Fic: Mise en Place (12/25)
Title: Mise en Place (12/25)
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: labellecreation made two wonderful manip book covers for Sherlock’s cookbooks, entitled The Art of Cooking and The Science of Baking. They’re absolutely lovely and you should go and look at them and tell her you agree! Thanks, LaBelle! :)
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven
Chapter Twelve
“You never forget a beautiful thing that you have made. Even after you eat it, it stays with you - always.”
--Max Bugnard, via Julia Child
John knew, the moment he stepped into the house on Baker Street, that it wasn’t empty. The light from the television in the dark sitting room was telltale for the location of the occupant, but there was something else in the air - the smell and the feel of it. It was warm in the way that a house lived in was warm. He could smell a faint humidity, a lack of dust, as if simply walking through the rooms was enough to keep the house alive. The sounds from the television were laughter and tinkling silverware, crashes and buzzing, and sometimes the rush of air past a too-sensitive microphone.
“Two chickens, a pizza and a sausage,” sang the television. Mary.
“On it,” replied Artie. The clatter and clank of a kitchen being used, the hiss of the walk-in door opening and closing, the occasional cry of alarm as oil splattered and a hot pad proved to be damp.
Sherlock’s coat hung on the hooks by the door. John stared at it for a long moment. I think he does, Molly had said to him. And now, a third night, and here was Sherlock in his house, watching his television, claiming the space as - if not his own - then at least something he was entitled to use.
John’s heart thumped along, as if it wasn’t the least bit concerned about the man sitting in front of the telly. John almost wondered if he wasn’t pleased about Sherlock’s appearance.
John set the shopping down on the floor in order to unwind his scarf from his neck, a bit roughly. Sherlock had ignored him all day; ridiculous to be feeling a bubbling warmth of contentment because the man was in his house, waiting for him to come home. He listened to the hiss and crackle from the television in the sitting room - Anderson, too close to the action, perhaps - as he hung his jacket up next to Sherlock’s long wool coat, and went into the sitting room.
There sat Sherlock, perched on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed together, his fingers at his lips. He watched the television intently, with laser-focus. There was a notebook on the table in front of him, with a pen nearby, the better to scratch out notes, and John could see some sort of notations there, but not quite what they said. Mostly they were numbers; seconds and minutes, John supposed, marking scenes.
On the television screen, Artie was plating wedges of chocolate pie. He jerked his wrist, almost expertly, and a dollop of whipped cream landed on the pie and slipped off the side. It was almost artful - John heard Greg’s voice cut in as he asked Mary to wait a moment, while Anderson focused closely on the pie for just long enough to make it look appetizing.
“I know this is unusual,” said Mary, off-screen and sounding amused and a bit tired, “but there’s actually a customer waiting for that pie.”
“Five seconds,” said Greg. “No one’s going to mind a little delay, especially if you tell them their pie is getting air time.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that,” said Mary, and the pie was whisked away. The camera refocused on Molly, plating the chicken, parsnips and spinach.
Half a meal is presentation, Johnny, said James. Make something look good and they’ll eat it happily and order it again, just for the pleasure of looking.
John wondered if he should bother even asking how Sherlock got inside the house, or if he should just call the police department straight away.
Or take the man to bed, and then call the police department.
Sherlock didn’t move from his seat; John would have thought that the man hadn’t noticed him at all, except that Sherlock was preternaturally still, barely breathing, every part of him suspended as if waiting for John to speak.
What are you doing here? Get out of my house, you bloody wanker. I don’t want you here. Last night was a mistake. This is purely business. You and I, we aren’t anything to each other.
Instead, John left Sherlock to it, and went back into the foyer, picked up the shopping, and went into the kitchen to start cooking. The noise from the telly followed him, better than music on the radio the way it filled the house with noise and laughter - the comforting sounds of the Empire’s kitchen, a busy dining room, the familiar clinks of silverware and glasses and cutlery. It settled him, while at the same time Sherlock’s presence made him hyper-aware of every step in the cooking process. John propped the still-framed recipe on the counter where he could read it, turned the kettle on, and started to unpack the groceries.
John started with the rice, washed it three times in cold water, swirling the tiny hard grains with his fingers. It was soothing, a bit like playing with the grainy sand at the bottom of a clear stream. Once it was clean, he tipped the lot into a glass bowl, and poured the boiling water over it, then set it aside.
The rice steeped while he rinsed and scrubbed the carrots clean, before starting on the chicken. It wasn’t a whole chicken - that would have been better, but John didn’t fancy having to carve it up, and anyway, he hadn’t thought he’d be cooking for two.
Which gave John pause. Was he cooking for two? John poked his head out of the kitchen far enough to peer into the sitting room. The television was still going; Sherlock hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. John returned to the kitchen, finished rinsing the chicken, set it on a plate, and went to work on the carrots, julienning them one by one. It was awkward, at first, trying to hold the carrots steady with his good hand, working the knife without letting his bad hand tremble too badly. But every cut was cleaner than the last; every slice a little more sure. By the time John had decimated the carrots into neat sticks, he thought he was actually not horrible.
At least, he was about as good as Artie was, and that wasn’t too bad.
John pushed on, and kept working. Chicken fried quickly in the oil, set aside to rest again. Carrots and onions, raisins and almonds, sautéed in the drippings, and then the rice, drained and rinsed, spooned on top to cook in the grease until it was golden and fragrant. Chicken placed on top, and then the entire thing covered tightly and set on low.
John glanced at the clock while he washed the knives and cutting boards, the measuring cups and spoons. Nearing midnight - late for any sort of meal, and John was bone-tired from the day. The television was still on, still talking, but now it was playing scenes which must have occurred in the morning. Sherlock had obviously finished watching the footage once already, and had started watching again. John could hear him on the television, talking to Molly about the Russian bread, and how to improve the recipe, how to change it to make it more palatable to a modern customer.
“This recipe doesn’t work,” said Sherlock on the television.
John watched the skin on his hands go red under the hot water. His left hand, so steady while he chopped and sliced and stood by the cooker, began to tremble again, and he squeezed it into a fist.
This was my father’s recipe, said James in the memory, stirring the dough. Bowls of cherries, raisins, and cinnamon waited for inclusion, and John, five years old, snuck bites of the fresh cherries, his fingers still stained red from pitting them. This is what he brought home, with the samovar and the beaver-skin hat. This is his legacy.
The television still blared when John went into the sitting room. He didn’t stop to see where in the day Sherlock was watching; he simply reached over and picked up the remote and turned it off.
“I think you’re done,” said John firmly, and Sherlock, who was still in the same position he’d been in when John had returned home, lifted his head to look at him, surprise on his face.
“Am I?”
“You can go home now,” said John firmly, and he set the remote next to the television. “I’m not sure what possessed you to break into my house again-”
“You left your window open, John, it was nothing less than a clear invitation.”
