Sherlock Fanfic: The Baking Invasion (JWP 2015 #7)
Title: The Baking Invasion
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, silliness, bad baking, mild crack.
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1135
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #7: Unwanted Attention. Really unhappy with this and it's very late, but I'm trying to at least write something for all of the prompts this year, so here it is. And I suppose it suits this story too; it may not be good, but at least there's a lot of it. :-P
Summary: Sometimes gratitude can go too far.
The Baking Invasion
"She means well," John said, trying to find an open bit of counter to set the latest gift: a 'cookie bouquet' of what looked like handmade wholemeal and carob biscuits. Well, they looked more like something that came from the arse of a cow (and given their experiences to date with his admirer's attempt at baking probably tasted about like that as well), but John was trying to think charitably.
Sherlock snorted from the sofa. "She's meant well for nearly a week, John. I've done what I can to stem the ever-flowing tide of baked goods several times a day, but there are only so many experiments that can be run simultaneously on inedible foodstuffs in our kitchen. Particularly when none of them are literally deadly." Sherlock trailed off in a mutter.
John sighed, "I've taken as much as I dare to the surgery for the break room. They've banned her from coming for social visits there now, and have banned me bringing the stuff in. The soup kitchens won't take home-baked food due to health regulations, and you've banned me from distributing it to your Homeless Network-"
"I do want to provide positive reinforcement to my Network, John. Not curse them with someone's misguided attempt at healthy treats."
John nodded. "I know. I tried to give some to Greg to take to the Yard, but he brought them back saying it was 'cruel and unusual punishment'." He opened a cupboard and found himself one-handedly warding off a rain of quinoa green tea cupcakes. They hit the counter like fist-sized bricks, chipping a heaping plate of oddly purple brownies. "Bloody hell!"
"What was it you did for this person, exactly?"
John gathered the cupcakes in a mixing bowl in one hand, still holding the cookie vase in the other. "She came in with what she thought was a heart attack. I didn't think so, did some tests, diagnosed it as the gastro-intestinal upset it was, and now she thinks I miraculously saved her life." He shoved the bowl of cupcakes back into the cupboard, instigating a chain reaction that caused a loaf of pumpernickel to pop out of a cupboard three doors down and bounce on the counter in a very unpumpernickel-like way. John ran the crumb-specked palm of his free hand over his face in despair.
"Is this a normal sort of reaction for people whose lives you've saved to demonstrate?" Sherlock said towards the ceiling. "Should I bake you a bundt cake?"
"No!" John said, horrified. "God no."
"Well?"
"I think she's just-" John shook his head. "She retired almost a decade ago, her children and grandchildren all live in America now, three years ago her husband passed away... I suppose she has a lot of pent-up-" John looked around at the food-crowded kitchen, still unable to find a place for the 'cookie bouquet'. "No. It's not normal."
"Tell her to stop. Bin the lot, she'll never know."
John frowned at the baked goods. "It's just, she really means well."
Sherlock huffed and rolled over.
Footsteps on the stairs were matched with a cheery "Ooo hoo!"
"Mrs Hudson!" John looked from the cookie bouquet in his hands to their landlady, grinning like a drowning man sighting the HMS Dauntless.
She stood in the doorway, peeling off her travelling gloves. "I've just got back from Kent dears, and thought I'd pop in-" Mrs Hudson took in the kitchen and its oppressively baked-good laden state. "What's all this? Not more experimental baking, Sherlock?" She eyed John's biscuit bouquet apprehensively.
"No," Sherlock said, bleakly dramatic. "A patient of John's has become quite taken with him whilst you've been gone and has been bringing round daily shipments of-" he raised a hand and air-quoted, "'food'."
"Has she then?" Mrs Hudson chuckled, her eyes narrowing.
"Oh! No, she's not- I mean, she's said thinks I'm adorable but it's not like-"
Sherlock sat up on the sofa. "She thinks you're adorable?"
John wondered how he'd suddenly found himself so far on the back foot. "No, no. She's older than my mum and not trying to- she just-"
"You never told me she thinks you're adorable." Sherlock smirked.
John turned and snapped at Sherlock, "I know, I didn't. And this is why." He turned back to Mrs Hudson. "Mrs Hudson, I was hoping you might know somewhere we can pass on all this... stuff. She brings more every day, no one we've tried wants any, and we can't eat it all ourselves-"
"Nor would we want to. It's all vile."
