Sherlock fic: 'Food for thought'.
Title: 'Food for thought'.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC).
Word count: 2,000 words.
Spoilers: set between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker, with a couple of tiny spoilers for the latter episode.
Disclaimer: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belong to people who aren't me.
Rating / Warnings: PG. Non-detailed descriptions of Sherlock's scientific experiments, and brief reference to PTSD flashbacks.
Genre: gen. Can be read as friendship or John/Sherlock pre-slash.
Summary: a character study of John Watson, based on the theme of food, as he readjusts to civilian life and gets to know his new flatmate.
Author's notes: this is my first Sherlock Holmes fic of any kind. I didn't plan to write it, but the idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone! Thanks to members of livejournal_uk for Britpicking. Any feedback is welcome.
This story is set in the same 'verse as my Sherlock-at-Oxford series, Reading too much meaning from existence, but can be read independently.
***
Sherlock is disdainful of chain restaurants and pubs - he says they're boring and predictable. So they never go to the Pizza Express just down the road, or the Wetherspoon's by Baker St station (even though it does decent pub grub on a 2-for-1 basis, which appeals to John's pitiful bank balance).
John suspects there's another reason for Sherlock's aversion to such establishments: the staff haven't the discretion to give him a discount! Instead, the two of them frequent various standalone cafes and restaurants across London, where everyone knows Sherlock by name and smiles when he walks in.
They all assume that John is Sherlock's date; he's given up on correcting them. He deduces that his flatmate never dines with anyone else, and that the owners are pleased he's finally found someone. It's quite sweet, really.
Sherlock's many detractors may say that he doesn't have friends, or even the capacity for friendship. But those people clearly haven't seen him interact with Angelo, or Mehmet, or Viviana and her adorable daughter Juanita. The little girl shrieks with laughter when Sherlock pulls a 50p coin from behind her ear, and hands it to her with a flourish. Of course Sherlock can do magic tricks; given his skill at picking Lestrade's pocket, John doesn't know why he was surprised. But he finds himself watching Sherlock's face, animated as it rarely is outside of work, instead of his hands.
Their meals are often on the house, because Sherlock has apparently done favours for half of London's restaurateurs. John is told stories about thieving staff being caught red-handed, and elderly relatives getting their money back from fraudsters. He honestly wouldn't be surprised to hear that Sherlock found a sushi chef's missing cat once...
He wonders (but doesn't ask) about the chain of events. Did Sherlock solve each owner's case and then become a VIP? Or was he previously a regular customer who volunteered to investigate? If the latter, was Sherlock motivated by the possible reward of free food or did he genuinely just want to help?
John has always considered causality, in the medical sense: it's a key part of the diagnostic process, after all. But now he finds himself examining people rather than patients. Most of all, he scrutinises Sherlock, trying to gain insight into how his flatmate thinks. He doesn't tell Sherlock, but imagines that he knows anyway. Sherlock, the dedicated student of human behaviour, would probably be pleased (or amused) to have John study him in turn. He's certainly not objected whenever John has admitted to admiring his deductions.
***
John is far less fussy about where (and what) he eats than Sherlock is. Unsurprising, really: serving in the Army, he'd had to be. After crowded mess halls, and countless ration packs, a hot meal in an actual restaurant still seems like a luxury even if the food is mediocre. Hell, any meal containing identifiable vegetables is a treat now.
Before the Army, he'd spent years as firstly a med student and then a junior doctor. This meant living off baked beans and instant noodles and bad coffee, scoffing whatever looked vaguely edible in the hospital cafeteria on a short meal break, and endangering his health by stopping at a kebab van after late shifts. So he never learned to cook for himself, not properly - he didn't have the time, or money, or inclination.
Now John wanders around the supermarket feeling like a visitor from another planet. Everything's so shiny and brightly-coloured and clean. Tesco's is the closest shop to their flat; on the days when his limp forgets that it's merely psychosomatic, the short walk is about all he can manage. Tesco's is also cheaper than the alternatives, and shabbier, so he prefers it even though the self-checkout machines annoy the hell out of him.
