Fic: Mise en Place (14/25)
Title: Mise en Place (14/25)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John, just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
[INTERIOR, Dining room, where MARY unfolds the tablecloths, lays down cutlery, glasses, underplates. The pixilated manager is helping, and somewhere in the rear, JOHN is working behind the bar, answering the phone as it rings, moving between the kitchen and the manager’s office, talking to the kitchen staff through the window.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: The staff of the Empire is riding on their success from Saturday’s dinner service, which went smoothly. Almost too smoothly - it has given them a false sense of confidence in their own abilities. Customers may think that a Sunday afternoon service should be simple and straight-forward. The truth is that nothing can ever be properly described as simple or straight-forward when one is discussing a restaurant kitchen, as the false sense of security in the kitchen is about to prove.
[Cut to dining room, some time later, now filling with customers.]
MARY: Here’s today’s menu, would you like me to tell you about the new items?
[Cut to Kitchen. MOLLY is peering into the cooker and biting her lip.]
MOLLY: I’m not sure this is going to work.
ARTIE: Buck up, Moll, what’s the worst that can happen?
MOLLY: Well. I could poison someone.
ARTIE: Aim for Sherlock, if you can manage it.
[INTERIOR, Dining Room. MARY lays out the tables while SHERLOCK watches her, as if testing the waters.]
MARY: It’s exciting, isn’t it? New menu, new focus. All the customers yesterday, they really liked it, they had trouble deciding what they wanted to eat. I mean, they always had trouble deciding, but it was more like eliminating what they really didn’t want. Yesterday, they were trying to decide what they’d be willing to wait until next time to try.
[Cut to the Kitchen, where ARTIE is chopping carrots. SHERLOCK is watching him cautiously over his shoulder.]
ARTIE: I like the cooking. I didn’t get to cook much before.
SHERLOCK: Obviously.
ARTIE: Sandwiches. I made myself beans on toast once. I burnt the toast, though.
SHERLOCK: Really.
ARTIE: I’d quite like to cook every day. Think I can do that?
[ARTIE waves the knife around, carelessly, dangerously close to whacking off SHERLOCK’s head.]
SHERLOCK: Let’s see if anyone dies from the soup you make today.
ARTIE: Right you are, Chef!
[Another part of the kitchen. MOLLY is setting up her mise-en-place; behind her is the pixilated manager, helping.]
MOLLY: No, it’s good, it’s good. The new menu is…good.
MANAGER: Different.
MOLLY: Really different. It’s…familiar. Sort of. I mean, I kind of recognize what everything is supposed to be, and I didn’t before, except for having served it out. I feel really comfortable in the kitchen now, you know? I didn’t before. I mean, I was comfortable, of course I knew where everything was and what it did, but I never really felt like I knew what I was doing, and now - I do. Almost.
MANAGER: I like it. I think it’s exactly what the Empire needed. New blood, a new look, and new flavor.
SHERLOCK v.o.: Sunday will be a watershed day in the Empire’s kitchen. Can Molly and Artie handle the full-scale push of a Sunday afternoon lunch, with a larger menu with more complicated and unfamiliar items? Molly is a reasonably competent baker, and the new recipe for dessert, a Mexican Chocolate Soufflé, should be a knock-out. If she can get it right.
[Close up on MOLLY, stirring a pot over the range, and looking somewhat worried.]
MOLLY: Melt…melt…it’s not melting. It’s not melting.
[Cut to ARTIE, dumping a bowl of chopped carrots into a large pot with a tantalizing sizzle.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: Artie, dishwasher-turned-sous, has taken on more responsibility in the kitchen, including preparing the soup and salad courses, in order to give Molly the headspace she deserves to concentrate on the increased workload from the soufflés, fish courses, and vegetables added to the menu. The Empire has never had a proper soup on the menu, so we’re rectifying that omission with a Gingered Carrot Soup. Classic, easy to prepare, and perfect for winter months. Even Artie can’t mess this up.
[The carrots stop tumbling out. ARTIE gives the bowl another shake, and more carrots emerge.]
[Cut to the dining room. JOHN shows customers to their tables, MARY passes out menus. Afternoon service is starting.]
SHERLOCK v.o. cont.: The staff of the Empire is settling into their new roles. The day might actually succeed without a hitch after all.
*
Sunday afternoon service had been going fairly well, everything considered. The dining room was busy, the customers were reasonably happy, and while the kitchen could see the weeds and was familiar with both genus and species, it could not be said to reside among them.
Harry was perfectly content to wash the dishes. It meant she didn't have to be in the dining room. This had its positive and negative points. On the positive side, it meant that she didn't have to wait to see if Jim Moriarty was one of the day's customers. Harry knew it was only a matter of time; coming on Sunday would have been a reasonable thing to do. If Harry couldn't tell if Jim was in the dining room - then that made things easier, didn't it?
The negative, of course, was that Harry's distance from the dining room was also the distance from the bar and the half-full whiskey bottle under its counter. She'd promised John to stop with the little tipples during service. John trusted her, had always done, would always do - even if Harry did slip now and again, and have her little restorative drink. That was because he was John, and he trusted people he loved. Trusted them implicitly. Harry didn't think it was possible for John to not trust someone he loved, believe that they wanted the best for him and his. He had too much faith that everyone was just like him, at the end of the day.
If Harry stopped to think about it, this was probably why Harry didn't trust people. It evened the scales a bit.
Take Sherlock Holmes. Five days ago, the man had been a perfect stranger, celebrity status notwithstanding. And now he was on a first-name basis with them all. It was so patently ridiculous that John would trust Sherlock to such a degree that he'd be willing to change everything he had previously loved about the Empire, Harry felt as if distrusting him was a moral imperative, something she was contractually required to do. It wasn't just that Sherlock was changing every little detail of the Empire's existence (to the point that Harry wondered if James was rolling in his grave, though she'd never actually say it to John), it was that he seemed to be equally intent on starting some kind of relationship with John.
It wasn’t that Harry was jealous. It wasn’t that she watched the two of them skirt around each other in public, and thought about what she and Clara must have looked like to everyone else. Jealous didn’t enter into it, because Harry loved her brother, and she saw the way John looked at Sherlock, the way he eyes opened and his expression softened and his shoulders squared up, as if he was preparing for an inevitable end. It was the same way that Clara had looked those last few weeks, when they both knew without saying that it was over.
Harry wasn’t jealous of John. No. Jealousy had nothing to do with what she felt when she watched him and Sherlock not looking at each other. Not a bit.
The restaurant had been going full-steam for about an hour, and moving very well. Harry was perfectly content to stay in the annex, doing the dishes as they came through, taking out the rubbish, sweeping the floor, dodging the cameras, and keeping her head down. She'd absolutely forgotten the possibility of Jim Moriarty - though not the whiskey bottle - when the first of the dessert orders came in.
"Three soufflés and a custard tart," said Mary, eyes shining. "And they know it's a bit of a wait, they don't mind."
"Oh bollocks!" said Molly, her eyes going wide.
"Come on, Moll, they'll be fine," said Artie cheerfully as he ladled out the soup.
"No, it's not that, I can't leave the range," fretted Molly.
"I'll get them," said Harry, and ducked quickly so that the cameras didn't catch her as she went into the walk-in. The souffles were where she'd left them, individual little Pyrex pots covered with cling film, and Harry balanced three on one arm before heading back out to the kitchen. They were solid and cold and Harry half thought her arm would freeze off, but she managed to pop them on one of the pre-heated trays and slid them in the oven without much trouble.
"Twelve minutes on the soufflés, Chef," said Harry, and Molly flashed a grateful smile.
"Thanks, Hare," she said, finishing her plating before coming over to peer into the oven. "Do you think they'll rise?"
"They'll be gorgeous," said Harry, wondering the same thing herself. But Molly's ego was too fragile, even with a good day under her belt, to waver with any lack of confidence.
"Oi, Chef," called Artie. "Spinach burning."
Molly shrieked and turned back to the range, and Harry went back into the annex, where there were four sauté pans, six soup bowls, five salad bowls, three water glasses, and Christ knew how many utensils. She got to work.
Twelve minutes later, she had just come back in from taking out the rubbish - again, it was a never-ending chore, much like the dishes - when she heard the crash - a bit like every wine glass in the entire building falling to the floor. It was silent for a moment, and then Molly began to shriek.
"They’re frozen!"
Harry peered into the kitchen. To say her heart fell wouldn't have been accurate, because it didn't fall so much as turn as rock-solid as the soufflés, which were a sad combination of risen and raw and completely destroyed. The edges had clearly made an effort to rise above the pots, but only by a centimeter, and then just barely and were burned black for their trouble. The centers had not risen at all; in fact, they were a solid lump, and from the way that Sherlock was placing his finger on them with a frown, clearly provided the frozen part of Molly's analysis.
But the worst was the soufflé pot itself. Clearly the pots were not made to go between the excessive cold of the freezer straight into the oven, because the glass had cracked in several places, dark lines oozing soufflé dough. Sherlock tapped the edge of the pot with a long, elegant finger, and it wobbled dangerously and then topped over, and the entire small soufflé fell over on its side, bubbling and wheezing, exhausted from its failed efforts to rise above its station.
Molly burst into tears. Harry couldn't really blame her. No one else in the kitchen could make a sound.
"Tears. You're crying," said Sherlock, his voice hard and cold and low, and Harry felt her stomach twist in a way that was almost...not pleasurable, not really, and she'd never quite swung that way, but she could very easily see how her brother might, if Sherlock said his name in just the right way.
"I'm sorry," said Molly.
"You're a professional. Well, you claim to be a professional, but here you are, crying over spilt soufflé," said Sherlock, and he was growing angrier with every word. Molly sniffled and tried to stop, but Harry knew that once Molly was going... "What, precisely, happened here?"
"They didn't bake properly."
"No, I think they baked exactly the way they should have done, if someone had failed to store or temper them properly. You put them in the freezer, didn't you?"
"Yeesssss..."
"The freezer, when I specifically told you to put them in the walk-in. You froze your soufflés. Which would have been fine had you not intended to bake them until next week. And then you baked them, immediately, without giving them so much as a minute to warm up before tossing them into a 190-degree oven. Cold Pyrex, on a pre-heated tray, an act which resulted not only in an uneven bake but completely destroyed what were clearly soufflé pots original to the opening of the restaurant.
"What's more, I suspect the rest of the soufflés are also in the freezer, which means they are also unusable for the rest of the day, which means your crowning achievement of dessert is absolute rubbish."
