumpled bedclothes. Sherlock arched his back in time with the moan in the back of his throat. John didn’t protest, and after a second arch, Sherlock pushed again, and almost flipped John over to his back.
“Idiot,” said John. “I was in the Army.”
“Fuck,” gasped Sherlock, and fought again. This time he managed to free one of his hands, but he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t because John didn’t let him have the win. It wasn’t much of a win. Sherlock pushed against John’s scar, and John let out a hiss and fell to his side. Sherlock reached down, into John’s pajama pants, and found his cock hard and hot and already leaking. He ran the tips of his fingers over the soft head to wet them with the precum, and as John’s hiss of pleasure filled his ear, wrapped his palm around the base of John’s cock. The soft satin of the skin slid easily over the hard length of him, just long enough for Sherlock’s hand to fit easily. Sherlock worked John’s cock, felt the muscles and sinew and veins pulsing under the skin, soft and damp and so wonderfully, perfectly warm.
John’s eyes sprang open, any sort of protest dying on his lips. Sherlock leaned in to kiss him again - Oh, God, don’t say anything, don’t take me out of this moment - but John pulled away. His hands pushed Sherlock’s trousers down from his hips, and then it was John’s hands on his cock, wrapping around him and covering him with hot, dry warmth, and Sherlock bucked into them, almost forgot he held John in his hand. They were kissing again, mouths open and pressed together, too shocked in each other to even touch their tongues.
Sherlock’s eyes closed, briefly, and when they did, he heard John’s strangled cry, felt the dampness on his wrist. Sherlock moved quickly, caught the semen in his hand, and when John was spent, moved his prize to his own cock. John seemed to catch on, or maybe was still riding his own release, because Sherlock was able to replace one of John’s dry hands with his wet one, and with John’s hand covering his, quickly pulled his own orgasm out.
The room went still as they breathed together, heads inches apart on the single pillow, hands still twisted as they lightly held each other. Sherlock opened his eyes, saw John looking back at him.
“Hi,” said John, and Sherlock let the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little, to acknowledge him. His heart pounded in his chest. John’s hair was grown out enough to look a mess; his chest rose and fell, the scar stood out in the yellow light of the bedside lamp.
“You were in the Army,” said Sherlock, unable to keep it in. “You were wounded in the chest, badly; the bullet was dug out in the field but the wound was repaired much later. Nicked a bone, severe muscle trauma and damage, the operation was probably ten or twelve hours long, with no guarantee of full mobility afterward. Recuperation three months with heavy physical therapy, which you’ve been ignoring. You could have it, you know.”
“Have what?” asked John evenly. Sherlock didn’t know him well enough to read if he was angry or upset.
“Full mobility. The strength is there, but not the control.”
“Who’s to say I don’t have it already?”
“I wouldn’t have been able to free my hand if you had been able to control your strength,” said Sherlock.
“Yeah, because I didn’t actually want your hand on me, thanks,” said John.
“How’d I do with the rest?”
“The sex or the analysis of my medical history?”
“Either,” said Sherlock after a moment’s thought. “Though it’s rather obvious this was your first sexual encounter since returning to England.”
“Piss off,” said John, but he was smiling, and Sherlock began to laugh. After a moment, John joined him, and rolled to his back. He pulled his hand away from Sherlock and covered his face with his arm. Sherlock got a good look at the tan line still visible on his wrist, and saw to his surprise that John’s skin wasn’t as fair as he’d thought originally.
“Several tours of duty,” he said, and John looked at him from under his arm.
“It’s a good assignment,” he said. “And me going meant some bloke with a wife and kids didn’t have to go in my place.”
“I didn’t think doctors served on the front lines.”
“They don’t,” said John. “But I wasn’t in the Army as a doctor. How’d you know - oh. Sarah at the clinic.”
“I assume she didn’t want you back as a receptionist.”
John was quiet for a moment. “No. I imagine she doesn’t.”
It was a good opening; Sherlock could have asked, prodded John into telling him about Sarah, to put that particular question to rest. But Sherlock thought he already knew the answer; besides, he had no reason to be jealous; it wasn’t as if he actually loved John Watson. “Why didn’t you join up as a doctor?”
“You tell me,” said John.
Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs. John rearranged himself to cross his arms behind his head, and watched him with an even gaze. But everything about John was even, apart from his still messed-up hair and asymmetrical scar patterns. His eyes, his mouth, even the way he held himself was as though he were balanced on a wire, trying not to teeter too far to either side.
Even sex, realized Sherlock. John had dated Mary, once.
“You had sex with Mary,” he said, and John’s eyebrows rose.
“You think that’s why I joined the Army?”
“No,” said Sherlock. “I think you had sex with Mary after you joined the Army. I’m just confirming a hypothesis.”