He always checks out the small bin in the supermarket's back corner, where dented cans and packets with torn labels are sold at a heavy discount. The ever-present clinical part of his brain (his inner doctor) warns John that such damaged packaging is unsafe, that bacteria might have gotten into the food, but he ignores it. What's wrong with a little danger now and then? Anyway, he figures his stomach is pretty damn tough after Afghanistan. If the gastric fever he caught after being shot didn't kill him, a touch of food poisoning doesn't stand a chance.
***
Living with Sherlock is probably keeping his digestive defences in top shape. The jar of eyes in the microwave was just the start! There's a partly-dissected pig's head in the freezer, next to the fish fingers. On the kitchen windowsill, a tissue decomposition experiment is in progress (John's caught Sherlock murmuring to the bacteria, urging them to work faster, which is both hilarious and disturbing).
The kitchen's a disaster area, all told. Containers of powerful acid stand beside the bottles of ketchup and HP sauce on the shelf, while something green and gooey appears to have exploded in the oven. John's given up on the idea of eating at the table, covered as it is in scientific paraphernalia; they eat off trays in the sitting room instead.
One of the first things John bought when he moved in was dishwashing liquid: not the usual rubbish that was marketed as smelling like fruit or flowers, but serious stuff with a reassuringly strong chemical odour. He is careful to wash his dishes before use, even if they're sitting innocently, supposedly clean, in the draining rack or cupboard. He wouldn't put anything past Sherlock in one of his moods, when his mind is far away and his body appears to function on autopilot.
He wonders why Sherlock's bizarre habits, and apparent aversion to cleaning, don't bother him more. Years of medical and military service mean that John is accustomed to order, and hygiene, and spartan living conditions. But he finds the clutter and chaos oddly comforting. The non-sterile environment isn't going to kill any vulnerable patients, so he doesn't have to clean unless he wants to. There are no Army regulations to adhere to anymore, and no disciplinary authority higher than Mrs. Hudson. John can relax a little, here.
***
John likes doing the food shopping in the afternoon, after the lunchtime rush and before the office workers stop by on their way home. He's acclimatising to the crush of people in London, so different from the wide open spaces of Afghanistan, but he still prefers to avoid the crowds. His therapist tells him to "Take it easy, John, and give yourself some time," but he can't help feeling frustrated. He has nothing but time, now, and nothing in particular to look forward to.
He's also discovered that mid-afternoon is when the supermarket's end-of-day specials get put out. It's the only way he can afford the decent ready meals; otherwise he has to rely on the super-budget frozen crap, which tastes like the cardboard it's packed in and has about the same nutritional value.
Today, Tesco's has a big bag of Indian food for two, its price reduced by 75%, and John grabs it before someone else does (the clearance section is like a mini battlefield). Sherlock does have a favourite Indian restaurant, of course, but it's way down south near Clapham Junction. They won't deliver to Baker Street - not even for Sherlock, who saved the owner's sister when a co-worker framed her for fraud.
The bag contains two mild chicken curries, rice, and a couple of side dishes. Sherlock doesn't eat spicy food - it's the one area of life in which he's not adventurous! John himself likes it hot, which turned out to be highly advantageous in Afghanistan. When the locals' tastes run the gamut from "spicy" to "tastebud-searing", it's no good asking a Kabul street vendor for a bland korma. But John's willing to compromise if it'll get Sherlock to consume a proper meal...
Sherlock barely eats when he's working a case, running on nicotine and caffeine (John suspects that other stimulants are at work as well, but has no proof and hasn't asked). The man is already far too thin, although his height and his voluminous black coat help to disguise this fact.
John was shocked when he saw his flatmate's bare chest for the first time, as Sherlock was leaving the bathroom after showering. His skin is pale, almost translucent, stretched over flat planes of muscle. Sherlock's so thin that John could've counted his ribs, if he'd been able to lift his discomfited gaze from the floor. Sherlock always wears his dressing gown after that, rather than just a threadbare towel around his hips. John doesn't know whether this newfound modesty is for Sherlock's sake or his. He doesn't ask.
***
Nothing terrible - Sherlock would say "nothing interesting", with a disconsolate sigh - has happened in London for days, so he's deigned to eat a proper meal at home tonight. John buys a discounted bag of mixed salad leaves and some tomatoes as well, determined to get some vitamins into Sherlock somehow. His inner doctor knows that neither of them is at serious risk of scurvy, but Sherlock's diet is still far from healthy.
