fic for tiltedsyllogism: The Way to a Man's Heart (1/3)
Title: The Way to a Man's Heart
Author: swissmarg
Recipient: tiltedsyllogism
Beta reader: frodosweetstuff
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 21K
Relationships: Sherlock/John, Greg/Molly, past Sherlock/Victor
Summary: When Greg asks Sherlock to be his best man, the past returns in an unexpected way, confronting Sherlock and John with the need to define what they are to each other. Set about a year after series 3.
Warnings: Food is used as a compensatory mechanism of sorts in this story, although there is no depiction of eating disorders. However, if descriptions of food, eating, and the enjoyment of food might be uncomfortable for you, please proceed with caution.
Notes: Dear giftee, your request was rather broad which I always find has two sides because I felt free to write pretty much anything but I'm not sure if it will suit your taste. In any case you mentioned exploring something about a character that intrigued me along with some Greg/Molly so that's what I tried to do. I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter One: Shepherd's Pie
That was not at all what he had expected when Lestrade had texted, asking Sherlock to meet him at the pub near New Scotland Yard after work. Specifically requesting he come alone. To be honest, Sherlock had thought the detective was going to talk to him about John. He'd been prepared for an awkward and painful conversation about the stages of grief and emotions and being a good friend. And he'd been willing to go through with it, for John's sake. Because it was clear that John still wasn't happy, even after all this time. It had been nearly a year. Fifteen months since the mess with Magnussen. Sherlock had done all he knew how to, taking as many cases as he could, even boring ones, when there was any sort of prospect of danger or thrills. When was he going to get the old John back?
A drawer in one of the filing cabinets deep in his mind palace popped open. He slammed it shut again, but not before his own voice had echoed back at him: But that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset? Sherlock shook his head as he unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street. Not now.
As it turned out, Lestrade hadn't wanted to talk about John after all. Although it had still been an awkward and painful conversation. Sherlock went up the stairs, registering the muted sounds of the telly coming from Mrs Hudson's flat along with the mixed scents of shepherd's pie, cinnamon scones, and fish curry in the stairway. And very faintly, marijuana. The latter two from their landlady (Chatterjee must be on the outs with his wife again), the former from upstairs. John had been cooking. Not only cooking, but baking. Sherlock steeled himself and opened the door to the flat.
"That you, Sherlock?"
Sounds from the kitchen. The telly was on here too, the early evening news. A good sign. Sherlock relaxed slightly and grunted in a vague response -- it would have had to be a very clever intruder indeed to duplicate precisely the weight, speed, and rhythm of Sherlock's gait on the stairs along with the specific twist he habitually gave the doorknob and the rustle of his coat across his shoulders. But then John had likely been listening to the latest political furor or international outrage instead of paying attention to the sounds from outside. Or to his own internal demons.
Sherlock went straight to his desk after divesting himself of his outerwear, tapping the laptop that stood open there to wake it up.
"Lestrade says to say hello," Sherlock said over the sound of the sportscaster reading the league results or something equally vapid.
"Oh? You saw Greg?" John appeared in the kitchen doorway, florid and shiny-faced from the heat of the oven and with one of Mrs Hudson's blue-flowered tea towels slung over one shoulder.
Sherlock glanced at him then said as he entered his password, "You got off work early, they closed up half an hour early for that nurse's farewell party but you skipped out, not really your thing, plus you didn't want to give that other one..." Sherlock snapped his fingers in John's direction.
"Rona?" John grinned, half embarrassed and half flattered.
Sherlock pointed at him to confirm. "...Rona any more chances to corner you. You should just tell her you're not interested." Sherlock was of course not-so-secretly pleased that John wasn't interested in this Rona. He hadn't dated anyone since Mary. On the other hand, Sherlock knew it wasn't a good sign for John's mental state. Having a female companion was virtually a prerequisite of his identity. Sherlock might eventually have to do something about that. Eventually.
John came over and stood next to the table. Close enough that Sherlock could see the faint stubble on his chin (he'd shaved carefully that morning: another good sign) and smell the cinnamon caught on his jumper (he'd spilt some on the counter, brushed it away with his sleeve). Also his aftershave (when had he taken to wearing that again?) and the slight sourness of his breath at the end of the day (no alcohol, though; Sherlock might have been wrong about the reason for the pie).