John laughed humorlessly. He opened his mouth to say something - and then turned abruptly away. What was the point? It didn’t matter what he thought about Sherlock’s presence in the house, or the restaurant, or the entire bloody country. He’d do what he wanted anyway.
“You’re upset with me,” said Sherlock from the sofa, and John stopped in the doorway and bowed his head, trying to rein in the surge of temper.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Well spotted. I am.”
“You want to shout at me.”
John bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, because it was not the floor.
“And yet - you can’t, can you? You don’t even know where to begin.”
“Nothing to do with where to begin, mate,” said John. “It’s more to do with where to stop.”
“Ah,” said Sherlock, and John heard him shift on the sofa. “Let’s see. You’re upset about the change in menu, the change in décor, the change in the staffing, and…oh, that’s interesting. You’re angry about not needing your cane any longer, aren’t you?”
“Why the hell would I be angry about that?” demanded John.
“Perhaps because you believe I tricked you into leaving your cane behind while you did the shopping, in order to prove my point that you don’t need it.”
John snorted. “Yeah, because you engineered the entire shopping trip.”
“I did press you into going, when it might have made more sense to send Harry or even Mary in a pinch. But no, I sent you, the one person least able to make the trip quickly and efficiently. It struck you as unusual even at the time - surely you realized I had an ulterior motive behind my instructions.”
John’s leg throbbed, and he put his hand to the doorjamb to steady himself. “It’s not the new menu, not exactly. I knew you’d probably come in and change everything - that’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s what I signed up for.”
“Logic which has never stopped any other manager from hating me before,” said Sherlock.
“I don’t hate you.”
The room fell quiet. John wasn’t sure why he’d said it - he wasn’t even sure he meant it completely. But he heard Sherlock’s quiet breathing, and thought it was probably true, to a point.
“That’s good,” said Sherlock. “That’s…that’s very good.”
John stepped out into the foyer and took a deep breath, and then walked back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, his eyes firmly focused on John, with the same sort of intensity that John had seen him use while watching Artie decimate a carrot. John looked Sherlock squarely in the eye.
“The Empire was my grandfather’s restaurant. It’s the only thing worth anything he left to me. It was his heart and his soul and the only reason he got up every morning, and when I went there, I could feel him looking over my shoulder. Every breath I’ve taken in the Empire, I’ve breathed in his memory, and I hate that during the entire fucking dinner service tonight, I couldn’t feel him at all - not in the food, not in the décor, not anywhere. You took the one thing I loved most in the world and stripped it bare, straight down to the bones, and that’s what I hate. But I don’t hate you, because this is just what you do, and maybe I knew that, coming into it, that this is what would happen, but I didn’t think it would hurt quite this much.”
John closed his eyes and tried to draw in a deep breath; the knot in his throat, which had worked its way up from his gut while he was talking, was making it hard to breathe or speak any longer.
“You didn’t thank me earlier, you know.”
John paused. “Why should I have thanked you for destroying something I love?”
“I meant for the cane,” said Sherlock. “Interesting, I thought - I proved to you that you had no need for it at all, and not once today did you even acknowledge your discovery - you simply went on, as if it were a given that you could walk perfectly well without it.”
“Well…”
“Everyone thanks me,” said Sherlock, and finally he stood. John watched him walk to the television, where he stabbed at the DVD player with an impatient finger, waiting to eject the DVD. “Thank you, Sherlock, for saving my restaurant. Thank you, Sherlock, for revamping my menu. Thank you, Sherlock, for convincing me that a neon pink dining room is a poor idea. Thank you, Sherlock, from keeping me from destroying my livelihood and allowing me to continue employing my friends and family members in a viable business model.”
Sherlock picked up the DVD delicately, and slid it into its sleeve. “I am so. Bloody. Tired of thank-yous which don’t actually mean anything. I can’t abide the posturing, the playing to the camera, the happy smiles and cheerful waves from a manager and a chef who are only glad to see my back, who regret the moment they even thought that inviting me was worth their while. And do you know what happens, John, once I’ve gone? They slide right back into their previous predictable ridiculous ways - they bring back the old menu, they rehang the worn pictures, they continue to hire irresponsible nephews and daughters and siblings, and eventually, they close. So much for thankfulness.
“But you, John. You’re right, you know. I don’t give a damn about your restaurant, or your menu, or the maps and photographs and paraphernalia on your walls. You have no idea how many times I have seen it over the years, repeated and eternally ridiculous. I’ve seen managers utilize alcohol or nicotine or the occasional buxom waitress as their crutch to make it through. What I hadn’t seen was a man using an actual crutch. No manager worth his salt needs those things to survive, not if their restaurant is up to snuff. And the only thing I wanted to do was to make you realize that. Because for some reason, I gave a damn about your leg.
“So yes, I maneuvered you into the shopping trip, because I knew you would be so caught up in the act of it that you’d forget your cane along the way. I was right, of course. You came back, holding the cane but not using it, and you left it in the front hall, because you’re worried that it’s all a trick, that you’ll wake in the morning and need it again. It’s not a trick, John, and despite your worry, I think you know that. And you haven’t thanked me, and what’s more, I very much doubt that you will thank me, and what is perhaps more interesting than this simple omission is the fact that I don’t mind. I’m not the least bit upset that you will never express gratitude for my plan. What I am…is curious.”
Sherlock stood opposite John, so close they were nearly breathing the same air. John took a breath, staring up at the man. His head swirled.
“Curious?” he managed to say.
“I would like to know, if when this week is over, and I have saved your restaurant, if you will thank me then,” said Sherlock. “And I find myself very much hoping you do not.”
Sherlock moved closer, just a small fraction, and John’s breath caught in his throat. He wondered if Sherlock would lean into him, press his body against John’s, and bend down to kiss him. Sherlock’s mouth was still open, his eyes were focused firmly on John’s face, intent and primal. John almost found himself leaning into Sherlock, his fingers ready to settle themselves on Sherlock’s waist, to pull him into the kiss, up the stairs, into the bedroom…
The timer in the kitchen buzzed, bright and incessant, and John was pulled back into reality, and saw that Sherlock remained locked on him.
“The rice,” said John. It was a struggle to turn away, and John felt the pull of Sherlock even as he went into the kitchen and turned off the timer.
The scent of the pilau enveloped John the moment he stepped into the room - the tang of the fried onions, the sweet of the carrots and raisins, the deep homey scent of chicken. John breathed deeply and tried to convince himself that it was the air that was warm, not his skin. It was the chicken and carrots and rice that sparked his interest and excited him, not the seductive voice of the man in the next room. John pulled the baking dish from the oven and set it on the range while he reached for a plate.
“You cook,” said Sherlock from the doorway, and John closed his eyes briefly before reaching for a fork.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “I’m not a master chef like you, but I do know my way around a kitchen.”