John lingers for a while in the beverages aisle. Sherlock never drinks, preferring to keep a clear head. John himself has an uncomfortable relationship with alcohol. He's seen the damage it's done to his sister, and their late father too, and yet he sometimes craves the oblivion it offers.
He's no stranger to self-denial (in this and other regards), but he compromises with himself: wine and beer are OK, occasionally, but nothing stronger. It's easier to resist when he's around Sherlock, so John bypasses the booze and gets some ginger beer instead. It'll go nicely with the curry.
John hesitates by the stand of cut flowers, looking at the cheerful array of colours. On impulse he puts a bouquet of daffodils in his basket. Winter has been long and bleak, and any sign of spring is welcome. The flat could do with brightening up, anyway.
Then he grits his teeth, and prepares to do battle with the bloody self-checkout again.
***
When John gets home, he'll read his new library book for a while and then potter around the kitchen (the microwave needs disinfecting again). He'll listen to the evening news programme on Radio 4; he finds the presenter's soft Scottish accent soothing, even if he has to switch off the radio during reports about car bombings and massacres in Afghanistan. The flashbacks aren't quite so frequent these days, or so vivid, but he prefers to avoid obvious triggers. He chooses not to watch the television news, because the visuals make it worse.
Sherlock will most likely be lying on the sofa, exactly where John left him, and won't move until dinner is ready. They'll eat in front of the telly. There's an old Inspector Morse episode on ITV tonight, which both of them will probably enjoy.
Sherlock is dismissive of most crime shows, and can usually pinpoint the murderer within the first few minutes. John would complain about the suspense being ruined, but Sherlock's scathing commentary is generally hilarious! Morse is better-written than your average mystery, though, and the Oxfordshire scenery is lovely. As an added bonus, Sherlock recognises many of the filming locations; he can often be persuaded to tell stories about his own Oxford days.
On the other hand, Sherlock may have gotten a new case this afternoon. He might be pacing the sitting room, ready to spring into action the minute John gets home. If so, John will put the food in the fridge, find a makeshift vase for the daffodils, and head straight back out the door with Sherlock.
Either way, it should be an interesting evening. John is surprised to realise that he's actually looking forward to it.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC).
Word count: 2,000 words.
Spoilers: set between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker, with a couple of tiny spoilers for the latter episode.
Disclaimer: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belong to people who aren't me.
Rating / Warnings: PG. Non-detailed descriptions of Sherlock's scientific experiments, and brief reference to PTSD flashbacks.
Genre: gen. Can be read as friendship or John/Sherlock pre-slash.
Summary: a character study of John Watson, based on the theme of food, as he readjusts to civilian life and gets to know his new flatmate.
Author's notes: this is my first Sherlock Holmes fic of any kind. I didn't plan to write it, but the idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone! Thanks to members of livejournal_uk for Britpicking. Any feedback is welcome.
This story is set in the same 'verse as my Sherlock-at-Oxford series, Reading too much meaning from existence, but can be read independently.
***
Sherlock is disdainful of chain restaurants and pubs - he says they're boring and predictable. So they never go to the Pizza Express just down the road, or the Wetherspoon's by Baker St station (even though it does decent pub grub on a 2-for-1 basis, which appeals to John's pitiful bank balance).
John suspects there's another reason for Sherlock's aversion to such establishments: the staff haven't the discretion to give him a discount! Instead, the two of them frequent various standalone cafes and restaurants across London, where everyone knows Sherlock by name and smiles when he walks in.
They all assume that John is Sherlock's date; he's given up on correcting them. He deduces that his flatmate never dines with anyone else, and that the owners are pleased he's finally found someone. It's quite sweet, really.
Sherlock's many detractors may say that he doesn't have friends, or even the capacity for friendship. But those people clearly haven't seen him interact with Angelo, or Mehmet, or Viviana and her adorable daughter Juanita. The little girl shrieks with laughter when Sherlock pulls a 50p coin from behind her ear, and hands it to her with a flourish. Of course Sherlock can do magic tricks; given his skill at picking Lestrade's pocket, John doesn't know why he was surprised. But he finds himself watching Sherlock's face, animated as it rarely is outside of work, instead of his hands.