"Who says I'm not interested?" But it was teasing. John was smiling at Sherlock, something warm and happy in his eyes. Maybe the baking did help. Something loosened inside Sherlock that he hadn't even been aware was clenched tight.
Sherlock reached down and clicked open the browser. With any luck he still had the pertinent bookmarks stored somewhere.
"Greg?" John prompted, his voice thrumming with an undercurrent of excitement and anticipation.
"Oh. No, no case," Sherlock said, regretfully, as he slid into his chair. They'd just wrapped up a case last week but it hadn't involved much legwork. Mostly combing through phone records and tracking down the manufacturer of a certain type of piano wire. John had been happy anyway. Sherlock wished Lestrade had a case for them. Sherlock would have liked to see again the way John's entire body came to life, the way his expression became focused and his jaw firm with purpose. But that would have to wait. Lestrade had other things entirely on his mind at the moment.
"Apparently Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr Hooper are getting married," Sherlock muttered as he dug around in the bowels of his hard drive. Not that it was a complete surprise. They'd been dating for over a year, the man practically lived at her flat.
John barked out a laugh. "Really? That's fantastic. When?"
"In six weeks."
"Wow, that's soon," John said. "Cutting it close on invitations. You don't think... is Molly?"
"Not pregnant, no," Sherlock said. Refrained from adding a remark that might be construed as referring to John's wedding. He hadn't known, after all. "I gather they simply want to do it and don't see any reason to drag it out. Very close friends and family only, no big fuss," he said distractedly as he opened the bookmark library.
"Right. Right yes, of course." His earlier upbeat tone turning stiff.
For God's sake. While it was true John's interactions with both Lestrade and Molly had been more cordial than warm since his marriage, he was obviously included if Sherlock was going. "Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock said irritably, "of course you're invited too. Although, that wasn't the only reason he wanted to see me." He scrolled through the entries. Ah, here it was. He hadn't deleted it after all.
"Then what did he want? You have a caterer who owes you a favour or something?"
"He's asked me to be his best man." Sherlock opened the internet page. Tips for a Best Man Speech. It had all ended up being entirely useless for what he'd wanted to say at John's wedding, but this was only Lestrade. It didn't really matter what he said.
Beside him, John stilled, then shifted. "Oh?" Too casual. What was wrong now? Sherlock glanced up at John but he was already moving away. "You should open a side business." His voice tense and clipped.
Sherlock blinked at the retreating figure, then sprang up and followed him into the kitchen.
"What-- you're not jealous, are you? You're welcome to the job." He hadn't thought it was that important. John rarely saw Lestrade outside of their investigations. But then John rarely saw anyone outside of their investigations and his own erratic locum assignments. He'd never actually gone back to work full-time. Maybe Sherlock had underestimated the strength of his friendship with the inspector.
John went to the oven and took out the pan with the pie. The scones were already done, cooling on the sideboard. He sighed. "No, no. Greg wants you. Course he does. You eating?" He didn't sound angry or hurt now. Conciliatory. Maybe resigned.
Sherlock took down two plates and got cutlery from the drawer to lay the table while John cut up the pie.
"It's nice, for Molly and Greg," John said, and that sounded more sincere. "Nice to have some good news. I'll call them later to congratulate them. Or is it all right that you've told me? Not meant to be a secret or anything?" John raised his eyebrows and glanced at Sherlock, but immediately looked away again, concentrating on serving up two large, piping hot portions of potatoes and vegetables onto the plates.
"No, I don't think so." Sherlock was nonplussed by John's reaction. He was also somewhat distracted by the fact that the pie looked suspiciously like his father's recipe. "We were in that pub all the Yarders go to," Sherlock said. "Anyone could have overheard."
John nodded. His mouth did that thing where the corners turned down to indicate he'd heard and acknowledged the statement. It made him look unnecessarily grim.
Sherlock frowned. He'd used to be baffled (surprised, delighted) on a regular basis by John's reactions to things, but he hadn't been this far off base in a long time.
"This doesn't actually bother you, does it? I don't know why he asked me, really," Sherlock said, waving his hand around. "It would have made more sense for him to ask you in the first place. Or that sergeant, Dimblock --"
"Dimmock," John sighed under his breath, shaking his head, but his mouth was edging towards a smile.