“I don’t think that’s really any of your business,” said John.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Under the circumstances…”
“Fine, I had sex with Mary. We dated for a year and she broke it off with me but we’re still good friends. Your point?”
Sherlock nodded. Even keel, in every way. “You went to medical school, became a doctor. You clearly worked at the clinic with Sarah in some capacity for some time before joining the Army. You may have dated her. It ended before you joined up. It may have ended because you joined up. Maybe you told everyone you wanted something more exciting, that you wanted to make an actual difference. Stitching up wounds gained on the battlefield is more exciting than diagnosing UTIs for bored housewives, but that wasn’t what you did - you didn’t join the medical corps, you joined as a soldier. Maybe you carried a medical kit with you as part of your uniform, but you weren’t in the RAMC. It wasn’t so much the excitement or the danger you were seeking. It was the half of yourself you were missing. The darker half of the healer, the one who posed a real danger to those around you.”
“How would you know that?” asked John, his voice still even, still unreadable.
“I don’t know, I notice,” said Sherlock.
“You’re a bit of a pompous git, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
John shifted on the bed, propping one leg up. “You never said why you came here.”
“No,” said Sherlock. He swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, back to John. The mattress shifted as John moved again. He thought of Sarah at the clinic, chuckling over John’s handiwork, a soft look in her eyes. Moriarty in the park, the thin leer on his face. The despair and distress in Harry’s voice, the curl of her fingers around the bottle of vodka.
Don’t tell John that you know, she’d begged him. He could see how much she hated herself for pleading, for telling him, for having anything to tell at all. You can’t tell him. He doesn’t need your pity.
“Right,” said John after a moment. “If it’s about the Empire-”
“It’s not important,” said Sherlock quickly.
“Sherlock. It’s my restaurant.”
“It’ll keep until morning.”
More shifting; Sherlock could tell that John had moved further away.
John frowned. “Going to tell me saving the Empire is a fool’s errand? That I should just throw in the towel and close the doors for good?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” said Sherlock cautiously.
“Fuck you,” said John, and got to his feet. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked for your help.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Tell me how to make the Empire work.”
“It can’t. Not the way it has.”
“It’s worked fine before.”
“That was before,” snapped Sherlock, and he got to his feet to pace the room. “It can’t any longer. Times have changed, the food people want has changed. The food people expect has changed. Fifty years ago, no one knew kebab from hamburger. Now they’re ordering curries in twenty different styles from five different countries. The Empire isn’t dying, John. It’s already dead, you just weren’t paying attention.”
John stood up. “Get out.”
“John-”
“No. You’re honestly going to sneak into my bedroom past midnight and tell me that I’m supposed to let my grandfather’s restaurant just close, not even try to save it in any form? No. Get out. Take your fucking high horse and get out of here.” John picked up Sherlock’s coat and threw it at him.
“John, I-”
“Get out!” shouted John, and Sherlock went to the door. He paused as his hand touched the doorknob, and turned to see if John was watching. He wasn’t; he’d already climbed back into the bed, and was lying on his side, back to Sherlock. His breathing was heavy, and he was clearly awake and unwilling to discuss the matter further.
Sherlock decided to humor him. It wasn’t as though there was anything he could tell, anyway. He turned the knob, opened the door, and closed the door softly behind him.
The house was still and silent; Sherlock let his eyes adjust to the dark before he ventured to the steps and down to the ground floor. The stairwell was lined with photographs, and Sherlock squinted at them, trying to see in the dim moonlight, but all he could make out were shapes of people standing, or running, or playing in the sand. John’s family, his sister and parents and grandparents, and somehow, without even seeing them, Sherlock could imagine them smiling at the camera, smiling at each other, a happy little familial unit.
Sherlock knew, from the evening before, that there were additional pictures lining the wall of the foyer, including one of James Watson, the founder of the Empire. He wanted to see it again, take another look at the man who had started the restaurant that had become his grandson’s obsession, which would lead to the ruin of the family if it was allowed to continue. But Sherlock knew that upstairs, John Watson was still awake, still listening for the final slam of the front door. Might have even left the bed to stand at the window, watching for him to leave the house entirely.
Sherlock wondered what John would do if he didn’t leave. If he waited until morning.
It was an intriguing thought.
But there were tapes waiting to be viewed in his hotel room, and he would need to decide the best course of action to turn Molly and Artie into actual chefs instead of home-kitchen amateurs. Observation Day was over; the real work was beginning, and Sherlock did not have time to invest in…whatever this was, with John Watson.
Sherlock did not want to think about John Watson. He wanted to think about his restaurant, and how to save it. Because when he thought about it - he had no idea how it could be done.
Chapter Eight