"I must have misunderstood-"
"Oh! Oh, right, of course, you misunderstood," said Sherlock, the mocking tone coming in. "Right, sorry, all's better now, Molly simply misunderstood when I gave her precise instructions on how to prepare and properly store the soufflés for today's service. But really, what else should I have expected? That's what you do, isn't it, Molly? You're meant to be clever, you showed real promise in the kitchen yesterday, you're intuitive and you might actually be a competent baker but only if you can read the directions someone has left for you to follow, because you don't stop to think about what you are doing. 'I'll bake the bread without tempering the yeast or allowing a rise, that's what the directions say though I know better.’ 'Here, let me cook all the flavor out of the tomatoes which come from a tin and are therefore flavorless already, because that's what the directions say though I know better.' 'I'll just pop these soufflés into the freezer even though I'm meant to bake them in a few hours, and bake them on a preheated tray because that's what the directions say though I know better.' Only you don't know better, do you, Molly? Your mind is so small or perhaps so distracted that you can't possibly process the dozens of things that are meant to be going through your head in order to keep a kitchen running smoothly and the food turning out on time and in an edible form. It must be so nice to be you, Molly, to have such a small mind and move at such a small pace. How I envy you. No, really, truly, I do. I always wondered what would happen if a barely competent cook was given an entire restaurant kitchen to muck up. Thank you, Molly Hooper, for confirming my theory that people like you have no business in food service."
The tears were running down Molly's cheeks; Harry couldn't move. No one in the kitchen could move - not Mary by the warming table, her eyes wide with shock and horror. Not Artie, just behind Molly at the range, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Not Anderson or Lestrade - Anderson continuing to film (of course, this was high drama right here, a lovely clip for a television promo), or Lestrade, who stared at Sherlock like he desperately wanted to pulverize the man under a meat grinder.
The only movement in the kitchen was from Molly, who shook and wrung her hands, unable to look up, unable to meet anyone's eyes.
"I thought...I thought you said-”
"Oh, you were thinking," scoffed Sherlock. "Shall I tell you what you were thinking? You were thinking that you need a new haircut, wondering if maybe you should add highlights to your hair. The answer is yes, he likes highlights, but I wouldn't cut your hair much shorter than it is, because while short hair might be cooler in a kitchen, he quite likes to play with it around his fingers, but you know that already, don't you? You're thinking that you need to try to eat an actual meal before dinner service begins, because you don't want to rely on tasting to keep you fed, you only end up overtasting items because you're feeling a bit peckish, and that all adds a bit of weight, doesn't it, and yes, you'd like to watch your weight because yes, he really does like them small, I can confirm that for you, too. If you were thinking about the soufflés at all, you were hoping there'd be one left at the end of the night so that you could share it together after the rest of us had all gone home, and you probably had a lovely little scenario where the lights were out and you were feeding each other before a delightfully romantic kiss with chocolate-flavored lips. I'm very sorry to break the news to you, Miss Hooper, but it would never have happened because he's quite allergic to eggs, and such a display of affection would likely have killed him here on the floor. But luckily for you, the soufflés are frozen so it appears you won't be murdering your lover tonight, but if you take them out to defrost, there's a chance you could murder him tomorrow instead. Assuming he still wants to be with you. He tends to like them competent, and after your display today, I have my doubts that you are competent in any role which could be construed as traditionally female."
Molly gasped, a little, high-pitched, sobbing intake of breath. Sherlock seemed to be out of breath, his tumbling tirade spent, and for a moment, Harry had no idea what could possibly break the silence that followed, if it wasn't Molly bursting into flame on the spot, or perhaps running from the room, never to return.
She didn't expect Artie to take a step forward, and without saying so much as a word, punch Sherlock squarely on the nose.
She didn't expect John to suddenly appear in the kitchen in time to see Sherlock reel back, his hands going instinctively to his face, as blood spurted out between his fingers.
She didn't expect Lestrade to go to Sherlock and drag him out of the kitchen, past her, into the alleyway, and she didn't expect John to pull Artie back from following him (which Artie was about to do) and slam him up against the walk-in door.
The door to the alleyway shut behind Lestrade and Sherlock, and the kitchen fell mostly silent again. The only sounds now were Molly, still sobbing, and Mary, her arms around her, quietly hushing and soothing her.
"All right then," said John, quite calmly. He held Artie firmly against the walk-in door, up on his toes. "Someone care to tell me what's going on?"
Molly's sobs changed. And Harry realized that Molly was actually beginning to laugh.
"I think she's hysterical," said Mary in amazement, and John looked over at Harry.
"Brandy. Or sherry. Or something."
"Right," said Harry, and went.
The dining room was still busy, but the conversations were stilted. They'd heard the shouting; Harry knew it. Sodding hell. Harry could feel every pair of eyes on her, and she smiled brightly at them before crouching behind the bar where they couldn't see her.
It was as she poured the brandy, and the images of the faces in the dining room began clicking in her mind, that she realized who was sitting in the corner table, a smirk on his too-thin face, wearing his perfectly pressed grey suit, looking around as if he was already calculating how much it would all bring at auction.
Bloody wanking bugger pissing arse sodding...
The drink poured, Harry stood back up, still smiling gamely, and disappeared back into the kitchen. John had let go of Artie, who was sulking by the ovens. Molly was sitting on a stool, drying her eyes on a spare kitchen towel, and Harry handed her the drink.
"Bottoms up, Moll," said John gently, and Molly drank the entire shot in one go, and came up coughing.
"Ow," said Molly, rubbing her chest.
“All right?” said John, leaning down to look her in the eyes.
“Yeah,” said Molly. “I think so.”
“Okay.” He glanced at the ruined soufflés, and to his credit, didn’t so much as blink. “I take it the soufflés are off the menu.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Molly.
“Don’t be sorry. We need to come up with something else. I need everyone to think.”
And Molly burst into tears again. Mary sighed and pulled her in to give her a tight squeeze.
John looked lost. “Ah…”
“That’s it,” said Artie. “I’m going to kill him.”
John reached out and grabbed Artie by the wrist, yanking him back into the kitchen. “Artie.”
“He shouted at her, John!” yelled Artie. “He stood there and he called her an idiot and he shouted at her, in her own kitchen, and he told her she was worthless and didn’t deserve to be here, because she made one stupid mistake and who the fuck cares about soufflés anyway? Why should he care about them? It’s not his restaurant!”
“No, it’s not,” said John calmly. “It’s mine, and I’ll thank you not to go round punching people in the kitchen, even if they do insult the chef.”
“Allowing him to walk all over us, just because you’re sleeping with him-”
Harry sucked in her breath. Mary’s eyes widened.
“Artie,” she hissed, and Artie caught his breath.
John, however, wasn’t fazed, though Harry thought she saw his ears go pink, and his hands clenched for just a moment.
“I don’t care if it’s the bloody fucking bastard who shot me in the shoulder,” said John, and Harry could hear the tension and anger in his voice. “You do not punch people in Molly’s kitchen. Do. You. Understand. Me.”
Artie took a deep, shaking breath. “I’ll quit.”
John shrugged his shoulders. “Fine.”
They stared at each other, while the rest of the room held their breaths. John didn’t blink - but then, neither did Artie.
And finally, like a breath of air, Molly spoke.
“He didn’t call me an idiot.”
John broke the staring contest with Artie to look at her. “Molly?”
“He said I didn’t listen,” said Molly. “He’s right. I didn’t. I put the soufflés in the freezer instead of the walk in, and I didn’t think to question it, I just did it, and then I forgot, and I had Harry put them straight into the oven on a preheated tray, when they ought to have gone on a cold tray instead. I wasn’t thinking. He might have been awful about it,” Molly added, “and I don’t want to excuse him from being rude, but…”
“All right,” said John. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What are we going to do about dessert?”
The kitchen was quiet. “We’ve got egg whites,” said Molly, hesitatingly. “And cream. If we have any fruit, we could do Eton mess. Meringues don’t take very long.”
“I think there’s a box of strawberries,” said Mary.
“There is,” said Harry, glad to finally say something positive.
“Eton mess, then,” said John. “Mary, let everyone know the change in the menu when you present dessert, and anyone who’s ordered soufflés, apologize and comp them a glass of wine and a chance to reorder.”
“Right you are,” said Mary briskly, and gave Molly a quick kiss on the cheek before she left the kitchen.
“Boss,” began Artie, but John motioned him to be quiet.
“Harry, can you help in the dining room?” said John.
“Of course,” said Harry.
“Boss,” Artie tried again, and John turned to him.
“I thought you were quitting.” He didn’t sound angry, though - just sad.
“I’ll finish out my shift,” said Artie, lifting his chin.
“Then finish it at the sink,” said John.
Artie opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words died when John’s expression didn’t change. He turned and went to the sink, once again towering with dishes, and set to work.
“John?” asked Molly. “I…I still need help. It might be silly, but - Sherlock-”
“I know,” said John, and he reached for an apron. “Don’t worry about him, Molly. I’m going to be your sous.”
*
The alley was quiet, mostly. For anyone else, the cold air would have been a blessed relief from the heated kitchen, a place to unwind and try to regroup.
For Sherlock, it was simply another location for the continued torture of his brain which refused to stop. His eyes darted around the alleyway while Lestrade tried to staunch the bleeding from his nose.
“Hold your head back,” said Lestrade tersely, and Sherlock ignored him.
“Sunday afternoon the last rubbish collection was Friday morning we were here but of course it’s obvious from the number of bags in the skip but also there’s ginger peel on the ground, probably a cat came in and was scrounging for food and left it. It’s not discolored too heavily so it can’t be more than two days old. Artie sweeps back here every morning and once before the dinner service, or at least did before he became too busy with being a sous, I believe Harry’s doing it now and she’s not quite as handy with getting into the corners, hence why the peel is still present. Additional cigarette butts on the ground, thrown in the corner, different from Artie’s preferred brand, which means another person has taken it up. Not Molly or Mary, not any of the camera crew because they smoke on the main street, that leaves Harry. Makes sense, she’s under a deal of stress and she’s not even finishing the butts, they’re barely half finished, most of them. Lack of time or indication of disgust? I’ll say disgust.”
“Not John,” said Lestrade quietly. He had pulled tissues from somewhere, and rolled them into sticks to shove into Sherlock’s nose.
“John doesn’t smoke. John doesn’t drink. John doesn’t…”
Sherlock stopped, unsure where else to go.
“Right boring berk,” said Lestrade, and Sherlock knocked his hand away from his nose.
“John is sensible,” he snapped. “He doesn’t engage in useless, self-harming activities.”
“Why’s he hanging about with you, then?”
Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.
“Yeah,” said Lestrade, a bit like a man who’s just stumbled into something intelligent. He reached again to shove the last tissue up Sherlock’s nose. “Think about that one, why don’t you.”
“John Watson is trying to save his restaurant.”
“I suspect he can multitask.” Lestrade finished the tissues and assessed Sherlock’s face. “Bleeding’s stopped.”
Sherlock nodded dully, and spun around when the back door opened. It was Sally, shrugging on her coat.
“Whispers in the dining room,” she said briskly. “And no one’s come out of the kitchen to say anything since the rumble began. Think the natives are getting restless, boss.”
“Right,” said Lestrade with a sigh, and he turned to Sherlock. “Feel up to going back in?”
Sherlock turned to Sally. “What’s the mood in the kitchen?”
Sally frowned. “Bit weird, really. John told Artie off for punching you and then told him to finish his shift at the sink. There’s egg whites left, plus what Harry has in her own fridge upstairs, so Molly’s making meringues.”
Sherlock’s brain, still whirring away, went speeding down another path. “Frozen strawberries, and the whipped cream…”
“Eton mess,” they said together, and Sherlock chuckled.