Sherlock leaned against the doorway; John knew he was being watched, and decided he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to offer any of the pilau, either - Sherlock invited himself in and insulted everything John loved, so he could just starve.
John served out the chicken and rice and sat at the table. After a moment, Sherlock sat next to him.
John ignored him, as best he could. He cut the chicken with a bit too much force, still annoyed at Sherlock’s insisting presence. Normally all it took was the first bite to wrap him in a cocoon of safety and comfort - but now, with Sherlock watching his every move, he found it difficult to chew and swallow without second guessing every move.
Sherlock didn’t say a word, didn’t move so much as a muscle, simply sat and watched and waited, expecting.
Finally John sighed, stood up, and went to fix Sherlock a plate. He dropped it in front of the other man with a grimace, and went back to his own meal.
The next bite, and the chicken melted in John’s mouth; the carrots burst with flavor and the memory of James, standing in the Empire kitchen and laughing, wrapped around John like a warm blanket. John closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, and then continued to eat.
It’s not about the food, Johnny. It’s about the hospitality. If the customer doesn’t feel at home, doesn’t feel happier just for walking in the door, doesn’t want to linger and talk to you - then why even open the doors?
He didn’t see Sherlock take a bite, nor did he see Sherlock take a second.
“Afghan pilau,” said Sherlock.
John ignored him.
“The recipe from your sister’s office.”
“Ah, you admit it’s not your office, then,” said John.
“The recipe is quite archaic, most modern cooks can’t follow it.”
“Well, I’m not exactly most cooks, am I?”
Sherlock took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Everything cooked separately, interesting - the chicken cooked in the onions which are added to the rice later. The carrots and raisins cooked before adding to the dish as a decorative accent, but which give the final meal the full body of flavor for which it’s known-”
John recognized Sherlock’s deductive pattern immediately, and swallowed the food in his mouth before he’d really finished savoring it. “Sherlock,” said John. “Shut up.”
Sherlock stared at John, the rest of the sentence already halfway out, and John could see what a struggle it actually was that he not continue speaking, as if the deductions had a mind of their own. It wasn’t Sherlock who deduced the meal, it was simply that he was a conduit for whatever genius could take a bite of anything and immediately discern what made it up. John felt the food settle in his stomach while Sherlock swallowed the words, and didn’t take another bite until Sherlock had done so as well.
“This recipe is important to you,” said Sherlock as he reached for the wine.
More important than anything in the world.
Don’t you have something you love so much that you can’t abide sharing it, let alone hearing someone break it down into pieces?
Flavors so strong that just thinking about the combination of them brings you back to when you were a kid?
“Yes,” said John, because it was the easiest thing to say.
“It was important to your grandfather as well, or it wouldn’t have hung in his office. He taught you to make it when you were quite young.”
“I’m going to show you a secret, Johnny,” said James. “I showed your father, and now I’ll show you.”
“He died when I was ten,” said John shortly. “His grandfather, the original John H., taught him. He was starting to teach me.”
“Ah,” said Sherlock softly.
The kitchen fell quiet; the scrapings of metal forks against china plates, the sound of mouths opening and closing. Bits of chicken fell easily from the bone, tendrils wrapped around John’s fork, and he ate the brown-burned edges, crisp and salty against his tongue. The best bits, the tastiest, that reminded him of his grandfather and the sizzle of meat frying in a pan and not anything like the way the dusty Afghan air tasted at the end of a long day in the sun. The raisins popped sweetly between his teeth.
“The recipe was never on the Empire’s menu, was it?”
“Dad, let’s discuss the menu.”
“It’s a family recipe. The pilau stays, Hamish.”
“It takes too long to prep and no one orders it anyway. We’re wasting time and food on it, Dad.”
“No, Hamish - leave it be!”
John laid down his fork and folded his hands together. He rested his forehead on them and sighed. “When I was a kid. My father took it off the menu after my granddad died.”
“But you clearly remember your grandfather making it.”
James’s hand, knuckles cracked and discolored from thousands of hand-washings, burns, and close encounters with the knife, swirling the rice in water which goes from clear to cloudy before he’s finished a turn. Johnny watches as his grandfather pours the water out of the bowl in one steady stream, without losing a single grain.
John picked his fork back up again. “If you’re done analyzing my relationship with my grandfather now-”
“For now,” allowed Sherlock, and they continued to eat in silence. Sherlock finished before John, and when John had taken the last bite, he stood to take the plates and utensils to the sink. Without a word, Sherlock began to do the washing up.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing up, John, do pay attention,” said Sherlock briskly. “If there are leftovers, you’ll want to box them up.”
There were, but not much. He watched as Sherlock ran the water burning hot, and worked the soapy sponge over the knives and spoons and into the pot, cleaning everything until it was shining and balancing the lot on the dish drain. John wiped down the counter, the range, and the table, and by the time he was done, and ready to start drying the dishes, the dishes were clean, in a neat and well-arranged tower, halfway to dry already.
John stood in the center of the kitchen, the dishtowel in his hand. Sherlock turned off the water and took the towel from him to dry his hands. “Done,” he said.
“I saw,” said John. Sherlock was standing close again. John could nearly feel the other man’s breath on his forehead.
“The dinner was…good,” said Sherlock. He seemed to be struggling with his words. Or his breathing. John wasn’t sure.
“You’re welcome,” said John, and decided to hell with it. He reached up, cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and kissed him. Sherlock’s mouth opened easily, readily, and his hands settled on John’s waist - not holding him in, but more to hold himself steady against him. Sherlock wasn’t even participating so much as allowing John to maul him, but when John pulled away, he felt Sherlock’s hands tug his waist closer, and Sherlock’s mouth followed his.
“You laughed,” said Sherlock. “The first time we did this.”
“It was joy, wanker,” said John, and he might have shoved Sherlock away, but the grip Sherlock had on his waistband was too tight, and John found himself pressed up against Sherlock again, Sherlock’s mouth on the skin below his ear. As it was, when he pressed his open hands against Sherlock’s shirt, he could feel the warmth from his skin, and imagined he could feel Sherlock’s heart pounding against his palms.
“You talked to that doctor this morning,” said Sherlock, his voice rumbling against John’s skin. “Shannon.”
“Sarah. She’s an old friend.”
“An ex-girlfriend.”
“Twenty years ago. And she’s married.”
“Ah.” John felt Sherlock’s smile, the deep breath in his chest, the relaxed, relieved sigh against his skin, and he closed his eyes as he felt his breath quicken.
“This is a bad idea,” said John, and his back hit the countertop.
“Is it?” said Sherlock, and began kissing down John’s jawline, toward his ear, where he sucked the lobe between his teeth.
“Ah…a bit not…good, no,” said John, trying not to gasp too loudly. Sherlock chuckled anyway, and kissed the skin below John’s ear, near his hairline.
“I’ve never aspired to being good,” said Sherlock, and worked his hands under John’s jumper, and began to pull on his shirt. “You’re wearing clothing.”