Their meals are often on the house, because Sherlock has apparently done favours for half of London's restaurateurs. John is told stories about thieving staff being caught red-handed, and elderly relatives getting their money back from fraudsters. He honestly wouldn't be surprised to hear that Sherlock found a sushi chef's missing cat once...
He wonders (but doesn't ask) about the chain of events. Did Sherlock solve each owner's case and then become a VIP? Or was he previously a regular customer who volunteered to investigate? If the latter, was Sherlock motivated by the possible reward of free food or did he genuinely just want to help?
John has always considered causality, in the medical sense: it's a key part of the diagnostic process, after all. But now he finds himself examining people rather than patients. Most of all, he scrutinises Sherlock, trying to gain insight into how his flatmate thinks. He doesn't tell Sherlock, but imagines that he knows anyway. Sherlock, the dedicated student of human behaviour, would probably be pleased (or amused) to have John study him in turn. He's certainly not objected whenever John has admitted to admiring his deductions.
***
John is far less fussy about where (and what) he eats than Sherlock is. Unsurprising, really: serving in the Army, he'd had to be. After crowded mess halls, and countless ration packs, a hot meal in an actual restaurant still seems like a luxury even if the food is mediocre. Hell, any meal containing identifiable vegetables is a treat now.
Before the Army, he'd spent years as firstly a med student and then a junior doctor. This meant living off baked beans and instant noodles and bad coffee, scoffing whatever looked vaguely edible in the hospital cafeteria on a short meal break, and endangering his health by stopping at a kebab van after late shifts. So he never learned to cook for himself, not properly - he didn't have the time, or money, or inclination.
Now John wanders around the supermarket feeling like a visitor from another planet. Everything's so shiny and brightly-coloured and clean. Tesco's is the closest shop to their flat; on the days when his limp forgets that it's merely psychosomatic, the short walk is about all he can manage. Tesco's is also cheaper than the alternatives, and shabbier, so he prefers it even though the self-checkout machines annoy the hell out of him.
He always checks out the small bin in the supermarket's back corner, where dented cans and packets with torn labels are sold at a heavy discount. The ever-present clinical part of his brain (his inner doctor) warns John that such damaged packaging is unsafe, that bacteria might have gotten into the food, but he ignores it. What's wrong with a little danger now and then? Anyway, he figures his stomach is pretty damn tough after Afghanistan. If the gastric fever he caught after being shot didn't kill him, a touch of food poisoning doesn't stand a chance.
***
Living with Sherlock is probably keeping his digestive defences in top shape. The jar of eyes in the microwave was just the start! There's a partly-dissected pig's head in the freezer, next to the fish fingers. On the kitchen windowsill, a tissue decomposition experiment is in progress (John's caught Sherlock murmuring to the bacteria, urging them to work faster, which is both hilarious and disturbing).
The kitchen's a disaster area, all told. Containers of powerful acid stand beside the bottles of ketchup and HP sauce on the shelf, while something green and gooey appears to have exploded in the oven. John's given up on the idea of eating at the table, covered as it is in scientific paraphernalia; they eat off trays in the sitting room instead.
One of the first things John bought when he moved in was dishwashing liquid: not the usual rubbish that was marketed as smelling like fruit or flowers, but serious stuff with a reassuringly strong chemical odour. He is careful to wash his dishes before use, even if they're sitting innocently, supposedly clean, in the draining rack or cupboard. He wouldn't put anything past Sherlock in one of his moods, when his mind is far away and his body appears to function on autopilot.
He wonders why Sherlock's bizarre habits, and apparent aversion to cleaning, don't bother him more. Years of medical and military service mean that John is accustomed to order, and hygiene, and spartan living conditions. But he finds the clutter and chaos oddly comforting. The non-sterile environment isn't going to kill any vulnerable patients, so he doesn't have to clean unless he wants to. There are no Army regulations to adhere to anymore, and no disciplinary authority higher than Mrs. Hudson. John can relax a little, here.
***
John likes doing the food shopping in the afternoon, after the lunchtime rush and before the office workers stop by on their way home. He's acclimatising to the crush of people in London, so different from the wide open spaces of Afghanistan, but he still prefers to avoid the crowds. His therapist tells him to "Take it easy, John, and give yourself some time," but he can't help feeling frustrated. He has nothing but time, now, and nothing in particular to look forward to.