“Look at that,” said Lestrade softly. “She’s bouncing back. Clever one, she is.”
Sherlock pushed himself to his feet. “She’ll need help, if Artie’s demoted to dishwashing.”
“Not really,” said Sally, but Sherlock ignored her and went back into the kitchen.
Artie was at the sink, scrubbing the sauté pans; Sherlock could feel the sulk roll off him in waves, and Artie pointedly turned his back to him, obviously determined not to look at him or even risk acknowledging his presence.
Sherlock paused only long enough to roll up his sleeves, ready to dive in to wherever he was most obviously needed; he walked through the annex and into the kitchen. He scanned the chopping block, where the standing mixer was whirring at top speed with a cloth draped over it - the whipping cream for the Eton mess, no doubt. The warming table was loaded with plates of chicken and fish, ready for delivery, and there were only three tickets waiting to be filled. Molly stood at the range, just about to slide a tray of meringues into the oven, ready to bake.
“Twenty minutes before the meringues are out,” said Molly, and shut the oven door carefully. She set the timer and turned to prep the next tray. Once she moved, Sherlock saw John standing at the counter, carefully and competently plating the roast chicken atop the spinach and parsnips.
“How long to cool?” asked John. “Five or ten?”
“Five if we put them in the walk-in,” said Molly, doubtfully. “But they might get chewy.”
“It’s Eton mess, is anyone going to notice?”
Mary flew in from the dining room. “You’re in luck; everyone who ordered the soufflés is disappointed but happy enough for pie or custard. When can I start offering the Eton mess?”
“First plate in half an hour,” said Molly. She peeked under the cloth at the whipping cream. “Two minutes to cream.”
“Did any of the soufflé orders take the wine?” asked John, and he slid effortlessly behind Molly to start plating the fish.
“Three,” said Mary. She picked up the orders and was out the door again.
John breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, that’ll have finished off the Merlot Boscombe refused to drink last night.”
Sherlock caught the look on John’s face the moment before John saw him standing in the doorway. Intent focus on the food he was plating, and concern about the comfort of his customers, the monetary implications of an open bottle of wine, the ability to push a time-consuming dessert through at the last minute.
Then John saw him, and the expression flickered for just a moment. Sherlock didn’t know if it was amusement or relief, or simply, Ah, there you are.
It was gone almost as quickly as it’d appeared, and John turned back to the kitchen. “What next, Chef?”
“The strawberries,” said Molly, and John disappeared into the walk-in.
But before the door closed, he looked at Sherlock.
“You should put ice on that,” he said quietly. “I’ll bring some out for you.”
The walk-in’s door closed with its customary heavy thunk, and at the same time, Molly switched off the standing mixer. The kitchen was quiet. Sherlock could hear the chatter and laughter and music from the dining room. It was disturbing.
Molly didn’t look at him. Instead, she concentrated on scraping the last of the whipped cream from the beaters, her mouth set in a line.
“Eton mess,” said Sherlock, awkwardly, and he swallowed. “That was a good idea.”
“Thanks,” said Molly stiffly, and didn’t look at him.
Sherlock went to the corner by the window, where he could look out into the dining room. Mary was serving out meals, laughing, and he could see Harry on the far side, talking to customers, with an actual pleasant expression on her face. It was cheerful, and loud, and everyone looked happy to be there.
“You always say such horrible things,” said Molly suddenly, and Sherlock turned to look at her.
“You shouldn’t work in a restaurant kitchen if you have a thin skin,” said Sherlock.
“It’s not that,” said Molly. She still didn’t look at him. “I don’t mind criticism, or someone telling me I’m a bloody awful cook. I know I’m rubbish in a kitchen, I rely too heavily on recipes someone else has created and I’m terrified that I’ll undercook the fish. The entire dining room could come in and tell me how horrible I am, all one after the other, and I’d wonder why they didn’t come in sooner.
“But you - that’s what you’re like all the time. Every time, always. I’ve seen your show. You aren’t critical because you honestly want us to improve. You aren’t critical because you know people will watch. I don’t think you even enjoy it, not really, because you always look so sad afterwards. I think you can’t help it. It just…comes right out, and you couldn’t stop it if you tried.”
Molly pulled out the cling film to cover the bowl of whipped cream. “I bollocksed up the soufflés, I know that. But you didn’t need to bring Greg into it. You hadn’t the right. I suppose you couldn’t help it, and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” repeated Sherlock, bewildered.
“Because someday you’re going to say something horrible to someone you care about, and you’re going to wish you could stop yourself, and you won’t be able to do it,” said Molly.
“There’s no one I care about,” said Sherlock.
The whipped cream was covered; Molly picked up the bowl and headed to the walk-in, just as John came out, a box marked Strawberries in his arms.
“Sorry, they were on the top shelf,” he apologized, and frowned when he saw Molly’s downturned eyes. He glanced sharply at Sherlock before turning back to her. “You all right?”
“Yes,” said Molly. “Can you plate the pizzas for Table Five? I’ll do the strawberries in a tick.”
“Right,” said John, and set the box down on the chopping block as Molly disappeared into the walk-in.
"Your nose all right?" John asked, and Sherlock instinctively reached up to touch the tissues.
"Yes," he said carefully. "The bleeding stopped, though it feels sore. I don't believe it's broken."
"The clinic closed half an hour ago," said John, "but I could call Sarah and ask-"
"No," said Sherlock quickly. "I do not require medical attention."
"All right," said John. He opened the box and started to fuss with the plastic bag. "I - ah...I'm sorry Artie punched you."
"I'm told I deserved it."
"Yeah, probably," admitted John, and he looked up from the strawberries. "The soufflés weren't Molly's fault."
"John," said Sherlock quietly. "The reason Artie punched me had absolutely nothing to do with the soufflés."
"I know," said John, and Sherlock felt John's gaze lock on him. "There's a-"
Two steps until John stood in front of him, reached up and brushed his thumb along the top of Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock could smell the cold air still in John's hair, the soft and warm scent of cooked onions, the tang of the fish with orange sauce, the peppers from the kedgeree. Sherlock breathed in deeply and held the breath inside while John brushed whatever clung to his cheek away.
"Flour, I think," said John, his voice pitched low, and Sherlock reached up to grasp John's wrist.
"John."
"I know," whispered John. "But-"
Sherlock didn't want to hear it. He moved forward, just that much, and lightly pressed his lips to John's. John leaned on him, warm and solid and relaxed, but his mouth didn't open, and when Sherlock pulled away, he could see the worry in John's eyes, the creases on his forehead.
"Not here," said Sherlock, and John's mouth turned up in a small smile.
"No," he agreed. Sherlock let John's arm go, and John stepped away, just as Molly returned.
"Ten minutes on the meringues, Chef," said Sherlock, as if he and John had done nothing more than discuss the weather, and nothing more needed to be said.
*
“We need to go back to London tomorrow,” said Lestrade gruffly, catching Sherlock’s arm and holding him fast.
The service was nearly over; Sherlock had only been in the dining room to see how the customers liked their meals before giving the silly little daily wrap-up speech, more a necessity for the cameras than for the crew at this point. He had already discussed the next day’s work with them: an intense one-day tutorial for Molly and Artie, covering the half dozen new main courses, as well as briefly going over the far simpler starters and desserts. Nearly twenty dishes in all, most of which would debut on Tuesday, and the rest to be trickled out over the week as they gained confidence.
Sherlock almost wanted to insist that John sit in on the tutorial. Seeing him in the kitchen, cooking in tandem with Molly, would have been shocking if Sherlock hadn’t already known the man could cook. Instead it slotted into what he already knew about the great puzzle that was John, the half dozen things he was accomplished at doing without realizing what an odd mix of talents he was. Soldier, doctor, manager, cook? Sherlock wondered what would have happened if John had been given a ball of yarn and told to make a jumper, or a tennis racket and told to win Wimbledon. He had no doubt that John was capable of doing either.
“Sherlock,” repeated Lestrade, and Sherlock gave his director a cool gaze.
“I realize that Miss Hooper has you in a tailspin, but we are in fact scheduled to remain here for another two days.”
“Change of plans,” said Lestrade, still holding fast to Sherlock’s arm. He paused, the words caught in his throat, and Sherlock realized that it wasn’t annoyance in Lestrade’s voice at all, but…fear?
“You’re afraid,” said Sherlock, wondering, and with that deduction, Lestrade’s grip loosened. Sherlock shook off his hand easily. “What? Something happened in London. Did the studios burn down? I don’t know why we’d need to return if-”
“I told you what happened,” said Lestrade. “The Norbury Arms closed.”
“Yes, in Berkshire.”
“Gregson wants a meeting.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to see-”
“That’s just it, Sherlock. You fail to see. I told you that we were on the line, that you couldn’t mess this restaurant up-”
“I haven’t.”
“Then why did I get a message an hour ago from the producer in charge of the entire cooking division, demanding an immediate meeting with you about what you’ve been up to during filming?” snapped Lestrade, his voice low and clearly distraught. He ran his hand through his hair and glanced at the customers, who weren’t paying them much attention, considering the drama.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Sherlock coolly. “I haven’t done anything untoward-”
“You’ve been seducing John Watson.” Just as you did with Irene Adler went unsaid, but then, Lestrade didn’t need to say it for Sherlock to understand it. Nor did Lestrade really understand what had gone on between them, only what was visible on the surface.
At any rate, it was easily ignored.
“That’s not untoward and it’s also none of the studio’s business. It’s your job to keep the studio in the studio and not sticking their fingers into the filming when we’re out in the field - or isn’t that what you said just three days ago?”
Lestrade sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t know why exactly they want us to come in tomorrow. We can leave early in the morning, get to London before the worst of the rush hour and have this meeting the minute the studios open and be back before lunch. That’ll give you half a day to work with Molly and Artie. It’s the best I can do.”
Sherlock kept his gaze locked on Lestrade, who looked more agitated and uncomfortable by the moment. But it wasn’t because he knew what was going on - if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything, much less Sherlock. And while it was true that Lestrade didn’t meet his eyes now, he’d been very much looking at him before, when he kept his voice below a shout.
Lestrade didn’t know anything, and that was what was scaring him.
“What time do you want to leave?” asked Sherlock quietly.
“Five,” said Lestrade. “I’m not even going to ask where you’re spending the night-”
“I’ll be in the hotel lobby at five,” said Sherlock, and went to see if the kitchen was ready for him. He rather hoped they weren’t; he had no idea what he was going to say.
*
The end of the day - John hadn’t thought they would ever get there, but suddenly they were. Molly sent out the last of the Eton mess, and Mary delivered it. Harry was already working at the day’s tally, Artie was scrubbing the last of the sauté pans, and John watched the door rock back and forth behind Mary. There were five tables of diners left, and Sherlock and Lestrade were in deep discussion in the back of the dining room.
John exhaled slowly. The day was over. His skin prickled, and his heart pounded, and he felt a little dizzy, rather like he was dehydrated. He wasn’t; he’d been drinking water steadily all afternoon, and anyway, his mind was clear, and focused on one small detail.