"Sherlock." John's warning tone was half-hearted at best.
Sherlock made a rude noise. "Your admirer isn't here to hear me disparage her attempts at... what was the one from Tuesday afternoon?"
"The, uh, 'macrobiotic' treacle sponge with clotted cream, filberts and sultanas? It's in the fridge next to the spleens, but I think it's gone off."
Sherlock sighed and settled back into the sofa. "It was never 'on' John."
Mrs Hudson's eyes narrowed further. "Well that simply won't do." She gave a prim smile and patted John on the shoulder. "You just leave her to me, dear. I'll deal with her."
A strange crimp of alarm went through John. "She does mean well, Mrs Hudson."
"Oh, I'm sure she does," said Mrs Hudson, relieving John of his cookie bouquet. "But meaning well is not baking well, and no amount of good intentions will change that."
-.-
The next day when Sherlock and John tumbled back in to 221b after an early case, all John's patient's baking had disappeared. Sherlock noted it with a curt nod before flopping onto the sofa. John popped downstairs to Mrs Hudson's.
Their landlady was drying what looked like a butcher knife on a floral tea towel. "Your admirer came by while you were out. She won't be coming round to bother you again."
"Er." John's image of Mrs Hudson had much changed from his initial impressions of her when he'd moved in, and he was momentarily worried.
Mrs Hudson tsked and chuckled at his expression. "Really, John. I invited her to sit in at one of my clubs next Thursday. She's just a bit at sea; not working, no one to look after, no friends in the area since she sold the house in Cheltenham and moved to the city. She's never been a good cook, and the poor dear was trying to improvise her own recipes. Never a good combination." Mrs Hudson snapped the tea towel and folded it, hanging it from the oven door-handle. "The club has a charity bake sale in the fall, plenty of time to improve her baking and help her find some friends."
"Ah, well-"
"And she said to tell you she's very grateful, but never intended to cause you any distress."
"I wouldn't call it distress, really."
"Oh and we've made you boys a batch of shortbread."
"...We?"
"We both had some time this afternoon, so I showed her how to make them." Mrs Hudson winked and offered John a plate of wonderful-smelling, normal-looking shortbread. "The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but the road to good baking begins with shortbread."
-.-.-
(that's it. :-P)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, silliness, bad baking, mild crack.
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1135
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #7: Unwanted Attention. Really unhappy with this and it's very late, but I'm trying to at least write something for all of the prompts this year, so here it is. And I suppose it suits this story too; it may not be good, but at least there's a lot of it. :-P
Summary: Sometimes gratitude can go too far.
The Baking Invasion
"She means well," John said, trying to find an open bit of counter to set the latest gift: a 'cookie bouquet' of what looked like handmade wholemeal and carob biscuits. Well, they looked more like something that came from the arse of a cow (and given their experiences to date with his admirer's attempt at baking probably tasted about like that as well), but John was trying to think charitably.
Sherlock snorted from the sofa. "She's meant well for nearly a week, John. I've done what I can to stem the ever-flowing tide of baked goods several times a day, but there are only so many experiments that can be run simultaneously on inedible foodstuffs in our kitchen. Particularly when none of them are literally deadly." Sherlock trailed off in a mutter.
John sighed, "I've taken as much as I dare to the surgery for the break room. They've banned her from coming for social visits there now, and have banned me bringing the stuff in. The soup kitchens won't take home-baked food due to health regulations, and you've banned me from distributing it to your Homeless Network-"
"I do want to provide positive reinforcement to my Network, John. Not curse them with someone's misguided attempt at healthy treats."
John nodded. "I know. I tried to give some to Greg to take to the Yard, but he brought them back saying it was 'cruel and unusual punishment'." He opened a cupboard and found himself one-handedly warding off a rain of quinoa green tea cupcakes. They hit the counter like fist-sized bricks, chipping a heaping plate of oddly purple brownies. "Bloody hell!"
"What was it you did for this person, exactly?"
John gathered the cupcakes in a mixing bowl in one hand, still holding the cookie vase in the other. "She came in with what she thought was a heart attack. I didn't think so, did some tests, diagnosed it as the gastro-intestinal upset it was, and now she thinks I miraculously saved her life." He shoved the bowl of cupcakes back into the cupboard, instigating a chain reaction that caused a loaf of pumpernickel to pop out of a cupboard three doors down and bounce on the counter in a very unpumpernickel-like way. John ran the crumb-specked palm of his free hand over his face in despair.