“That’s what people do, Sherlock.”
Sherlock made a snuffling noise, and John let his head fall forward, until his nose was pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder. John pushed at the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt until it had parted just enough for John’s mouth to reach Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock was still working on the skin at his neck; John waited for him to plant an open-mouth kiss on the hard line of his pectoral muscles, and then latched onto Sherlock’s neck himself, sucking hard in one desperate bid for attention. He was rewarded with a gasp from the other man.
“Fuck,” said Sherlock into John’s skin, and pulled the rest of John’s shirt from his trousers, shoving the fabric up until it bunched under his arms. He pushed at John’s trousers, struggling to get them down, to slide his hands under the waistband, which pulled at John’s still full stomach uncomfortably.
“Oh, for-” John pushed away from Sherlock and quickly undid his trousers, then pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders, shoving the man down to his knees. Sherlock gripped John’s waistband and glanced up at John. Sherlock’s eyes were half-blown; his lips were already showing signs of being swollen from kissing and sucking and loving. His shirt hung lopsided on his shoulders, and John could see the bit of skin he’d been suckling, shiny with saliva and already a darker shade of pink than the rest of Sherlock’s skin.
John watched as Sherlock slowly pulled on the waistband, slipped the trousers and the boxers down, inch by inch, just past his hips, then moved to catch the suddenly bobbing erection in his cool hand. John held his breath, watching as Sherlock moved, and then took the cock in one full swallow into his mouth.
It didn’t take long, and if Sherlock wasn’t exactly well-versed in all the different erotic things one could do with a cock in one’s mouth, John wasn’t disappointed, either. When he came, he had to lean with his elbows on the counter behind him in order to keep from slipping to the ground, and John threw his head back and shouted out while Sherlock sucked him down. When he’d finished coming, John felt Sherlock’s arms around him, replacing his trousers, helping him to sit on the floor, back to the cabinets.
Sherlock kissed him gently, almost reverently, and John tasted the salt and earthy undertones of carrot and rice. John let him, unable to think much past breathing. Sherlock’s fingers caressed the side of his face, his neck, his shoulders.
“So this is what you do, is it?” asked John, when he found his voice. “Is seducing the restaurant owner part of your plan?”
Sherlock paused in his kissing, for half a moment, no more. “No,” said Sherlock, quietly. “You weren’t part of my plan. Ever.”
John believed him. “Sherlock - what is this?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He settled his hands on either side of John’s face and kissed him again, deep and long, stroking the insides of his cheeks with his tongue, straddling John and pressing close. “I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted into John’s mouth. He pulled away, and rested his forehead on John’s. “But I spent most of today thinking about the curve of your back when you sent me away yesterday, and wishing I hadn’t left at all.”
John squeezed Sherlock’s biceps in his hands, and shut his eyes tightly. “You couldn’t even look at me.”
“Look what happened once I did,” said Sherlock, his voice low, and John laughed.
“You planned this.”
“You are really most inconvenient,” said Sherlock.
John shook his head. It wasn’t as though Sherlock himself was a walk in the park, either.
“What now?”
Sherlock stood, and reached down to grasp John’s hand. “Very easy, John. We’re going to bed.”
John took Sherlock’s hand, and followed.
*
John dozed against Sherlock’s chest in the dim bedroom. The window was still open, enough to let the cold air in. The room was just crisp enough to make the duvet and extra blankets particularly seductive. It was warm as an oven, wrapped around and with John, and the cliché was stupid enough that Sherlock felt cheapened just by thinking it - and then thought it was perfectly true all the same. His mouth quirked as he even felt himself rising - which was utterly ridiculous, he was a thirty-four year old man with a refractory period, and John had returned the favors from the kitchen.
Besides, the air was cold, and Sherlock didn’t want to disturb either the blankets or John.
John shifted against Sherlock’s chest. He was draped over him, a bit possessively, and as he fell into a deeper slumber, he moved off Sherlock almost entirely, twisting to land face-up on the bed beside him. Sherlock shifted to his side, and studied him in the pale moonlight. (Another cliché - he was really becoming terribly trite with them, he’d have to ensure he didn’t become ridiculous.)
It was, thought Sherlock, very inconvenient.
He’d had affairs before. He’d even slept with one or two of the employees of the restaurants he’d rescued, but that was less compassion than it was convenience and curiosity, and the rules had been well-established before any clothes had been removed. Once, he’d had a terrific snog with a manager during the lunch service on the fourth day, when the sexual tension in the kitchen had finally exploded as the service came under control and things began to move smoothly. Or perhaps it was less sexual tension than relief that things were at last going well. It had been a particularly excellent snog, Sherlock remembered. And then the young man hadn’t been able to meet his eye and had hidden in the walk-in when it was time for Sherlock to take his (filmed) leave, and when he’d had his visit two months later, the restaurant was doing well but the manager had left for Iberia.
Sherlock thought briefly of the Norbury Arms, and then put it out of his mind. Not deleted, not yet, but…not relevant. Not really.
This, with John - this was new. This was different. This was uncharted territory, an untested recipe, and Sherlock had no idea what would happen when the final dish was unveiled.
Sherlock tried to imagine what would happen in the morning when they woke up. John would smile at him, sheepishly and a bit shy, perhaps. Or he would bound out of bed, full of energy and anxious to begin the day. Or he’d roll over on top of him, and want to play before getting up.
Or he’d turn away, embarrassed, and try not to catch Sherlock’s eye. He’d mumble about needing to do the shopping, and look at the time, and race out to the car and it would be the restaurant manager all over again, although perhaps without Iberia.
Sherlock couldn’t quite see John doing any of these things. He would face the situation head on, perhaps demand some kind of discussion. He would want to talk, lay down the groundwork for what they were doing, what it meant, where they were going, what would happen with the week over…
No. John wasn’t a man of talk. He was a man of action.
John shifted on the bed again. He frowned in his sleep, twisted until his arm was above his head on the pillow, and kept twisting, disturbed.
A nightmare.
Sherlock reached out, his hand hovering over John’s shoulder, and the moonlight caught the scar there, the deep, shiny imprint the exact size of Sherlock’s thumb. John moved again, and Sherlock caught it - the stiffness in John’s shoulder, the way he held his arm close to his body, even in sleep, especially in the dream - and with a start, Sherlock knew what John was dreaming.
“John,” said Sherlock, softly, and John’s eyes snapped open, still half in the dream. “You’re dreaming. It’s not real. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”
John’s eyes closed. He probably hadn’t seen Sherlock, but he grew still on the mattress. The dream was over, and Sherlock watched as John fell back into a dreamless sleep. Slowly, he lowered his hand, until it rested on John’s chest, just above his heart.
pa-thump - pa-thump - pa-thump
Bollocks, thought Sherlock, and did not close his eyes until morning.