The day was over, and if the last few days were any indication - Sherlock would stop by the house on Baker Street, and find his way inside, and they would cook something to eat, and they would talk about anything and everything except what would happen when the dishes were washed and the lights were off, because that was when Sherlock would kiss him or he would kiss Sherlock and they’d go upstairs and…
John couldn’t think further than that. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, only that every time his mind started going in that direction, he was interrupted, and lost his train of thought.
John’s head was in the oven as he wiped down the splatters and spills. His imagination was on the landing, where Sherlock was pushing John’s shirt off his shoulders, and John was easing Sherlock’s trousers past his hips, and both of them had lost their shoes somewhere downstairs, because John had already realized that shoes were going to be an imposition, and had worked that into his daydream. John’s sleeves caught on his wrists, and they both chuckled and in the oven, John shook his head and grinned, and anyway, he’d have had to roll up the sleeves to do the washing up downstairs, so the buttons would have already been undone, scratch that, although the laughing together part was nice-
The dining room door opened, and Sally Donovan poked her head in. “All set?”
John blinked out of the daydream. He backed out of the oven and realized the entire staff was looking at him, and for one heated moment, hoped his daydream hadn’t produced a physical response. “Sure,” said John, and when everyone glanced back at Sally, surreptitiously checked his pants, which were thankfully not quite as bulged as they could have been.
Sherlock came into the dining room a moment later. John thought of a maharajah entering his harem, and stifled the giggle. Another slight modification to the daydream, check.
Sherlock took a moment and just looked at all of them, while they looked at him. John wondered if he was maybe supposed to say something first, and then Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.
“It was…” Sherlock glanced at them. He looked unsettled; John wondered what he was thinking. “You did well. You did remarkably well. You have handled crises with aplomb and creativity. You pulled together and supported each other. You may not be the most talented of kitchens, but you are the most resourceful.”
Silence, for a moment, while this sunk in. For a moment, John wondered why it sounded so unusual. And then it came to him: it wasn’t that what Sherlock said wasn’t sincere, because everything he said was truly meant. It was that Sherlock was giving them all a compliment, without the pandering, and with only the slightest of insults worked in. And what’s more - it was a compliment given before the final day, before the final reveal of a finished and ready-for-the-world remade Empire.
John should have been ecstatic. Instead, his stomach began to twist. There was something about Sherlock’s face - the graveness, the dark look in his eyes, the way he held himself stiffly, as if he were merely hitting his marks, responding to orders he didn’t agree were correct.
Something was wrong. John didn’t doubt that Sherlock believed in what he was saying - but the reasons he was saying it weren’t quite right.
“I have every confidence that you will take on a full menu of traditional English fare with an international flavor and make it your own specialty. Starting on Tuesday, Upper Brickley will not know what they have been missing. I will…” Sherlock took a breath. “I will see you on Tuesday morning.”
Sherlock turned to leave, and the kitchen broke out into chatter.
Mary: “But…what about tomorrow?”
Molly: “There’s still so much I don’t know!”
Artie: “You can’t honestly think we’re ready to take on a full menu without practice!”
Sherlock paused by the door, and then glanced at them over his shoulder. John thought that Sherlock’s gaze rested on him for just a moment, before he looked at Molly. “Tuesday morning. Be ready to show me just how flexible you really are.”
And then he was gone. The kitchen was quiet as they stared at each other, and then Artie spoke.
“That wanker.”
“Artie!” said Mary, with a quick and worried glance at John.
“No, he is!” insisted Artie. “He’s supposed to help us, it’s the last day tomorrow that he’s really going to be here and we won’t have any distractions and instead he’s talking like…” Artie sucked in his breath. “Wait. You don’t think he’s just giving up on us, do you?”
“Stop,” said John, but he wondered if Artie wasn’t right. “Wondering about it now isn’t going to do anything. He said we have the day off tomorrow, and you all want to work on your skills - well, that’s what you’re going to do.”
“How?” asked Harry. “We’re not even supposed to be here, they’re going to redo the dining room tomorrow.”
John had forgotten; he closed his eyes for a moment and thought about the portraits of his grandfathers on the wall.
No. Sherlock wouldn’t move those. He’d as much as promised.
He opened his eyes again to find everyone still looking at him. “That’s the dining room. Not the kitchen. Mary - tomorrow you come in and we’ll do a full-on clean of the kitchen. Molly and Artie, you can do as much of the prep for this coming week that we can reasonably manage in one day, and we’ll set up the mise for Tuesday for everything we know we’ll need, so we won’t have to worry about that when Sherlock arrives.”
“What else is going to be on the menu?” asked Molly, hesitant.
“I suspect I’ll find a list in the office,” said John. “I’m going to need to place the delivery order, anyway, and Sherlock knows that.”
“It’s a test,” said Mary suddenly. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? He’s been looking over our shoulder all weekend, and he keeps saying how we keep watching each other’s backs - that’s what this is, isn’t it? He wants to see what we do without him looking over our shoulders.”
“Maybe,” said John cautiously. Artie still looked skeptical, but Molly was nodding her head.
“We’ll just be as ready as we can be,” she said, and it sounded like she had some of her confidence back. John saw the way she lifted her chin, and didn’t have the heart to disparage her.
Harry poked her head through the window. “Tables 15 and 22 just paid.”
It broke the strange spell; “Oh!” said Mary, and went through the door into the dining room. Artie went back to the dishes, a half-frown still on his face. Molly turned to John.
“You don’t think it’s a test,” she said, and John put his head back in the oven so as not to answer her, or let her see his doubts. “John?”
“Mary might be right.” John’s voice echoed in the oven. “I haven’t any way of knowing.”
“But you know him best. Sherlock, I mean. You’ve spent the most time with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. He’s been teaching you how to cook every day; we’ve just had a couple of meals together.”
Molly didn’t say anything. John found a burnt bit of sauce on the side of the oven, right where it was the most difficult to scrape, and worked at it furiously. Scritch scritch scritch.
“Yeah, all right,” said Molly finally. “Okay. Sure.”
Scritch. John started to back out of the oven, doubt still eating away at him, but with a new twist: Molly’s disbelief that he didn’t somehow know Sherlock better than the rest. How could he? He barely knew the other man. “Molly-”
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” said Molly. “I’m going to go and greet the customers. I’ve never done that as chef before, and I’ve got a little time now.”
John stayed in the oven and listened to Molly leave the kitchen. He couldn’t hear her in the dining room over the sound of his knife scraping at the oven walls, or the water splashing in the annex, but he could imagine it; Molly, talking to the customers, smiling and laughing and for once confident in her own abilities.
John wondered - had Sherlock given that to her? Or had she had it in herself all along, and he’d just showed her the way?
John finished the oven; the customers paid their bills and went home; Artie finished the dishes and swept and mopped the floor; Harry finished the accounting and put in the final orders for the next day’s delivery; Mary Hoovered and John slowly collected the tablecloths and used napkins. Molly went home, promising to return by 8am to help Harry with the veg delivery. Mary went home, intending to return at 10 to start the deep-clean of the kitchen.
Harry went upstairs at half seven, with a longing look at the bar that was not missed by John.
Artie finished the floors, took out the last bag of rubbish, and stopped in the door of the office.
“Boss,” he said, and repeated it when John didn’t immediately respond. “Boss.”
John looked up. Artie was standing straight up, arms at his sides, a little like a soldier at attention, waiting for orders.
“About earlier.”
“It’s all right,” said John shortly. He looked back down at the accounting. “We were all a bit under fire.”
Artie considered this, and then nodded. “I…I wanted to know if you wanted me back tomorrow. Boss.”
John stilled, and then glanced up at Artie again. Artie wasn’t looking at him; instead his gaze seemed to be focused just to the side, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet John’s eyes.
“Artie,” said John, and Artie’s gaze flickered at him, and then back out again. “Look at me.”
Artie’s gaze held now. “Boss.”
“Whatever you think about me and Sherlock Holmes…it’s not like that.”
Artie was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t matter to me if it was. Boss.”
“Wouldn’t it?”
Artie shook his head. “No. I…look. I know what you’re thinking. That I’m homophobic or some shite like that. I’m not. Just…” Artie paused, and then plunged on. “I don’t see it ending well. How much do you really know about him - do any of us really know about him, beyond whatever shite they put on the telly? He leaves day after tomorrow. Then what?”
Artie took a breath, and straightened up again. The serious façade fell; and John saw the old, snarky, jovial Artie slide back into place. “Anyway, boss. You’re just home from overseas. Probably aching for a good shag. You’d fall for a plucked chicken, I think.”
“Find me a plucked chicken and we’ll see,” said John, and Artie grinned at him. “You’re not fired. Not today, anyway.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. Tuesday’s not off the books either.”
“Right, boss.”
“Get out of here.”
Artie flashed him one of his half-arsed salutes, and left. John listened until he heard the slam of the back door.
And then he closed the ledger, and set down his pen. He pushed back from the desk and left the office, turned out the lights and closed the door.
The Empire was silent and dark; John couldn’t even hear the echoes of his footprints on the carpeted floor.
John stood in the middle of the dining room, and looked up at the portraits of John and John H. and James and Hamish as they looked resolutely out at him.
John listened to the faint sounds of traffic outside. The sound of Harry upstairs, moving across the floor. The persistent hum of the walk-in, the buzz of the fluorescent light that Artie had left on in the kitchen. The memory of James clattering over the range, Hamish shouting in fury about burnt cakes, the smell of pasta sauce bubbling on a range, James carefully shaping bits of dough into perfectly formed biscuits.
There’s no point in doing things by halves, John. Decide what you want, and put everything you have in you into getting there.
In another day, none of it would be left. The reconstruction team would fall on the dining room with paint thinners and new carpeting, and when John saw it again, it would be transformed into…something he didn’t recognize, something that wasn’t a part of him.
Maybe that was a good thing.
John didn’t know.
Maybe Sherlock was waiting for him at the house on Baker Street, glancing at the clock and deducing exactly how long John would stand in the empty dining room, soaking up the last of his childhood to carry him the rest of his life.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
John didn’t know that, either.
And anyway, it was only a room, dark-paneled, with blank spaces on the walls where pictures and photographs and African masks used to hang. It was already altered. John already had stopped recognizing it.
For a moment, John had the urge to take down the portraits. The idea that any of Sherlock’s crew would touch them, move them, toss them into a heap like so much of what had already been removed - it was an anathema. John could barely stomach the thought.
But Sherlock had promised. And John had seen the videos. The promises that Sherlock made - he kept. John took a breath, and straightened his back, sliding so quickly from parade rest to attention that he barely noticed the movements. He turned sharply, military-precision exact, and walked, quick-step, out of the dining room.
Better to leave now, before he changed his mind and pulled the portraits off the wall and ran like hell for safety.
End A/N: Double recipes for you - Carrot Ginger Soup and Mexican Chocolate Soufflés!
Incidentally - it’s true about the Pyrex dishes. Cold dishes on pre-heated trays may result in cracked dishes. DON’T DO IT.