Sherlock ignored him -- pointedly, he knew the man's name perfectly well -- and ploughed on: "They seem to get on swimmingly. After the way I botched it at yours..."
That got John's attention. He stopped dishing up the food and looked at Sherlock earnestly. "Sherlock," he said in that firm, low voice that meant he was not going to accept any arguments. "You did not botch being my best man. You were you, and you were perfect. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way."
Sherlock felt inexplicably warm. His ears tingled. Something in his stomach too. He recognised the sensation but knew it wasn't productive so he ignored it. Tried to anyway. It wasn't easy, not with John's blue eyes staring into his. All Sherlock would have to do was lift his hand to rest it on John's arm or place it against his cheek. The roughness of his five o'clock shadow under Sherlock's thumb. His breath hot and damp on Sherlock's palm. But that wouldn't be welcome. Still, the moment hung there, as if waiting for the prompter to whisper the next line into one of their ears. Sherlock became extremely aware of his body, his chest rising and falling inside his shirt with his breaths, the slight prickling of nervous perspiration under his arms, his hands hanging large and buzzing with undirected energy at his sides.
John's tongue darted forward to touch the inside of his bottom lip. He broke eye contact suddenly, his gaze skittering down across Sherlock's mouth before landing on the food again, almost surprised to remember what he was doing. He took a quick step back. When he spoke again, it was with a casual, almost false cheer.
"Greg's probably just hoping to end up with an attempted murder at the reception. You know, spice things up a bit. It's his third, have to make it special." He flashed Sherlock a quick, tight smile and picked up one of the plates in one hand, knife and fork in the other. "Think I'll just take this upstairs. Get out of your way and let you work."
Sherlock was momentarily aghast. This was absolulely not the way he'd imagined the evening going. He hadn't visualised it in detail, but he'd had the vague notion that John would help him, that this was a project they'd work on together. Well, honestly, that John would do most of the speechwriting. But if the mere thought of it was causing him to flee in panic... Fine. Sherlock could adjust.
"No, no," he said quickly. "No need. Plenty of time, I've hardly anything to do anyway. Nothing, really. Forget about weddings and all that rubbish. We can..."
Sherlock stepped over to the desk and disconnected his laptop from the charging cable so he could bring it back to the kitchen with him. He sat down, haphazardly shoving dishes aside to balance the computer on the edge of the table and twirling it around so the screen would be facing John's chair. If he would sit down.
"Here, check my inbox," Sherlock said, pointing from John to the computer. "I'm gasping for a good missing pet case. Maybe an affair with the secretary." He picked up a forkful of food from the plate in front of him and shoved it into his mouth, hoping to make John believe they were already eating together. It would be rude of him to leave now.
John chuckled. "You are not, you bloodthirsty savage. You need a good decapitation is what. All right, let's see what you've got then..." He put his plate back on the table and sat down catty-corner from Sherlock. When he scooted his chair in, his knee accidentally bumped Sherlock's, but he didn't move it away. Maybe he thought it was the table leg. Sherlock didn't dare move. Hardly dared breathe. He took another bite of the pie. It tasted like his father's too. He poked around, visually gauging the ratio of sweetcorn to peas and surreptitiously testing the viscosity of the gravy.
* * * * * *
Vegetarian Shepherd's Pie
Source: http://pureella.com/vegan-dinner-lentil-shepherds-pie/
1 onion
2 carrots
1/2 cup sweet peas (frozen are fine)
1 stalk of celery (optional)
1 can of sweet corn
1 large can of lentils (or 1 cup dried lentils, cooked)
5-7 large yukon gold potatoes
1/4 cup rice milk
sea salt and pepper to taste
pinch of cumin
1/2 teaspoon thyme
2 tablespoons of soy sauce
1 teaspoon dried paprika
oil for cooking
In a large pot, cook the peeled potatoes in salted water. In a large pan, saute the chopped onions, carrots, celery - cook until golden, add the frozen peas and lentils and cover to cook for a few minutes. Add a bit of water if these veggies start to stick to the bottom of the pan. Add in the corn, soy sauce, and season with cumin and thyme, salt and pepper. Keep covered, turn down the heat to low.
Your potatoes should be boiled by now, drain them leaving some of the water near the bottom, mash them with the rice milk until a puree forms. Taste and season with salt and pepper.