End Notes: This week’s recipe: Three kinds of Pilau
Chapter Thirteen
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: labellecreation made two wonderful manip book covers for Sherlock’s cookbooks, entitled The Art of Cooking and The Science of Baking. They’re absolutely lovely and you should go and look at them and tell her you agree! Thanks, LaBelle! :)
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven
Chapter Twelve
“You never forget a beautiful thing that you have made. Even after you eat it, it stays with you - always.”
--Max Bugnard, via Julia Child
John knew, the moment he stepped into the house on Baker Street, that it wasn’t empty. The light from the television in the dark sitting room was telltale for the location of the occupant, but there was something else in the air - the smell and the feel of it. It was warm in the way that a house lived in was warm. He could smell a faint humidity, a lack of dust, as if simply walking through the rooms was enough to keep the house alive. The sounds from the television were laughter and tinkling silverware, crashes and buzzing, and sometimes the rush of air past a too-sensitive microphone.
“Two chickens, a pizza and a sausage,” sang the television. Mary.
“On it,” replied Artie. The clatter and clank of a kitchen being used, the hiss of the walk-in door opening and closing, the occasional cry of alarm as oil splattered and a hot pad proved to be damp.
Sherlock’s coat hung on the hooks by the door. John stared at it for a long moment. I think he does, Molly had said to him. And now, a third night, and here was Sherlock in his house, watching his television, claiming the space as - if not his own - then at least something he was entitled to use.
John’s heart thumped along, as if it wasn’t the least bit concerned about the man sitting in front of the telly. John almost wondered if he wasn’t pleased about Sherlock’s appearance.
John set the shopping down on the floor in order to unwind his scarf from his neck, a bit roughly. Sherlock had ignored him all day; ridiculous to be feeling a bubbling warmth of contentment because the man was in his house, waiting for him to come home. He listened to the hiss and crackle from the television in the sitting room - Anderson, too close to the action, perhaps - as he hung his jacket up next to Sherlock’s long wool coat, and went into the sitting room.
There sat Sherlock, perched on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed together, his fingers at his lips. He watched the television intently, with laser-focus. There was a notebook on the table in front of him, with a pen nearby, the better to scratch out notes, and John could see some sort of notations there, but not quite what they said. Mostly they were numbers; seconds and minutes, John supposed, marking scenes.
On the television screen, Artie was plating wedges of chocolate pie. He jerked his wrist, almost expertly, and a dollop of whipped cream landed on the pie and slipped off the side. It was almost artful - John heard Greg’s voice cut in as he asked Mary to wait a moment, while Anderson focused closely on the pie for just long enough to make it look appetizing.
“I know this is unusual,” said Mary, off-screen and sounding amused and a bit tired, “but there’s actually a customer waiting for that pie.”
“Five seconds,” said Greg. “No one’s going to mind a little delay, especially if you tell them their pie is getting air time.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that,” said Mary, and the pie was whisked away. The camera refocused on Molly, plating the chicken, parsnips and spinach.
Half a meal is presentation, Johnny, said James. Make something look good and they’ll eat it happily and order it again, just for the pleasure of looking.
John wondered if he should bother even asking how Sherlock got inside the house, or if he should just call the police department straight away.
Or take the man to bed, and then call the police department.
Sherlock didn’t move from his seat; John would have thought that the man hadn’t noticed him at all, except that Sherlock was preternaturally still, barely breathing, every part of him suspended as if waiting for John to speak.
What are you doing here? Get out of my house, you bloody wanker. I don’t want you here. Last night was a mistake. This is purely business. You and I, we aren’t anything to each other.
Instead, John left Sherlock to it, and went back into the foyer, picked up the shopping, and went into the kitchen to start cooking. The noise from the telly followed him, better than music on the radio the way it filled the house with noise and laughter - the comforting sounds of the Empire’s kitchen, a busy dining room, the familiar clinks of silverware and glasses and cutlery. It settled him, while at the same time Sherlock’s presence made him hyper-aware of every step in the cooking process. John propped the still-framed recipe on the counter where he could read it, turned the kettle on, and started to unpack the groceries.
John started with the rice, washed it three times in cold water, swirling the tiny hard grains with his fingers. It was soothing, a bit like playing with the grainy sand at the bottom of a clear stream. Once it was clean, he tipped the lot into a glass bowl, and poured the boiling water over it, then set it aside.
The rice steeped while he rinsed and scrubbed the carrots clean, before starting on the chicken. It wasn’t a whole chicken - that would have been better, but John didn’t fancy having to carve it up, and anyway, he hadn’t thought he’d be cooking for two.
Which gave John pause. Was he cooking for two? John poked his head out of the kitchen far enough to peer into the sitting room. The television was still going; Sherlock hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. John returned to the kitchen, finished rinsing the chicken, set it on a plate, and went to work on the carrots, julienning them one by one. It was awkward, at first, trying to hold the carrots steady with his good hand, working the knife without letting his bad hand tremble too badly. But every cut was cleaner than the last; every slice a little more sure. By the time John had decimated the carrots into neat sticks, he thought he was actually not horrible.
At least, he was about as good as Artie was, and that wasn’t too bad.
John pushed on, and kept working. Chicken fried quickly in the oil, set aside to rest again. Carrots and onions, raisins and almonds, sautéed in the drippings, and then the rice, drained and rinsed, spooned on top to cook in the grease until it was golden and fragrant. Chicken placed on top, and then the entire thing covered tightly and set on low.
John glanced at the clock while he washed the knives and cutting boards, the measuring cups and spoons. Nearing midnight - late for any sort of meal, and John was bone-tired from the day. The television was still on, still talking, but now it was playing scenes which must have occurred in the morning. Sherlock had obviously finished watching the footage once already, and had started watching again. John could hear him on the television, talking to Molly about the Russian bread, and how to improve the recipe, how to change it to make it more palatable to a modern customer.
“This recipe doesn’t work,” said Sherlock on the television.
John watched the skin on his hands go red under the hot water. His left hand, so steady while he chopped and sliced and stood by the cooker, began to tremble again, and he squeezed it into a fist.
This was my father’s recipe, said James in the memory, stirring the dough. Bowls of cherries, raisins, and cinnamon waited for inclusion, and John, five years old, snuck bites of the fresh cherries, his fingers still stained red from pitting them. This is what he brought home, with the samovar and the beaver-skin hat. This is his legacy.
The television still blared when John went into the sitting room. He didn’t stop to see where in the day Sherlock was watching; he simply reached over and picked up the remote and turned it off.
“I think you’re done,” said John firmly, and Sherlock, who was still in the same position he’d been in when John had returned home, lifted his head to look at him, surprise on his face.
“Am I?”
“You can go home now,” said John firmly, and he set the remote next to the television. “I’m not sure what possessed you to break into my house again-”
“You left your window open, John, it was nothing less than a clear invitation.”