Chapter Fifteen
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationship, Characters: Sherlock/John, just about everyone else
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Summary: John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good - the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes.
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
[INTERIOR, Dining room, where MARY unfolds the tablecloths, lays down cutlery, glasses, underplates. The pixilated manager is helping, and somewhere in the rear, JOHN is working behind the bar, answering the phone as it rings, moving between the kitchen and the manager’s office, talking to the kitchen staff through the window.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: The staff of the Empire is riding on their success from Saturday’s dinner service, which went smoothly. Almost too smoothly - it has given them a false sense of confidence in their own abilities. Customers may think that a Sunday afternoon service should be simple and straight-forward. The truth is that nothing can ever be properly described as simple or straight-forward when one is discussing a restaurant kitchen, as the false sense of security in the kitchen is about to prove.
[Cut to dining room, some time later, now filling with customers.]
MARY: Here’s today’s menu, would you like me to tell you about the new items?
[Cut to Kitchen. MOLLY is peering into the cooker and biting her lip.]
MOLLY: I’m not sure this is going to work.
ARTIE: Buck up, Moll, what’s the worst that can happen?
MOLLY: Well. I could poison someone.
ARTIE: Aim for Sherlock, if you can manage it.
[INTERIOR, Dining Room. MARY lays out the tables while SHERLOCK watches her, as if testing the waters.]
MARY: It’s exciting, isn’t it? New menu, new focus. All the customers yesterday, they really liked it, they had trouble deciding what they wanted to eat. I mean, they always had trouble deciding, but it was more like eliminating what they really didn’t want. Yesterday, they were trying to decide what they’d be willing to wait until next time to try.
[Cut to the Kitchen, where ARTIE is chopping carrots. SHERLOCK is watching him cautiously over his shoulder.]
ARTIE: I like the cooking. I didn’t get to cook much before.
SHERLOCK: Obviously.
ARTIE: Sandwiches. I made myself beans on toast once. I burnt the toast, though.
SHERLOCK: Really.
ARTIE: I’d quite like to cook every day. Think I can do that?
[ARTIE waves the knife around, carelessly, dangerously close to whacking off SHERLOCK’s head.]
SHERLOCK: Let’s see if anyone dies from the soup you make today.
ARTIE: Right you are, Chef!
[Another part of the kitchen. MOLLY is setting up her mise-en-place; behind her is the pixilated manager, helping.]
MOLLY: No, it’s good, it’s good. The new menu is…good.
MANAGER: Different.
MOLLY: Really different. It’s…familiar. Sort of. I mean, I kind of recognize what everything is supposed to be, and I didn’t before, except for having served it out. I feel really comfortable in the kitchen now, you know? I didn’t before. I mean, I was comfortable, of course I knew where everything was and what it did, but I never really felt like I knew what I was doing, and now - I do. Almost.
MANAGER: I like it. I think it’s exactly what the Empire needed. New blood, a new look, and new flavor.
SHERLOCK v.o.: Sunday will be a watershed day in the Empire’s kitchen. Can Molly and Artie handle the full-scale push of a Sunday afternoon lunch, with a larger menu with more complicated and unfamiliar items? Molly is a reasonably competent baker, and the new recipe for dessert, a Mexican Chocolate Soufflé, should be a knock-out. If she can get it right.
[Close up on MOLLY, stirring a pot over the range, and looking somewhat worried.]
MOLLY: Melt…melt…it’s not melting. It’s not melting.
[Cut to ARTIE, dumping a bowl of chopped carrots into a large pot with a tantalizing sizzle.]
SHERLOCK v.o.: Artie, dishwasher-turned-sous, has taken on more responsibility in the kitchen, including preparing the soup and salad courses, in order to give Molly the headspace she deserves to concentrate on the increased workload from the soufflés, fish courses, and vegetables added to the menu. The Empire has never had a proper soup on the menu, so we’re rectifying that omission with a Gingered Carrot Soup. Classic, easy to prepare, and perfect for winter months. Even Artie can’t mess this up.
[The carrots stop tumbling out. ARTIE gives the bowl another shake, and more carrots emerge.]
[Cut to the dining room. JOHN shows customers to their tables, MARY passes out menus. Afternoon service is starting.]
SHERLOCK v.o. cont.: The staff of the Empire is settling into their new roles. The day might actually succeed without a hitch after all.
*
Sunday afternoon service had been going fairly well, everything considered. The dining room was busy, the customers were reasonably happy, and while the kitchen could see the weeds and was familiar with both genus and species, it could not be said to reside among them.
Harry was perfectly content to wash the dishes. It meant she didn't have to be in the dining room. This had its positive and negative points. On the positive side, it meant that she didn't have to wait to see if Jim Moriarty was one of the day's customers. Harry knew it was only a matter of time; coming on Sunday would have been a reasonable thing to do. If Harry couldn't tell if Jim was in the dining room - then that made things easier, didn't it?
The negative, of course, was that Harry's distance from the dining room was also the distance from the bar and the half-full whiskey bottle under its counter. She'd promised John to stop with the little tipples during service. John trusted her, had always done, would always do - even if Harry did slip now and again, and have her little restorative drink. That was because he was John, and he trusted people he loved. Trusted them implicitly. Harry didn't think it was possible for John to not trust someone he loved, believe that they wanted the best for him and his. He had too much faith that everyone was just like him, at the end of the day.
If Harry stopped to think about it, this was probably why Harry didn't trust people. It evened the scales a bit.
Take Sherlock Holmes. Five days ago, the man had been a perfect stranger, celebrity status notwithstanding. And now he was on a first-name basis with them all. It was so patently ridiculous that John would trust Sherlock to such a degree that he'd be willing to change everything he had previously loved about the Empire, Harry felt as if distrusting him was a moral imperative, something she was contractually required to do. It wasn't just that Sherlock was changing every little detail of the Empire's existence (to the point that Harry wondered if James was rolling in his grave, though she'd never actually say it to John), it was that he seemed to be equally intent on starting some kind of relationship with John.
It wasn’t that Harry was jealous. It wasn’t that she watched the two of them skirt around each other in public, and thought about what she and Clara must have looked like to everyone else. Jealous didn’t enter into it, because Harry loved her brother, and she saw the way John looked at Sherlock, the way he eyes opened and his expression softened and his shoulders squared up, as if he was preparing for an inevitable end. It was the same way that Clara had looked those last few weeks, when they both knew without saying that it was over.
Harry wasn’t jealous of John. No. Jealousy had nothing to do with what she felt when she watched him and Sherlock not looking at each other. Not a bit.
The restaurant had been going full-steam for about an hour, and moving very well. Harry was perfectly content to stay in the annex, doing the dishes as they came through, taking out the rubbish, sweeping the floor, dodging the cameras, and keeping her head down. She'd absolutely forgotten the possibility of Jim Moriarty - though not the whiskey bottle - when the first of the dessert orders came in.
"Three soufflés and a custard tart," said Mary, eyes shining. "And they know it's a bit of a wait, they don't mind."
"Oh bollocks!" said Molly, her eyes going wide.
"Come on, Moll, they'll be fine," said Artie cheerfully as he ladled out the soup.
"No, it's not that, I can't leave the range," fretted Molly.
"I'll get them," said Harry, and ducked quickly so that the cameras didn't catch her as she went into the walk-in. The souffles were where she'd left them, individual little Pyrex pots covered with cling film, and Harry balanced three on one arm before heading back out to the kitchen. They were solid and cold and Harry half thought her arm would freeze off, but she managed to pop them on one of the pre-heated trays and slid them in the oven without much trouble.
"Twelve minutes on the soufflés, Chef," said Harry, and Molly flashed a grateful smile.
"Thanks, Hare," she said, finishing her plating before coming over to peer into the oven. "Do you think they'll rise?"
"They'll be gorgeous," said Harry, wondering the same thing herself. But Molly's ego was too fragile, even with a good day under her belt, to waver with any lack of confidence.
"Oi, Chef," called Artie. "Spinach burning."
Molly shrieked and turned back to the range, and Harry went back into the annex, where there were four sauté pans, six soup bowls, five salad bowls, three water glasses, and Christ knew how many utensils. She got to work.
Twelve minutes later, she had just come back in from taking out the rubbish - again, it was a never-ending chore, much like the dishes - when she heard the crash - a bit like every wine glass in the entire building falling to the floor. It was silent for a moment, and then Molly began to shriek.
"They’re frozen!"
Harry peered into the kitchen. To say her heart fell wouldn't have been accurate, because it didn't fall so much as turn as rock-solid as the soufflés, which were a sad combination of risen and raw and completely destroyed. The edges had clearly made an effort to rise above the pots, but only by a centimeter, and then just barely and were burned black for their trouble. The centers had not risen at all; in fact, they were a solid lump, and from the way that Sherlock was placing his finger on them with a frown, clearly provided the frozen part of Molly's analysis.
But the worst was the soufflé pot itself. Clearly the pots were not made to go between the excessive cold of the freezer straight into the oven, because the glass had cracked in several places, dark lines oozing soufflé dough. Sherlock tapped the edge of the pot with a long, elegant finger, and it wobbled dangerously and then topped over, and the entire small soufflé fell over on its side, bubbling and wheezing, exhausted from its failed efforts to rise above its station.
Molly burst into tears. Harry couldn't really blame her. No one else in the kitchen could make a sound.
"Tears. You're crying," said Sherlock, his voice hard and cold and low, and Harry felt her stomach twist in a way that was almost...not pleasurable, not really, and she'd never quite swung that way, but she could very easily see how her brother might, if Sherlock said his name in just the right way.
"I'm sorry," said Molly.
"You're a professional. Well, you claim to be a professional, but here you are, crying over spilt soufflé," said Sherlock, and he was growing angrier with every word. Molly sniffled and tried to stop, but Harry knew that once Molly was going... "What, precisely, happened here?"
"They didn't bake properly."
"No, I think they baked exactly the way they should have done, if someone had failed to store or temper them properly. You put them in the freezer, didn't you?"
"Yeesssss..."
"The freezer, when I specifically told you to put them in the walk-in. You froze your soufflés. Which would have been fine had you not intended to bake them until next week. And then you baked them, immediately, without giving them so much as a minute to warm up before tossing them into a 190-degree oven. Cold Pyrex, on a pre-heated tray, an act which resulted not only in an uneven bake but completely destroyed what were clearly soufflé pots original to the opening of the restaurant.
"What's more, I suspect the rest of the soufflés are also in the freezer, which means they are also unusable for the rest of the day, which means your crowning achievement of dessert is absolute rubbish."