"Is this a normal sort of reaction for people whose lives you've saved to demonstrate?" Sherlock said towards the ceiling. "Should I bake you a bundt cake?"
"No!" John said, horrified. "God no."
"Well?"
"I think she's just-" John shook his head. "She retired almost a decade ago, her children and grandchildren all live in America now, three years ago her husband passed away... I suppose she has a lot of pent-up-" John looked around at the food-crowded kitchen, still unable to find a place for the 'cookie bouquet'. "No. It's not normal."
"Tell her to stop. Bin the lot, she'll never know."
John frowned at the baked goods. "It's just, she really means well."
Sherlock huffed and rolled over.
Footsteps on the stairs were matched with a cheery "Ooo hoo!"
"Mrs Hudson!" John looked from the cookie bouquet in his hands to their landlady, grinning like a drowning man sighting the HMS Dauntless.
She stood in the doorway, peeling off her travelling gloves. "I've just got back from Kent dears, and thought I'd pop in-" Mrs Hudson took in the kitchen and its oppressively baked-good laden state. "What's all this? Not more experimental baking, Sherlock?" She eyed John's biscuit bouquet apprehensively.
"No," Sherlock said, bleakly dramatic. "A patient of John's has become quite taken with him whilst you've been gone and has been bringing round daily shipments of-" he raised a hand and air-quoted, "'food'."
"Has she then?" Mrs Hudson chuckled, her eyes narrowing.
"Oh! No, she's not- I mean, she's said thinks I'm adorable but it's not like-"
Sherlock sat up on the sofa. "She thinks you're adorable?"
John wondered how he'd suddenly found himself so far on the back foot. "No, no. She's older than my mum and not trying to- she just-"
"You never told me she thinks you're adorable." Sherlock smirked.
John turned and snapped at Sherlock, "I know, I didn't. And this is why." He turned back to Mrs Hudson. "Mrs Hudson, I was hoping you might know somewhere we can pass on all this... stuff. She brings more every day, no one we've tried wants any, and we can't eat it all ourselves-"
"Nor would we want to. It's all vile."
"Sherlock." John's warning tone was half-hearted at best.
Sherlock made a rude noise. "Your admirer isn't here to hear me disparage her attempts at... what was the one from Tuesday afternoon?"
"The, uh, 'macrobiotic' treacle sponge with clotted cream, filberts and sultanas? It's in the fridge next to the spleens, but I think it's gone off."
Sherlock sighed and settled back into the sofa. "It was never 'on' John."
Mrs Hudson's eyes narrowed further. "Well that simply won't do." She gave a prim smile and patted John on the shoulder. "You just leave her to me, dear. I'll deal with her."
A strange crimp of alarm went through John. "She does mean well, Mrs Hudson."
"Oh, I'm sure she does," said Mrs Hudson, relieving John of his cookie bouquet. "But meaning well is not baking well, and no amount of good intentions will change that."
-.-
The next day when Sherlock and John tumbled back in to 221b after an early case, all John's patient's baking had disappeared. Sherlock noted it with a curt nod before flopping onto the sofa. John popped downstairs to Mrs Hudson's.
Their landlady was drying what looked like a butcher knife on a floral tea towel. "Your admirer came by while you were out. She won't be coming round to bother you again."
"Er." John's image of Mrs Hudson had much changed from his initial impressions of her when he'd moved in, and he was momentarily worried.
Mrs Hudson tsked and chuckled at his expression. "Really, John. I invited her to sit in at one of my clubs next Thursday. She's just a bit at sea; not working, no one to look after, no friends in the area since she sold the house in Cheltenham and moved to the city. She's never been a good cook, and the poor dear was trying to improvise her own recipes. Never a good combination." Mrs Hudson snapped the tea towel and folded it, hanging it from the oven door-handle. "The club has a charity bake sale in the fall, plenty of time to improve her baking and help her find some friends."
"Ah, well-"
"And she said to tell you she's very grateful, but never intended to cause you any distress."
"I wouldn't call it distress, really."
"Oh and we've made you boys a batch of shortbread."
"...We?"
"We both had some time this afternoon, so I showed her how to make them." Mrs Hudson winked and offered John a plate of wonderful-smelling, normal-looking shortbread. "The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but the road to good baking begins with shortbread."
-.-.-
(that's it. :-P)