John laughed humorlessly. He opened his mouth to say something - and then turned abruptly away. What was the point? It didn’t matter what he thought about Sherlock’s presence in the house, or the restaurant, or the entire bloody country. He’d do what he wanted anyway.
“You’re upset with me,” said Sherlock from the sofa, and John stopped in the doorway and bowed his head, trying to rein in the surge of temper.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Well spotted. I am.”
“You want to shout at me.”
John bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, because it was not the floor.
“And yet - you can’t, can you? You don’t even know where to begin.”
“Nothing to do with where to begin, mate,” said John. “It’s more to do with where to stop.”
“Ah,” said Sherlock, and John heard him shift on the sofa. “Let’s see. You’re upset about the change in menu, the change in décor, the change in the staffing, and…oh, that’s interesting. You’re angry about not needing your cane any longer, aren’t you?”
“Why the hell would I be angry about that?” demanded John.
“Perhaps because you believe I tricked you into leaving your cane behind while you did the shopping, in order to prove my point that you don’t need it.”
John snorted. “Yeah, because you engineered the entire shopping trip.”
“I did press you into going, when it might have made more sense to send Harry or even Mary in a pinch. But no, I sent you, the one person least able to make the trip quickly and efficiently. It struck you as unusual even at the time - surely you realized I had an ulterior motive behind my instructions.”
John’s leg throbbed, and he put his hand to the doorjamb to steady himself. “It’s not the new menu, not exactly. I knew you’d probably come in and change everything - that’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s what I signed up for.”
“Logic which has never stopped any other manager from hating me before,” said Sherlock.
“I don’t hate you.”
The room fell quiet. John wasn’t sure why he’d said it - he wasn’t even sure he meant it completely. But he heard Sherlock’s quiet breathing, and thought it was probably true, to a point.
“That’s good,” said Sherlock. “That’s…that’s very good.”
John stepped out into the foyer and took a deep breath, and then walked back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, his eyes firmly focused on John, with the same sort of intensity that John had seen him use while watching Artie decimate a carrot. John looked Sherlock squarely in the eye.
“The Empire was my grandfather’s restaurant. It’s the only thing worth anything he left to me. It was his heart and his soul and the only reason he got up every morning, and when I went there, I could feel him looking over my shoulder. Every breath I’ve taken in the Empire, I’ve breathed in his memory, and I hate that during the entire fucking dinner service tonight, I couldn’t feel him at all - not in the food, not in the décor, not anywhere. You took the one thing I loved most in the world and stripped it bare, straight down to the bones, and that’s what I hate. But I don’t hate you, because this is just what you do, and maybe I knew that, coming into it, that this is what would happen, but I didn’t think it would hurt quite this much.”
John closed his eyes and tried to draw in a deep breath; the knot in his throat, which had worked its way up from his gut while he was talking, was making it hard to breathe or speak any longer.
“You didn’t thank me earlier, you know.”
John paused. “Why should I have thanked you for destroying something I love?”
“I meant for the cane,” said Sherlock. “Interesting, I thought - I proved to you that you had no need for it at all, and not once today did you even acknowledge your discovery - you simply went on, as if it were a given that you could walk perfectly well without it.”
“Well…”
“Everyone thanks me,” said Sherlock, and finally he stood. John watched him walk to the television, where he stabbed at the DVD player with an impatient finger, waiting to eject the DVD. “Thank you, Sherlock, for saving my restaurant. Thank you, Sherlock, for revamping my menu. Thank you, Sherlock, for convincing me that a neon pink dining room is a poor idea. Thank you, Sherlock, from keeping me from destroying my livelihood and allowing me to continue employing my friends and family members in a viable business model.”
Sherlock picked up the DVD delicately, and slid it into its sleeve. “I am so. Bloody. Tired of thank-yous which don’t actually mean anything. I can’t abide the posturing, the playing to the camera, the happy smiles and cheerful waves from a manager and a chef who are only glad to see my back, who regret the moment they even thought that inviting me was worth their while. And do you know what happens, John, once I’ve gone? They slide right back into their previous predictable ridiculous ways - they bring back the old menu, they rehang the worn pictures, they continue to hire irresponsible nephews and daughters and siblings, and eventually, they close. So much for thankfulness.
“But you, John. You’re right, you know. I don’t give a damn about your restaurant, or your menu, or the maps and photographs and paraphernalia on your walls. You have no idea how many times I have seen it over the years, repeated and eternally ridiculous. I’ve seen managers utilize alcohol or nicotine or the occasional buxom waitress as their crutch to make it through. What I hadn’t seen was a man using an actual crutch. No manager worth his salt needs those things to survive, not if their restaurant is up to snuff. And the only thing I wanted to do was to make you realize that. Because for some reason, I gave a damn about your leg.
“So yes, I maneuvered you into the shopping trip, because I knew you would be so caught up in the act of it that you’d forget your cane along the way. I was right, of course. You came back, holding the cane but not using it, and you left it in the front hall, because you’re worried that it’s all a trick, that you’ll wake in the morning and need it again. It’s not a trick, John, and despite your worry, I think you know that. And you haven’t thanked me, and what’s more, I very much doubt that you will thank me, and what is perhaps more interesting than this simple omission is the fact that I don’t mind. I’m not the least bit upset that you will never express gratitude for my plan. What I am…is curious.”
Sherlock stood opposite John, so close they were nearly breathing the same air. John took a breath, staring up at the man. His head swirled.
“Curious?” he managed to say.
“I would like to know, if when this week is over, and I have saved your restaurant, if you will thank me then,” said Sherlock. “And I find myself very much hoping you do not.”
Sherlock moved closer, just a small fraction, and John’s breath caught in his throat. He wondered if Sherlock would lean into him, press his body against John’s, and bend down to kiss him. Sherlock’s mouth was still open, his eyes were focused firmly on John’s face, intent and primal. John almost found himself leaning into Sherlock, his fingers ready to settle themselves on Sherlock’s waist, to pull him into the kiss, up the stairs, into the bedroom…
The timer in the kitchen buzzed, bright and incessant, and John was pulled back into reality, and saw that Sherlock remained locked on him.
“The rice,” said John. It was a struggle to turn away, and John felt the pull of Sherlock even as he went into the kitchen and turned off the timer.
The scent of the pilau enveloped John the moment he stepped into the room - the tang of the fried onions, the sweet of the carrots and raisins, the deep homey scent of chicken. John breathed deeply and tried to convince himself that it was the air that was warm, not his skin. It was the chicken and carrots and rice that sparked his interest and excited him, not the seductive voice of the man in the next room. John pulled the baking dish from the oven and set it on the range while he reached for a plate.
“You cook,” said Sherlock from the doorway, and John closed his eyes briefly before reaching for a fork.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “I’m not a master chef like you, but I do know my way around a kitchen.”
Sherlock leaned against the doorway; John knew he was being watched, and decided he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to offer any of the pilau, either - Sherlock invited himself in and insulted everything John loved, so he could just starve.