"I must have misunderstood-"
"Oh! Oh, right, of course, you misunderstood," said Sherlock, the mocking tone coming in. "Right, sorry, all's better now, Molly simply misunderstood when I gave her precise instructions on how to prepare and properly store the soufflés for today's service. But really, what else should I have expected? That's what you do, isn't it, Molly? You're meant to be clever, you showed real promise in the kitchen yesterday, you're intuitive and you might actually be a competent baker but only if you can read the directions someone has left for you to follow, because you don't stop to think about what you are doing. 'I'll bake the bread without tempering the yeast or allowing a rise, that's what the directions say though I know better.’ 'Here, let me cook all the flavor out of the tomatoes which come from a tin and are therefore flavorless already, because that's what the directions say though I know better.' 'I'll just pop these soufflés into the freezer even though I'm meant to bake them in a few hours, and bake them on a preheated tray because that's what the directions say though I know better.' Only you don't know better, do you, Molly? Your mind is so small or perhaps so distracted that you can't possibly process the dozens of things that are meant to be going through your head in order to keep a kitchen running smoothly and the food turning out on time and in an edible form. It must be so nice to be you, Molly, to have such a small mind and move at such a small pace. How I envy you. No, really, truly, I do. I always wondered what would happen if a barely competent cook was given an entire restaurant kitchen to muck up. Thank you, Molly Hooper, for confirming my theory that people like you have no business in food service."
The tears were running down Molly's cheeks; Harry couldn't move. No one in the kitchen could move - not Mary by the warming table, her eyes wide with shock and horror. Not Artie, just behind Molly at the range, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Not Anderson or Lestrade - Anderson continuing to film (of course, this was high drama right here, a lovely clip for a television promo), or Lestrade, who stared at Sherlock like he desperately wanted to pulverize the man under a meat grinder.
The only movement in the kitchen was from Molly, who shook and wrung her hands, unable to look up, unable to meet anyone's eyes.
"I thought...I thought you said-”
"Oh, you were thinking," scoffed Sherlock. "Shall I tell you what you were thinking? You were thinking that you need a new haircut, wondering if maybe you should add highlights to your hair. The answer is yes, he likes highlights, but I wouldn't cut your hair much shorter than it is, because while short hair might be cooler in a kitchen, he quite likes to play with it around his fingers, but you know that already, don't you? You're thinking that you need to try to eat an actual meal before dinner service begins, because you don't want to rely on tasting to keep you fed, you only end up overtasting items because you're feeling a bit peckish, and that all adds a bit of weight, doesn't it, and yes, you'd like to watch your weight because yes, he really does like them small, I can confirm that for you, too. If you were thinking about the soufflés at all, you were hoping there'd be one left at the end of the night so that you could share it together after the rest of us had all gone home, and you probably had a lovely little scenario where the lights were out and you were feeding each other before a delightfully romantic kiss with chocolate-flavored lips. I'm very sorry to break the news to you, Miss Hooper, but it would never have happened because he's quite allergic to eggs, and such a display of affection would likely have killed him here on the floor. But luckily for you, the soufflés are frozen so it appears you won't be murdering your lover tonight, but if you take them out to defrost, there's a chance you could murder him tomorrow instead. Assuming he still wants to be with you. He tends to like them competent, and after your display today, I have my doubts that you are competent in any role which could be construed as traditionally female."
Molly gasped, a little, high-pitched, sobbing intake of breath. Sherlock seemed to be out of breath, his tumbling tirade spent, and for a moment, Harry had no idea what could possibly break the silence that followed, if it wasn't Molly bursting into flame on the spot, or perhaps running from the room, never to return.
She didn't expect Artie to take a step forward, and without saying so much as a word, punch Sherlock squarely on the nose.
She didn't expect John to suddenly appear in the kitchen in time to see Sherlock reel back, his hands going instinctively to his face, as blood spurted out between his fingers.
She didn't expect Lestrade to go to Sherlock and drag him out of the kitchen, past her, into the alleyway, and she didn't expect John to pull Artie back from following him (which Artie was about to do) and slam him up against the walk-in door.
The door to the alleyway shut behind Lestrade and Sherlock, and the kitchen fell mostly silent again. The only sounds now were Molly, still sobbing, and Mary, her arms around her, quietly hushing and soothing her.
"All right then," said John, quite calmly. He held Artie firmly against the walk-in door, up on his toes. "Someone care to tell me what's going on?"
Molly's sobs changed. And Harry realized that Molly was actually beginning to laugh.
"I think she's hysterical," said Mary in amazement, and John looked over at Harry.
"Brandy. Or sherry. Or something."
"Right," said Harry, and went.
The dining room was still busy, but the conversations were stilted. They'd heard the shouting; Harry knew it. Sodding hell. Harry could feel every pair of eyes on her, and she smiled brightly at them before crouching behind the bar where they couldn't see her.
It was as she poured the brandy, and the images of the faces in the dining room began clicking in her mind, that she realized who was sitting in the corner table, a smirk on his too-thin face, wearing his perfectly pressed grey suit, looking around as if he was already calculating how much it would all bring at auction.
Bloody wanking bugger pissing arse sodding...
The drink poured, Harry stood back up, still smiling gamely, and disappeared back into the kitchen. John had let go of Artie, who was sulking by the ovens. Molly was sitting on a stool, drying her eyes on a spare kitchen towel, and Harry handed her the drink.
"Bottoms up, Moll," said John gently, and Molly drank the entire shot in one go, and came up coughing.
"Ow," said Molly, rubbing her chest.
“All right?” said John, leaning down to look her in the eyes.
“Yeah,” said Molly. “I think so.”
“Okay.” He glanced at the ruined soufflés, and to his credit, didn’t so much as blink. “I take it the soufflés are off the menu.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Molly.
“Don’t be sorry. We need to come up with something else. I need everyone to think.”
And Molly burst into tears again. Mary sighed and pulled her in to give her a tight squeeze.
John looked lost. “Ah…”
“That’s it,” said Artie. “I’m going to kill him.”
John reached out and grabbed Artie by the wrist, yanking him back into the kitchen. “Artie.”
“He shouted at her, John!” yelled Artie. “He stood there and he called her an idiot and he shouted at her, in her own kitchen, and he told her she was worthless and didn’t deserve to be here, because she made one stupid mistake and who the fuck cares about soufflés anyway? Why should he care about them? It’s not his restaurant!”
“No, it’s not,” said John calmly. “It’s mine, and I’ll thank you not to go round punching people in the kitchen, even if they do insult the chef.”
“Allowing him to walk all over us, just because you’re sleeping with him-”
Harry sucked in her breath. Mary’s eyes widened.
“Artie,” she hissed, and Artie caught his breath.
John, however, wasn’t fazed, though Harry thought she saw his ears go pink, and his hands clenched for just a moment.
“I don’t care if it’s the bloody fucking bastard who shot me in the shoulder,” said John, and Harry could hear the tension and anger in his voice. “You do not punch people in Molly’s kitchen. Do. You. Understand. Me.”
Artie took a deep, shaking breath. “I’ll quit.”
John shrugged his shoulders. “Fine.”
They stared at each other, while the rest of the room held their breaths. John didn’t blink - but then, neither did Artie.
And finally, like a breath of air, Molly spoke.
“He didn’t call me an idiot.”
John broke the staring contest with Artie to look at her. “Molly?”
“He said I didn’t listen,” said Molly. “He’s right. I didn’t. I put the soufflés in the freezer instead of the walk in, and I didn’t think to question it, I just did it, and then I forgot, and I had Harry put them straight into the oven on a preheated tray, when they ought to have gone on a cold tray instead. I wasn’t thinking. He might have been awful about it,” Molly added, “and I don’t want to excuse him from being rude, but…”
“All right,” said John. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What are we going to do about dessert?”
The kitchen was quiet. “We’ve got egg whites,” said Molly, hesitatingly. “And cream. If we have any fruit, we could do Eton mess. Meringues don’t take very long.”
“I think there’s a box of strawberries,” said Mary.
“There is,” said Harry, glad to finally say something positive.
“Eton mess, then,” said John. “Mary, let everyone know the change in the menu when you present dessert, and anyone who’s ordered soufflés, apologize and comp them a glass of wine and a chance to reorder.”
“Right you are,” said Mary briskly, and gave Molly a quick kiss on the cheek before she left the kitchen.
“Boss,” began Artie, but John motioned him to be quiet.
“Harry, can you help in the dining room?” said John.
“Of course,” said Harry.
“Boss,” Artie tried again, and John turned to him.
“I thought you were quitting.” He didn’t sound angry, though - just sad.
“I’ll finish out my shift,” said Artie, lifting his chin.
“Then finish it at the sink,” said John.
Artie opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words died when John’s expression didn’t change. He turned and went to the sink, once again towering with dishes, and set to work.
“John?” asked Molly. “I…I still need help. It might be silly, but - Sherlock-”
“I know,” said John, and he reached for an apron. “Don’t worry about him, Molly. I’m going to be your sous.”
*
The alley was quiet, mostly. For anyone else, the cold air would have been a blessed relief from the heated kitchen, a place to unwind and try to regroup.
For Sherlock, it was simply another location for the continued torture of his brain which refused to stop. His eyes darted around the alleyway while Lestrade tried to staunch the bleeding from his nose.
“Hold your head back,” said Lestrade tersely, and Sherlock ignored him.
“Sunday afternoon the last rubbish collection was Friday morning we were here but of course it’s obvious from the number of bags in the skip but also there’s ginger peel on the ground, probably a cat came in and was scrounging for food and left it. It’s not discolored too heavily so it can’t be more than two days old. Artie sweeps back here every morning and once before the dinner service, or at least did before he became too busy with being a sous, I believe Harry’s doing it now and she’s not quite as handy with getting into the corners, hence why the peel is still present. Additional cigarette butts on the ground, thrown in the corner, different from Artie’s preferred brand, which means another person has taken it up. Not Molly or Mary, not any of the camera crew because they smoke on the main street, that leaves Harry. Makes sense, she’s under a deal of stress and she’s not even finishing the butts, they’re barely half finished, most of them. Lack of time or indication of disgust? I’ll say disgust.”
“Not John,” said Lestrade quietly. He had pulled tissues from somewhere, and rolled them into sticks to shove into Sherlock’s nose.
“John doesn’t smoke. John doesn’t drink. John doesn’t…”
Sherlock stopped, unsure where else to go.
“Right boring berk,” said Lestrade, and Sherlock knocked his hand away from his nose.
“John is sensible,” he snapped. “He doesn’t engage in useless, self-harming activities.”
“Why’s he hanging about with you, then?”
Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.
“Yeah,” said Lestrade, a bit like a man who’s just stumbled into something intelligent. He reached again to shove the last tissue up Sherlock’s nose. “Think about that one, why don’t you.”
“John Watson is trying to save his restaurant.”
“I suspect he can multitask.” Lestrade finished the tissues and assessed Sherlock’s face. “Bleeding’s stopped.”
Sherlock nodded dully, and spun around when the back door opened. It was Sally, shrugging on her coat.
“Whispers in the dining room,” she said briskly. “And no one’s come out of the kitchen to say anything since the rumble began. Think the natives are getting restless, boss.”
“Right,” said Lestrade with a sigh, and he turned to Sherlock. “Feel up to going back in?”
Sherlock turned to Sally. “What’s the mood in the kitchen?”
Sally frowned. “Bit weird, really. John told Artie off for punching you and then told him to finish his shift at the sink. There’s egg whites left, plus what Harry has in her own fridge upstairs, so Molly’s making meringues.”