He's also discovered that mid-afternoon is when the supermarket's end-of-day specials get put out. It's the only way he can afford the decent ready meals; otherwise he has to rely on the super-budget frozen crap, which tastes like the cardboard it's packed in and has about the same nutritional value.
Today, Tesco's has a big bag of Indian food for two, its price reduced by 75%, and John grabs it before someone else does (the clearance section is like a mini battlefield). Sherlock does have a favourite Indian restaurant, of course, but it's way down south near Clapham Junction. They won't deliver to Baker Street - not even for Sherlock, who saved the owner's sister when a co-worker framed her for fraud.
The bag contains two mild chicken curries, rice, and a couple of side dishes. Sherlock doesn't eat spicy food - it's the one area of life in which he's not adventurous! John himself likes it hot, which turned out to be highly advantageous in Afghanistan. When the locals' tastes run the gamut from "spicy" to "tastebud-searing", it's no good asking a Kabul street vendor for a bland korma. But John's willing to compromise if it'll get Sherlock to consume a proper meal...
Sherlock barely eats when he's working a case, running on nicotine and caffeine (John suspects that other stimulants are at work as well, but has no proof and hasn't asked). The man is already far too thin, although his height and his voluminous black coat help to disguise this fact.
John was shocked when he saw his flatmate's bare chest for the first time, as Sherlock was leaving the bathroom after showering. His skin is pale, almost translucent, stretched over flat planes of muscle. Sherlock's so thin that John could've counted his ribs, if he'd been able to lift his discomfited gaze from the floor. Sherlock always wears his dressing gown after that, rather than just a threadbare towel around his hips. John doesn't know whether this newfound modesty is for Sherlock's sake or his. He doesn't ask.
***
Nothing terrible - Sherlock would say "nothing interesting", with a disconsolate sigh - has happened in London for days, so he's deigned to eat a proper meal at home tonight. John buys a discounted bag of mixed salad leaves and some tomatoes as well, determined to get some vitamins into Sherlock somehow. His inner doctor knows that neither of them is at serious risk of scurvy, but Sherlock's diet is still far from healthy.
John lingers for a while in the beverages aisle. Sherlock never drinks, preferring to keep a clear head. John himself has an uncomfortable relationship with alcohol. He's seen the damage it's done to his sister, and their late father too, and yet he sometimes craves the oblivion it offers.
He's no stranger to self-denial (in this and other regards), but he compromises with himself: wine and beer are OK, occasionally, but nothing stronger. It's easier to resist when he's around Sherlock, so John bypasses the booze and gets some ginger beer instead. It'll go nicely with the curry.
John hesitates by the stand of cut flowers, looking at the cheerful array of colours. On impulse he puts a bouquet of daffodils in his basket. Winter has been long and bleak, and any sign of spring is welcome. The flat could do with brightening up, anyway.
Then he grits his teeth, and prepares to do battle with the bloody self-checkout again.
***
When John gets home, he'll read his new library book for a while and then potter around the kitchen (the microwave needs disinfecting again). He'll listen to the evening news programme on Radio 4; he finds the presenter's soft Scottish accent soothing, even if he has to switch off the radio during reports about car bombings and massacres in Afghanistan. The flashbacks aren't quite so frequent these days, or so vivid, but he prefers to avoid obvious triggers. He chooses not to watch the television news, because the visuals make it worse.
Sherlock will most likely be lying on the sofa, exactly where John left him, and won't move until dinner is ready. They'll eat in front of the telly. There's an old Inspector Morse episode on ITV tonight, which both of them will probably enjoy.
Sherlock is dismissive of most crime shows, and can usually pinpoint the murderer within the first few minutes. John would complain about the suspense being ruined, but Sherlock's scathing commentary is generally hilarious! Morse is better-written than your average mystery, though, and the Oxfordshire scenery is lovely. As an added bonus, Sherlock recognises many of the filming locations; he can often be persuaded to tell stories about his own Oxford days.
On the other hand, Sherlock may have gotten a new case this afternoon. He might be pacing the sitting room, ready to spring into action the minute John gets home. If so, John will put the food in the fridge, find a makeshift vase for the daffodils, and head straight back out the door with Sherlock.
Either way, it should be an interesting evening. John is surprised to realise that he's actually looking forward to it.