John served out the chicken and rice and sat at the table. After a moment, Sherlock sat next to him.
John ignored him, as best he could. He cut the chicken with a bit too much force, still annoyed at Sherlock’s insisting presence. Normally all it took was the first bite to wrap him in a cocoon of safety and comfort - but now, with Sherlock watching his every move, he found it difficult to chew and swallow without second guessing every move.
Sherlock didn’t say a word, didn’t move so much as a muscle, simply sat and watched and waited, expecting.
Finally John sighed, stood up, and went to fix Sherlock a plate. He dropped it in front of the other man with a grimace, and went back to his own meal.
The next bite, and the chicken melted in John’s mouth; the carrots burst with flavor and the memory of James, standing in the Empire kitchen and laughing, wrapped around John like a warm blanket. John closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, and then continued to eat.
It’s not about the food, Johnny. It’s about the hospitality. If the customer doesn’t feel at home, doesn’t feel happier just for walking in the door, doesn’t want to linger and talk to you - then why even open the doors?
He didn’t see Sherlock take a bite, nor did he see Sherlock take a second.
“Afghan pilau,” said Sherlock.
John ignored him.
“The recipe from your sister’s office.”
“Ah, you admit it’s not your office, then,” said John.
“The recipe is quite archaic, most modern cooks can’t follow it.”
“Well, I’m not exactly most cooks, am I?”
Sherlock took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Everything cooked separately, interesting - the chicken cooked in the onions which are added to the rice later. The carrots and raisins cooked before adding to the dish as a decorative accent, but which give the final meal the full body of flavor for which it’s known-”
John recognized Sherlock’s deductive pattern immediately, and swallowed the food in his mouth before he’d really finished savoring it. “Sherlock,” said John. “Shut up.”
Sherlock stared at John, the rest of the sentence already halfway out, and John could see what a struggle it actually was that he not continue speaking, as if the deductions had a mind of their own. It wasn’t Sherlock who deduced the meal, it was simply that he was a conduit for whatever genius could take a bite of anything and immediately discern what made it up. John felt the food settle in his stomach while Sherlock swallowed the words, and didn’t take another bite until Sherlock had done so as well.
“This recipe is important to you,” said Sherlock as he reached for the wine.
More important than anything in the world.
Don’t you have something you love so much that you can’t abide sharing it, let alone hearing someone break it down into pieces?
Flavors so strong that just thinking about the combination of them brings you back to when you were a kid?
“Yes,” said John, because it was the easiest thing to say.
“It was important to your grandfather as well, or it wouldn’t have hung in his office. He taught you to make it when you were quite young.”
“I’m going to show you a secret, Johnny,” said James. “I showed your father, and now I’ll show you.”
“He died when I was ten,” said John shortly. “His grandfather, the original John H., taught him. He was starting to teach me.”
“Ah,” said Sherlock softly.
The kitchen fell quiet; the scrapings of metal forks against china plates, the sound of mouths opening and closing. Bits of chicken fell easily from the bone, tendrils wrapped around John’s fork, and he ate the brown-burned edges, crisp and salty against his tongue. The best bits, the tastiest, that reminded him of his grandfather and the sizzle of meat frying in a pan and not anything like the way the dusty Afghan air tasted at the end of a long day in the sun. The raisins popped sweetly between his teeth.
“The recipe was never on the Empire’s menu, was it?”
“Dad, let’s discuss the menu.”
“It’s a family recipe. The pilau stays, Hamish.”
“It takes too long to prep and no one orders it anyway. We’re wasting time and food on it, Dad.”
“No, Hamish - leave it be!”
John laid down his fork and folded his hands together. He rested his forehead on them and sighed. “When I was a kid. My father took it off the menu after my granddad died.”
“But you clearly remember your grandfather making it.”
James’s hand, knuckles cracked and discolored from thousands of hand-washings, burns, and close encounters with the knife, swirling the rice in water which goes from clear to cloudy before he’s finished a turn. Johnny watches as his grandfather pours the water out of the bowl in one steady stream, without losing a single grain.
John picked his fork back up again. “If you’re done analyzing my relationship with my grandfather now-”
“For now,” allowed Sherlock, and they continued to eat in silence. Sherlock finished before John, and when John had taken the last bite, he stood to take the plates and utensils to the sink. Without a word, Sherlock began to do the washing up.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing up, John, do pay attention,” said Sherlock briskly. “If there are leftovers, you’ll want to box them up.”
There were, but not much. He watched as Sherlock ran the water burning hot, and worked the soapy sponge over the knives and spoons and into the pot, cleaning everything until it was shining and balancing the lot on the dish drain. John wiped down the counter, the range, and the table, and by the time he was done, and ready to start drying the dishes, the dishes were clean, in a neat and well-arranged tower, halfway to dry already.
John stood in the center of the kitchen, the dishtowel in his hand. Sherlock turned off the water and took the towel from him to dry his hands. “Done,” he said.
“I saw,” said John. Sherlock was standing close again. John could nearly feel the other man’s breath on his forehead.
“The dinner was…good,” said Sherlock. He seemed to be struggling with his words. Or his breathing. John wasn’t sure.
“You’re welcome,” said John, and decided to hell with it. He reached up, cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and kissed him. Sherlock’s mouth opened easily, readily, and his hands settled on John’s waist - not holding him in, but more to hold himself steady against him. Sherlock wasn’t even participating so much as allowing John to maul him, but when John pulled away, he felt Sherlock’s hands tug his waist closer, and Sherlock’s mouth followed his.
“You laughed,” said Sherlock. “The first time we did this.”
“It was joy, wanker,” said John, and he might have shoved Sherlock away, but the grip Sherlock had on his waistband was too tight, and John found himself pressed up against Sherlock again, Sherlock’s mouth on the skin below his ear. As it was, when he pressed his open hands against Sherlock’s shirt, he could feel the warmth from his skin, and imagined he could feel Sherlock’s heart pounding against his palms.
“You talked to that doctor this morning,” said Sherlock, his voice rumbling against John’s skin. “Shannon.”
“Sarah. She’s an old friend.”
“An ex-girlfriend.”
“Twenty years ago. And she’s married.”
“Ah.” John felt Sherlock’s smile, the deep breath in his chest, the relaxed, relieved sigh against his skin, and he closed his eyes as he felt his breath quicken.
“This is a bad idea,” said John, and his back hit the countertop.
“Is it?” said Sherlock, and began kissing down John’s jawline, toward his ear, where he sucked the lobe between his teeth.
“Ah…a bit not…good, no,” said John, trying not to gasp too loudly. Sherlock chuckled anyway, and kissed the skin below John’s ear, near his hairline.
“I’ve never aspired to being good,” said Sherlock, and worked his hands under John’s jumper, and began to pull on his shirt. “You’re wearing clothing.”