Sherlock’s brain, still whirring away, went speeding down another path. “Frozen strawberries, and the whipped cream…”
“Eton mess,” they said together, and Sherlock chuckled.
“Look at that,” said Lestrade softly. “She’s bouncing back. Clever one, she is.”
Sherlock pushed himself to his feet. “She’ll need help, if Artie’s demoted to dishwashing.”
“Not really,” said Sally, but Sherlock ignored her and went back into the kitchen.
Artie was at the sink, scrubbing the sauté pans; Sherlock could feel the sulk roll off him in waves, and Artie pointedly turned his back to him, obviously determined not to look at him or even risk acknowledging his presence.
Sherlock paused only long enough to roll up his sleeves, ready to dive in to wherever he was most obviously needed; he walked through the annex and into the kitchen. He scanned the chopping block, where the standing mixer was whirring at top speed with a cloth draped over it - the whipping cream for the Eton mess, no doubt. The warming table was loaded with plates of chicken and fish, ready for delivery, and there were only three tickets waiting to be filled. Molly stood at the range, just about to slide a tray of meringues into the oven, ready to bake.
“Twenty minutes before the meringues are out,” said Molly, and shut the oven door carefully. She set the timer and turned to prep the next tray. Once she moved, Sherlock saw John standing at the counter, carefully and competently plating the roast chicken atop the spinach and parsnips.
“How long to cool?” asked John. “Five or ten?”
“Five if we put them in the walk-in,” said Molly, doubtfully. “But they might get chewy.”
“It’s Eton mess, is anyone going to notice?”
Mary flew in from the dining room. “You’re in luck; everyone who ordered the soufflés is disappointed but happy enough for pie or custard. When can I start offering the Eton mess?”
“First plate in half an hour,” said Molly. She peeked under the cloth at the whipping cream. “Two minutes to cream.”
“Did any of the soufflé orders take the wine?” asked John, and he slid effortlessly behind Molly to start plating the fish.
“Three,” said Mary. She picked up the orders and was out the door again.
John breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, that’ll have finished off the Merlot Boscombe refused to drink last night.”
Sherlock caught the look on John’s face the moment before John saw him standing in the doorway. Intent focus on the food he was plating, and concern about the comfort of his customers, the monetary implications of an open bottle of wine, the ability to push a time-consuming dessert through at the last minute.
Then John saw him, and the expression flickered for just a moment. Sherlock didn’t know if it was amusement or relief, or simply, Ah, there you are.
It was gone almost as quickly as it’d appeared, and John turned back to the kitchen. “What next, Chef?”
“The strawberries,” said Molly, and John disappeared into the walk-in.
But before the door closed, he looked at Sherlock.
“You should put ice on that,” he said quietly. “I’ll bring some out for you.”
The walk-in’s door closed with its customary heavy thunk, and at the same time, Molly switched off the standing mixer. The kitchen was quiet. Sherlock could hear the chatter and laughter and music from the dining room. It was disturbing.
Molly didn’t look at him. Instead, she concentrated on scraping the last of the whipped cream from the beaters, her mouth set in a line.
“Eton mess,” said Sherlock, awkwardly, and he swallowed. “That was a good idea.”
“Thanks,” said Molly stiffly, and didn’t look at him.
Sherlock went to the corner by the window, where he could look out into the dining room. Mary was serving out meals, laughing, and he could see Harry on the far side, talking to customers, with an actual pleasant expression on her face. It was cheerful, and loud, and everyone looked happy to be there.
“You always say such horrible things,” said Molly suddenly, and Sherlock turned to look at her.
“You shouldn’t work in a restaurant kitchen if you have a thin skin,” said Sherlock.
“It’s not that,” said Molly. She still didn’t look at him. “I don’t mind criticism, or someone telling me I’m a bloody awful cook. I know I’m rubbish in a kitchen, I rely too heavily on recipes someone else has created and I’m terrified that I’ll undercook the fish. The entire dining room could come in and tell me how horrible I am, all one after the other, and I’d wonder why they didn’t come in sooner.
“But you - that’s what you’re like all the time. Every time, always. I’ve seen your show. You aren’t critical because you honestly want us to improve. You aren’t critical because you know people will watch. I don’t think you even enjoy it, not really, because you always look so sad afterwards. I think you can’t help it. It just…comes right out, and you couldn’t stop it if you tried.”
Molly pulled out the cling film to cover the bowl of whipped cream. “I bollocksed up the soufflés, I know that. But you didn’t need to bring Greg into it. You hadn’t the right. I suppose you couldn’t help it, and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” repeated Sherlock, bewildered.
“Because someday you’re going to say something horrible to someone you care about, and you’re going to wish you could stop yourself, and you won’t be able to do it,” said Molly.
“There’s no one I care about,” said Sherlock.
The whipped cream was covered; Molly picked up the bowl and headed to the walk-in, just as John came out, a box marked Strawberries in his arms.
“Sorry, they were on the top shelf,” he apologized, and frowned when he saw Molly’s downturned eyes. He glanced sharply at Sherlock before turning back to her. “You all right?”
“Yes,” said Molly. “Can you plate the pizzas for Table Five? I’ll do the strawberries in a tick.”
“Right,” said John, and set the box down on the chopping block as Molly disappeared into the walk-in.
"Your nose all right?" John asked, and Sherlock instinctively reached up to touch the tissues.
"Yes," he said carefully. "The bleeding stopped, though it feels sore. I don't believe it's broken."
"The clinic closed half an hour ago," said John, "but I could call Sarah and ask-"
"No," said Sherlock quickly. "I do not require medical attention."
"All right," said John. He opened the box and started to fuss with the plastic bag. "I - ah...I'm sorry Artie punched you."
"I'm told I deserved it."
"Yeah, probably," admitted John, and he looked up from the strawberries. "The soufflés weren't Molly's fault."
"John," said Sherlock quietly. "The reason Artie punched me had absolutely nothing to do with the soufflés."
"I know," said John, and Sherlock felt John's gaze lock on him. "There's a-"
Two steps until John stood in front of him, reached up and brushed his thumb along the top of Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock could smell the cold air still in John's hair, the soft and warm scent of cooked onions, the tang of the fish with orange sauce, the peppers from the kedgeree. Sherlock breathed in deeply and held the breath inside while John brushed whatever clung to his cheek away.
"Flour, I think," said John, his voice pitched low, and Sherlock reached up to grasp John's wrist.
"John."
"I know," whispered John. "But-"
Sherlock didn't want to hear it. He moved forward, just that much, and lightly pressed his lips to John's. John leaned on him, warm and solid and relaxed, but his mouth didn't open, and when Sherlock pulled away, he could see the worry in John's eyes, the creases on his forehead.
"Not here," said Sherlock, and John's mouth turned up in a small smile.
"No," he agreed. Sherlock let John's arm go, and John stepped away, just as Molly returned.
"Ten minutes on the meringues, Chef," said Sherlock, as if he and John had done nothing more than discuss the weather, and nothing more needed to be said.
*
“We need to go back to London tomorrow,” said Lestrade gruffly, catching Sherlock’s arm and holding him fast.
The service was nearly over; Sherlock had only been in the dining room to see how the customers liked their meals before giving the silly little daily wrap-up speech, more a necessity for the cameras than for the crew at this point. He had already discussed the next day’s work with them: an intense one-day tutorial for Molly and Artie, covering the half dozen new main courses, as well as briefly going over the far simpler starters and desserts. Nearly twenty dishes in all, most of which would debut on Tuesday, and the rest to be trickled out over the week as they gained confidence.
Sherlock almost wanted to insist that John sit in on the tutorial. Seeing him in the kitchen, cooking in tandem with Molly, would have been shocking if Sherlock hadn’t already known the man could cook. Instead it slotted into what he already knew about the great puzzle that was John, the half dozen things he was accomplished at doing without realizing what an odd mix of talents he was. Soldier, doctor, manager, cook? Sherlock wondered what would have happened if John had been given a ball of yarn and told to make a jumper, or a tennis racket and told to win Wimbledon. He had no doubt that John was capable of doing either.
“Sherlock,” repeated Lestrade, and Sherlock gave his director a cool gaze.
“I realize that Miss Hooper has you in a tailspin, but we are in fact scheduled to remain here for another two days.”
“Change of plans,” said Lestrade, still holding fast to Sherlock’s arm. He paused, the words caught in his throat, and Sherlock realized that it wasn’t annoyance in Lestrade’s voice at all, but…fear?
“You’re afraid,” said Sherlock, wondering, and with that deduction, Lestrade’s grip loosened. Sherlock shook off his hand easily. “What? Something happened in London. Did the studios burn down? I don’t know why we’d need to return if-”
“I told you what happened,” said Lestrade. “The Norbury Arms closed.”
“Yes, in Berkshire.”
“Gregson wants a meeting.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to see-”
“That’s just it, Sherlock. You fail to see. I told you that we were on the line, that you couldn’t mess this restaurant up-”
“I haven’t.”
“Then why did I get a message an hour ago from the producer in charge of the entire cooking division, demanding an immediate meeting with you about what you’ve been up to during filming?” snapped Lestrade, his voice low and clearly distraught. He ran his hand through his hair and glanced at the customers, who weren’t paying them much attention, considering the drama.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Sherlock coolly. “I haven’t done anything untoward-”
“You’ve been seducing John Watson.” Just as you did with Irene Adler went unsaid, but then, Lestrade didn’t need to say it for Sherlock to understand it. Nor did Lestrade really understand what had gone on between them, only what was visible on the surface.
At any rate, it was easily ignored.
“That’s not untoward and it’s also none of the studio’s business. It’s your job to keep the studio in the studio and not sticking their fingers into the filming when we’re out in the field - or isn’t that what you said just three days ago?”
Lestrade sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t know why exactly they want us to come in tomorrow. We can leave early in the morning, get to London before the worst of the rush hour and have this meeting the minute the studios open and be back before lunch. That’ll give you half a day to work with Molly and Artie. It’s the best I can do.”
Sherlock kept his gaze locked on Lestrade, who looked more agitated and uncomfortable by the moment. But it wasn’t because he knew what was going on - if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything, much less Sherlock. And while it was true that Lestrade didn’t meet his eyes now, he’d been very much looking at him before, when he kept his voice below a shout.
Lestrade didn’t know anything, and that was what was scaring him.
“What time do you want to leave?” asked Sherlock quietly.
“Five,” said Lestrade. “I’m not even going to ask where you’re spending the night-”
“I’ll be in the hotel lobby at five,” said Sherlock, and went to see if the kitchen was ready for him. He rather hoped they weren’t; he had no idea what he was going to say.
*
The end of the day - John hadn’t thought they would ever get there, but suddenly they were. Molly sent out the last of the Eton mess, and Mary delivered it. Harry was already working at the day’s tally, Artie was scrubbing the last of the sauté pans, and John watched the door rock back and forth behind Mary. There were five tables of diners left, and Sherlock and Lestrade were in deep discussion in the back of the dining room.
John exhaled slowly. The day was over. His skin prickled, and his heart pounded, and he felt a little dizzy, rather like he was dehydrated. He wasn’t; he’d been drinking water steadily all afternoon, and anyway, his mind was clear, and focused on one small detail.