In an oven -safe dish, place in the whole mix of vegetables with lentils into the bottom of the pan and spread out evenly. Add the mashed potatoes on top and smooth out over top with the back of the spoon. Sprinkle the top with dried paprika, and poke through with a fork to make vents in the mashed potatoes.
Bake at 350 F /175 C for 20-30 minutes. Let it set for 10 minutes before serving, but serve while still hot.
Chapter Two: Leftover Lasagna
They hadn't found a case they both agreed on, but at least John had been distracted from whatever dark thoughts had been fomenting in his brain, and they'd ended up spending quite a pleasant evening in. Sherlock had stayed scrupulously away from any mention of Lestrade, Molly Hooper, or weddings, and that seemed to be the wisest course.
What was it that had put John off? It wasn't the relationship itself. John had never shown any signs of being jealous of either Lestrade or Molly, and in fact had expressed spontaneous delight and pleasure upon first hearing the news. It wasn't until Sherlock had mentioned he was going to be involved as the best man that John had retreated and extended his bristles. Did he think Sherlock was going to fill their shared living space with sample books, mock-ups, menus, and scale models the way they had for John's wedding?
Sherlock would have to reassure John that he wasn't planning the thing this time. Lestrade had made that clear. Sherlock's duties extended only as far as bearing legal witness to the proceedings with his signature, keeping track of the rings during the ceremony, and giving a toast at the reception. ('Five minutes max, Sherlock, no eviscerations, no mention of anything even remotely illegal, nothing you wouldn't want your mum or a judge to hear, and for God's sake no deducing anyone.') Lestrade had also expressly forbidden him from organising a stag night, which was fortuitous as Sherlock would have refused anyway. He had less than no interest in watching Lestrade become inebriated.
It might still be something else that was bothering John, of course. Sherlock would keep an eye out. It seemed as if he did nothing but observe John these days. Trying to suss out what would coax a smile, inspire a humorous jab, prompt a relaxed stance, ensure a good night's sleep. It wasn't a hardship, precisely; Sherlock was fairly certain he would never tire of watching John, listening to him, sensing his presence a room or a floor or even half a city away. Was that possible? Bioelectrical fields or something even more esoteric. It did leave him with a gnawing sense of emptiness sometimes, though, as if all that John-targeted focus were draining him of something essential.
Maybe he was just hungry.
Sherlock glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer screen. John would be back in about twenty minutes. He'd texted to ask Sherlock what he should pick up for dinner on the way home from work. (Four weeks at a clinic in Edgeware, covering for a doctor recovering from back surgery. The commute was tolerable, forty minutes each way door to door.) Sherlock had replied that he'd make something. He'd noticed a correlation between takeout and John's sleep habits. Too much salt and grease tended to have him settling late, or up in the middle of the night.
They were getting too old to sustain that kind of diet. Especially John. His parents had both died of cardiovascular deficiencies (his father had suffered cardiac arrest at 54, his mother a massive stroke at 68). Sherlock probably didn't have as much to worry about: Mummy and Dad were still in excellent health, not even so much as a hint of high blood pressure, although Mummy did have slight diabetic tendencies. But if John was to enjoy a healthier diet, then so was Sherlock.
It wasn't something they'd addressed directly. Sherlock didn't feel that confronting John with his own mortality would have been either particularly welcome or productive. But whenever he could, Sherlock silently encouraged vegetables and food made from scratch, long walks and quick sprints. The project dovetailed nicely with John's newly acquired tendency to cook as a method of emotional distraction. A distressing dream would see him making shortbread at 4 a.m. Too many pregnant women and push-chairs in the Tube would have him looking up pasta primavera recipes. Sherlock had quietly asked Mrs Hudson to siphon off a portion of the surplus fruits and vegetables Mr Chatterjee passed on to her from his shop, to make sure their larder always had a selection for John to work with when the mood hit.
It wasn't that John was overeating. The cooking alone seemed to satisfy whatever was in need of an outlet. Anything that wasn't consumed in the course of a modestly portioned meal went into the freezer, or was shared with Mrs Hudson. Or -- particularly in the case of baked goods -- taken to work for the break room. Sherlock had been mildly embarrassed when John brought along an entire coffee cake to a deposition for a case they'd been involved in three months back, but the solicitors on both sides had been appreciative. One had later sent John an email asking for the recipe. And fishing for a date, but that had been politely declined. Eventually, Sherlock reminded himself.
