Ficlet: The Science of Flavour
Ficlet: The Science of Flavour
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: G
Word count: 523
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffatt, BBC et al.
Warnings: None.
NOTE: This was my entry in the Bonus Challenge of Cycle 4, Round 1 of the ongoing fic challenge: http://www.thegameison-sh.livejournal.com
The theme of the Bonus Challenge was, "Heralding In The Fall."
John dropped the Tesco bag on the table with a thud.
Something in the droop of his shoulders hinted at some failure in this week’s expedition, Sherlock surmised. The plastic bag was full; hence, the Chip and PIN machine had been benevolent.
Balance of probabilities, some desired item had not been acquired.
"What was it?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from the smoking orange liquid in the beaker.
"What was what?" John asked somewhat forlornly.
"You didn’t find something you wanted at the shop," Sherlock said. "What was it?"
"How did you - forget it. It was silly."
Silence. The beaker bubbled. John began putting the groceries away.
* * *
"All right then," John said some minutes later. "It’s autumn, had you noticed?"
"Not particularly."
"I mean, Sherlock, it’s officially the first day of autumn. Today."
"Ah. Nightfall will be coming on earlier, then. Thermal latency in the oceans and the earth’s mass causes each season to manifest later, John, than one would calculate on an astronomical basis. Here in England, for example -"
"Thanks, Sherlock, that’s very interesting. Anyway, mother used to like to make spiced cider on the first day of autumn." John mumbled as he put away the final item, a jug of apple cider.
"And you thought to make some and couldn’t find what you needed at the shop, I suppose?"
"You really need cinnamon sticks. It was silly anyway. Like I said." John shuffled off to work on his blog.
* * *
Half an hour later, he had managed to pound out a single paragraph when a steaming mug was placed precisely next to his right hand. The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted up, a scent strongly bringing back childhood memories. John blinked. Sherlock was already backing away.
"How - what is this? Sherlock?"
"Taste it," Sherlock said, rather magnanimously.
He did. Hot spiced apple cider.
It was perfect.
John looked up to see Sherlock’s eyes shining, looking very smug indeed.
"All right. Tell me how you did it while I drink it."
"Eugenol, eugenol acetate, cinnamic aldehyde and benzyl benzoate, 1.8 percent distillation with ----"
John held up his hand. "I get the idea. I think I’ll just try and enjoy it and imagine the cinnamon stick. But it’s perfect, absolutely perfect."
The cider was gone.
"Aren’t you having any?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Only had enough for the one cup."
The seed of a suspicion grew. "Sherlock . . . why do you know how to make cinnamon. . . and clove, I am tasting clove, aren’t I?
"Eugenol is an interesting phenylpropene. It is an allyl chain-substituted guaiacol. It has stong anesthetic properties . . . also, a proper dose - don’t worry; much, much more than I put in your cup, John - will induce convulsions. Also, it can be quite useful for euthanizing exotic fish." Sherlock positively beamed.
John looked into his empty cup.
"You liked it." Sherlock rubbed his hands. "I’ve wanted to try a different preparation . . . Would you like another cup, John? I can just try, possibly, to synthesize -"
John shook his head gently and pulled Sherlock away from the beaker. "Thanks, but no, Sherlock. That was . . . fine. We’ve done our bit for autumn."
* * *