“That’s what people do, Sherlock.”
Sherlock made a snuffling noise, and John let his head fall forward, until his nose was pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder. John pushed at the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt until it had parted just enough for John’s mouth to reach Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock was still working on the skin at his neck; John waited for him to plant an open-mouth kiss on the hard line of his pectoral muscles, and then latched onto Sherlock’s neck himself, sucking hard in one desperate bid for attention. He was rewarded with a gasp from the other man.
“Fuck,” said Sherlock into John’s skin, and pulled the rest of John’s shirt from his trousers, shoving the fabric up until it bunched under his arms. He pushed at John’s trousers, struggling to get them down, to slide his hands under the waistband, which pulled at John’s still full stomach uncomfortably.
“Oh, for-” John pushed away from Sherlock and quickly undid his trousers, then pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders, shoving the man down to his knees. Sherlock gripped John’s waistband and glanced up at John. Sherlock’s eyes were half-blown; his lips were already showing signs of being swollen from kissing and sucking and loving. His shirt hung lopsided on his shoulders, and John could see the bit of skin he’d been suckling, shiny with saliva and already a darker shade of pink than the rest of Sherlock’s skin.
John watched as Sherlock slowly pulled on the waistband, slipped the trousers and the boxers down, inch by inch, just past his hips, then moved to catch the suddenly bobbing erection in his cool hand. John held his breath, watching as Sherlock moved, and then took the cock in one full swallow into his mouth.
It didn’t take long, and if Sherlock wasn’t exactly well-versed in all the different erotic things one could do with a cock in one’s mouth, John wasn’t disappointed, either. When he came, he had to lean with his elbows on the counter behind him in order to keep from slipping to the ground, and John threw his head back and shouted out while Sherlock sucked him down. When he’d finished coming, John felt Sherlock’s arms around him, replacing his trousers, helping him to sit on the floor, back to the cabinets.
Sherlock kissed him gently, almost reverently, and John tasted the salt and earthy undertones of carrot and rice. John let him, unable to think much past breathing. Sherlock’s fingers caressed the side of his face, his neck, his shoulders.
“So this is what you do, is it?” asked John, when he found his voice. “Is seducing the restaurant owner part of your plan?”
Sherlock paused in his kissing, for half a moment, no more. “No,” said Sherlock, quietly. “You weren’t part of my plan. Ever.”
John believed him. “Sherlock - what is this?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He settled his hands on either side of John’s face and kissed him again, deep and long, stroking the insides of his cheeks with his tongue, straddling John and pressing close. “I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted into John’s mouth. He pulled away, and rested his forehead on John’s. “But I spent most of today thinking about the curve of your back when you sent me away yesterday, and wishing I hadn’t left at all.”
John squeezed Sherlock’s biceps in his hands, and shut his eyes tightly. “You couldn’t even look at me.”
“Look what happened once I did,” said Sherlock, his voice low, and John laughed.
“You planned this.”
“You are really most inconvenient,” said Sherlock.
John shook his head. It wasn’t as though Sherlock himself was a walk in the park, either.
“What now?”
Sherlock stood, and reached down to grasp John’s hand. “Very easy, John. We’re going to bed.”
John took Sherlock’s hand, and followed.
*
John dozed against Sherlock’s chest in the dim bedroom. The window was still open, enough to let the cold air in. The room was just crisp enough to make the duvet and extra blankets particularly seductive. It was warm as an oven, wrapped around and with John, and the cliché was stupid enough that Sherlock felt cheapened just by thinking it - and then thought it was perfectly true all the same. His mouth quirked as he even felt himself rising - which was utterly ridiculous, he was a thirty-four year old man with a refractory period, and John had returned the favors from the kitchen.
Besides, the air was cold, and Sherlock didn’t want to disturb either the blankets or John.
John shifted against Sherlock’s chest. He was draped over him, a bit possessively, and as he fell into a deeper slumber, he moved off Sherlock almost entirely, twisting to land face-up on the bed beside him. Sherlock shifted to his side, and studied him in the pale moonlight. (Another cliché - he was really becoming terribly trite with them, he’d have to ensure he didn’t become ridiculous.)
It was, thought Sherlock, very inconvenient.
He’d had affairs before. He’d even slept with one or two of the employees of the restaurants he’d rescued, but that was less compassion than it was convenience and curiosity, and the rules had been well-established before any clothes had been removed. Once, he’d had a terrific snog with a manager during the lunch service on the fourth day, when the sexual tension in the kitchen had finally exploded as the service came under control and things began to move smoothly. Or perhaps it was less sexual tension than relief that things were at last going well. It had been a particularly excellent snog, Sherlock remembered. And then the young man hadn’t been able to meet his eye and had hidden in the walk-in when it was time for Sherlock to take his (filmed) leave, and when he’d had his visit two months later, the restaurant was doing well but the manager had left for Iberia.
Sherlock thought briefly of the Norbury Arms, and then put it out of his mind. Not deleted, not yet, but…not relevant. Not really.
This, with John - this was new. This was different. This was uncharted territory, an untested recipe, and Sherlock had no idea what would happen when the final dish was unveiled.
Sherlock tried to imagine what would happen in the morning when they woke up. John would smile at him, sheepishly and a bit shy, perhaps. Or he would bound out of bed, full of energy and anxious to begin the day. Or he’d roll over on top of him, and want to play before getting up.
Or he’d turn away, embarrassed, and try not to catch Sherlock’s eye. He’d mumble about needing to do the shopping, and look at the time, and race out to the car and it would be the restaurant manager all over again, although perhaps without Iberia.
Sherlock couldn’t quite see John doing any of these things. He would face the situation head on, perhaps demand some kind of discussion. He would want to talk, lay down the groundwork for what they were doing, what it meant, where they were going, what would happen with the week over…
No. John wasn’t a man of talk. He was a man of action.
John shifted on the bed again. He frowned in his sleep, twisted until his arm was above his head on the pillow, and kept twisting, disturbed.
A nightmare.
Sherlock reached out, his hand hovering over John’s shoulder, and the moonlight caught the scar there, the deep, shiny imprint the exact size of Sherlock’s thumb. John moved again, and Sherlock caught it - the stiffness in John’s shoulder, the way he held his arm close to his body, even in sleep, especially in the dream - and with a start, Sherlock knew what John was dreaming.
“John,” said Sherlock, softly, and John’s eyes snapped open, still half in the dream. “You’re dreaming. It’s not real. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”
John’s eyes closed. He probably hadn’t seen Sherlock, but he grew still on the mattress. The dream was over, and Sherlock watched as John fell back into a dreamless sleep. Slowly, he lowered his hand, until it rested on John’s chest, just above his heart.
pa-thump - pa-thump - pa-thump
Bollocks, thought Sherlock, and did not close his eyes until morning.
End Notes: This week’s recipe: Three kinds of Pilau
Chapter Thirteen