The day was over, and if the last few days were any indication - Sherlock would stop by the house on Baker Street, and find his way inside, and they would cook something to eat, and they would talk about anything and everything except what would happen when the dishes were washed and the lights were off, because that was when Sherlock would kiss him or he would kiss Sherlock and they’d go upstairs and…
John couldn’t think further than that. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, only that every time his mind started going in that direction, he was interrupted, and lost his train of thought.
John’s head was in the oven as he wiped down the splatters and spills. His imagination was on the landing, where Sherlock was pushing John’s shirt off his shoulders, and John was easing Sherlock’s trousers past his hips, and both of them had lost their shoes somewhere downstairs, because John had already realized that shoes were going to be an imposition, and had worked that into his daydream. John’s sleeves caught on his wrists, and they both chuckled and in the oven, John shook his head and grinned, and anyway, he’d have had to roll up the sleeves to do the washing up downstairs, so the buttons would have already been undone, scratch that, although the laughing together part was nice-
The dining room door opened, and Sally Donovan poked her head in. “All set?”
John blinked out of the daydream. He backed out of the oven and realized the entire staff was looking at him, and for one heated moment, hoped his daydream hadn’t produced a physical response. “Sure,” said John, and when everyone glanced back at Sally, surreptitiously checked his pants, which were thankfully not quite as bulged as they could have been.
Sherlock came into the dining room a moment later. John thought of a maharajah entering his harem, and stifled the giggle. Another slight modification to the daydream, check.
Sherlock took a moment and just looked at all of them, while they looked at him. John wondered if he was maybe supposed to say something first, and then Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.
“It was…” Sherlock glanced at them. He looked unsettled; John wondered what he was thinking. “You did well. You did remarkably well. You have handled crises with aplomb and creativity. You pulled together and supported each other. You may not be the most talented of kitchens, but you are the most resourceful.”
Silence, for a moment, while this sunk in. For a moment, John wondered why it sounded so unusual. And then it came to him: it wasn’t that what Sherlock said wasn’t sincere, because everything he said was truly meant. It was that Sherlock was giving them all a compliment, without the pandering, and with only the slightest of insults worked in. And what’s more - it was a compliment given before the final day, before the final reveal of a finished and ready-for-the-world remade Empire.
John should have been ecstatic. Instead, his stomach began to twist. There was something about Sherlock’s face - the graveness, the dark look in his eyes, the way he held himself stiffly, as if he were merely hitting his marks, responding to orders he didn’t agree were correct.
Something was wrong. John didn’t doubt that Sherlock believed in what he was saying - but the reasons he was saying it weren’t quite right.
“I have every confidence that you will take on a full menu of traditional English fare with an international flavor and make it your own specialty. Starting on Tuesday, Upper Brickley will not know what they have been missing. I will…” Sherlock took a breath. “I will see you on Tuesday morning.”
Sherlock turned to leave, and the kitchen broke out into chatter.
Mary: “But…what about tomorrow?”
Molly: “There’s still so much I don’t know!”
Artie: “You can’t honestly think we’re ready to take on a full menu without practice!”
Sherlock paused by the door, and then glanced at them over his shoulder. John thought that Sherlock’s gaze rested on him for just a moment, before he looked at Molly. “Tuesday morning. Be ready to show me just how flexible you really are.”
And then he was gone. The kitchen was quiet as they stared at each other, and then Artie spoke.
“That wanker.”
“Artie!” said Mary, with a quick and worried glance at John.
“No, he is!” insisted Artie. “He’s supposed to help us, it’s the last day tomorrow that he’s really going to be here and we won’t have any distractions and instead he’s talking like…” Artie sucked in his breath. “Wait. You don’t think he’s just giving up on us, do you?”
“Stop,” said John, but he wondered if Artie wasn’t right. “Wondering about it now isn’t going to do anything. He said we have the day off tomorrow, and you all want to work on your skills - well, that’s what you’re going to do.”
“How?” asked Harry. “We’re not even supposed to be here, they’re going to redo the dining room tomorrow.”
John had forgotten; he closed his eyes for a moment and thought about the portraits of his grandfathers on the wall.
No. Sherlock wouldn’t move those. He’d as much as promised.
He opened his eyes again to find everyone still looking at him. “That’s the dining room. Not the kitchen. Mary - tomorrow you come in and we’ll do a full-on clean of the kitchen. Molly and Artie, you can do as much of the prep for this coming week that we can reasonably manage in one day, and we’ll set up the mise for Tuesday for everything we know we’ll need, so we won’t have to worry about that when Sherlock arrives.”
“What else is going to be on the menu?” asked Molly, hesitant.
“I suspect I’ll find a list in the office,” said John. “I’m going to need to place the delivery order, anyway, and Sherlock knows that.”
“It’s a test,” said Mary suddenly. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? He’s been looking over our shoulder all weekend, and he keeps saying how we keep watching each other’s backs - that’s what this is, isn’t it? He wants to see what we do without him looking over our shoulders.”
“Maybe,” said John cautiously. Artie still looked skeptical, but Molly was nodding her head.
“We’ll just be as ready as we can be,” she said, and it sounded like she had some of her confidence back. John saw the way she lifted her chin, and didn’t have the heart to disparage her.
Harry poked her head through the window. “Tables 15 and 22 just paid.”
It broke the strange spell; “Oh!” said Mary, and went through the door into the dining room. Artie went back to the dishes, a half-frown still on his face. Molly turned to John.
“You don’t think it’s a test,” she said, and John put his head back in the oven so as not to answer her, or let her see his doubts. “John?”
“Mary might be right.” John’s voice echoed in the oven. “I haven’t any way of knowing.”
“But you know him best. Sherlock, I mean. You’ve spent the most time with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. He’s been teaching you how to cook every day; we’ve just had a couple of meals together.”
Molly didn’t say anything. John found a burnt bit of sauce on the side of the oven, right where it was the most difficult to scrape, and worked at it furiously. Scritch scritch scritch.
“Yeah, all right,” said Molly finally. “Okay. Sure.”
Scritch. John started to back out of the oven, doubt still eating away at him, but with a new twist: Molly’s disbelief that he didn’t somehow know Sherlock better than the rest. How could he? He barely knew the other man. “Molly-”
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” said Molly. “I’m going to go and greet the customers. I’ve never done that as chef before, and I’ve got a little time now.”
John stayed in the oven and listened to Molly leave the kitchen. He couldn’t hear her in the dining room over the sound of his knife scraping at the oven walls, or the water splashing in the annex, but he could imagine it; Molly, talking to the customers, smiling and laughing and for once confident in her own abilities.
John wondered - had Sherlock given that to her? Or had she had it in herself all along, and he’d just showed her the way?
John finished the oven; the customers paid their bills and went home; Artie finished the dishes and swept and mopped the floor; Harry finished the accounting and put in the final orders for the next day’s delivery; Mary Hoovered and John slowly collected the tablecloths and used napkins. Molly went home, promising to return by 8am to help Harry with the veg delivery. Mary went home, intending to return at 10 to start the deep-clean of the kitchen.
Harry went upstairs at half seven, with a longing look at the bar that was not missed by John.
Artie finished the floors, took out the last bag of rubbish, and stopped in the door of the office.
“Boss,” he said, and repeated it when John didn’t immediately respond. “Boss.”
John looked up. Artie was standing straight up, arms at his sides, a little like a soldier at attention, waiting for orders.
“About earlier.”
“It’s all right,” said John shortly. He looked back down at the accounting. “We were all a bit under fire.”
Artie considered this, and then nodded. “I…I wanted to know if you wanted me back tomorrow. Boss.”
John stilled, and then glanced up at Artie again. Artie wasn’t looking at him; instead his gaze seemed to be focused just to the side, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet John’s eyes.
“Artie,” said John, and Artie’s gaze flickered at him, and then back out again. “Look at me.”
Artie’s gaze held now. “Boss.”
“Whatever you think about me and Sherlock Holmes…it’s not like that.”
Artie was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t matter to me if it was. Boss.”
“Wouldn’t it?”
Artie shook his head. “No. I…look. I know what you’re thinking. That I’m homophobic or some shite like that. I’m not. Just…” Artie paused, and then plunged on. “I don’t see it ending well. How much do you really know about him - do any of us really know about him, beyond whatever shite they put on the telly? He leaves day after tomorrow. Then what?”
Artie took a breath, and straightened up again. The serious façade fell; and John saw the old, snarky, jovial Artie slide back into place. “Anyway, boss. You’re just home from overseas. Probably aching for a good shag. You’d fall for a plucked chicken, I think.”
“Find me a plucked chicken and we’ll see,” said John, and Artie grinned at him. “You’re not fired. Not today, anyway.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. Tuesday’s not off the books either.”
“Right, boss.”
“Get out of here.”
Artie flashed him one of his half-arsed salutes, and left. John listened until he heard the slam of the back door.
And then he closed the ledger, and set down his pen. He pushed back from the desk and left the office, turned out the lights and closed the door.
The Empire was silent and dark; John couldn’t even hear the echoes of his footprints on the carpeted floor.
John stood in the middle of the dining room, and looked up at the portraits of John and John H. and James and Hamish as they looked resolutely out at him.
John listened to the faint sounds of traffic outside. The sound of Harry upstairs, moving across the floor. The persistent hum of the walk-in, the buzz of the fluorescent light that Artie had left on in the kitchen. The memory of James clattering over the range, Hamish shouting in fury about burnt cakes, the smell of pasta sauce bubbling on a range, James carefully shaping bits of dough into perfectly formed biscuits.
There’s no point in doing things by halves, John. Decide what you want, and put everything you have in you into getting there.
In another day, none of it would be left. The reconstruction team would fall on the dining room with paint thinners and new carpeting, and when John saw it again, it would be transformed into…something he didn’t recognize, something that wasn’t a part of him.
Maybe that was a good thing.
John didn’t know.
Maybe Sherlock was waiting for him at the house on Baker Street, glancing at the clock and deducing exactly how long John would stand in the empty dining room, soaking up the last of his childhood to carry him the rest of his life.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
John didn’t know that, either.
And anyway, it was only a room, dark-paneled, with blank spaces on the walls where pictures and photographs and African masks used to hang. It was already altered. John already had stopped recognizing it.
For a moment, John had the urge to take down the portraits. The idea that any of Sherlock’s crew would touch them, move them, toss them into a heap like so much of what had already been removed - it was an anathema. John could barely stomach the thought.
But Sherlock had promised. And John had seen the videos. The promises that Sherlock made - he kept. John took a breath, and straightened his back, sliding so quickly from parade rest to attention that he barely noticed the movements. He turned sharply, military-precision exact, and walked, quick-step, out of the dining room.
Better to leave now, before he changed his mind and pulled the portraits off the wall and ran like hell for safety.
End A/N: Double recipes for you - Carrot Ginger Soup and Mexican Chocolate Soufflés!
Incidentally - it’s true about the Pyrex dishes. Cold dishes on pre-heated trays may result in cracked dishes. DON’T DO IT.
Chapter Fifteen