Sherlock went into the kitchen and took the heavy-duty plastic zip-loc bag with half a lasagna out of the freezer and turned on the oven. There was still half a packet of rocket and some porcini he could turn into a salad.
He'd just finished slicing up the last of the mushrooms when he heard John downstairs. Sherlock paused, the knife hovering in mid-air, to listen. Footsteps measured, not quick but not plodding. Probably just tired. No hesitation at the top, the door opened as soon as he reached the last step. Sherlock set himself into motion again, sweeping the mushrooms off the cutting board into the dressing to marinate.
"Hi, smells good," John called from the other room.
"It's just the rest of that tofu lasagna," Sherlock said. "It'll be about ten more minutes."
John came into the kitchen and went straight to the sink to fill a glass with water. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye as he ran water over the greens. Tired, an underlying tension in his shoulders. Slept poorly again, or spent too long sitting behind a desk. They needed a case.
"What'd you get up to today?" John asked, leaning back against the sink. His arms crossed, still holding his half-full glass.
Sherlock made a noncommittal sound. "Nothing much. Some research." Outlining his speech, rummaging in his mind palace and John's notes for "humorous" anecdotes involving Lestrade.
"New case?"
"No, old stuff. Boring." Sherlock had ended up being distracted for more hours than he cared to admit reviewing his internal files on John. His actions, behaviour, reactions, quips, smiles, outfits, postures, and expressions. Sherlock told himself it was relevant. Not to Lestrade's wedding, that was immaterial. But to this new John Sherlock had had thrust upon him. This time it wasn't a psychosomatic limp he needed to heal. This time, the limp was emotional; much more subtle, much more entrenched.
John sighed and set the glass down. "Sounds like my day. Anything I can help with?" He nodded at the counter where Sherlock was working.
Sherlock glanced at the oven, glad to move onto safer ground. "Just waiting for the lasagna."
"I'll go wash up then." John pushed away from the counter and went to the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, everything was ready.
Sherlock had never appreciated regular mealtimes before, but this was something he found himself looking forward to, on days when he had nothing else on: sitting with John at the kitchen table or on the couch with their plates in their laps, sharing a meal they'd both had a hand in (whether by buying it, picking it up, making it, or just preparing the area for them to enjoy it in pleasant, sanitary surroundings); half watching the mindless early evening fare or talking about anything that came to mind, what they'd done during their hours apart, what they'd read or heard, theories or ideas they found intriguing or puzzling or troubling, plans for the evening or the weekend or 'some day'. More often than not -- always, in fact, unless they were interrupted -- the mood would carry over through the rest of the evening, a lively discussion continuing into the living room, perhaps accompanied by a bottle of wine, a philosophical disagreement requiring additional research and proofs to be looked up at the desk with John leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, or simply the comfortable hum of mutual understanding and good will and the simple, bone-deep pleasure of each other's company while they both settled into their own pursuits with reading material or music.
John made an appreciative sound as he took a bite of the salad. "This is good. What'd you put in? Some kind of nut?"
"Walnut oil. And lime."
John nodded. "'S good," he said again around his next mouthful.
There was something deeply satisfying in watching John eat. Sherlock had noticed that from the very start, that night at Angelo's. The way he appreciated every bite; not necessarily concentrating on the food, none of that mindfulness nonsense, but simply unconsciously responding to the flavours, the textures. Sherlock always knew whether John liked what he was eating, whether or not he said it out loud. Whether or not John was even thinking about it himself.
"So I spoke to Greg today over lunch," John said, cutting into his lasagna.
Sherlock made an inqisitive sound as he picked up his wine glass. A bordeaux, probably too heavy, but Sherlock had thought it would be optimal for helping John relax and maybe sleep well tonight.
"He said you're all going up to Molly's mum's this weekend?" The question wide-eyed, overly innocent. He knew something more.
And what was Lestrade up to? It was true Lestrade had mentioned a desire to that effect but Sherlock had never had any intention of accompanying him. He shook his head. "He's going. No need for me to be there. All they're doing is finalising the arrangements for the chapel and the reception."
"That may be but as the best man he's counting on you to be there too."
"I'm not helping with the planning this time, John. Just misplacing the rings, making an atrociously embarrassing toast--" he teased, glad for the opportunity to put John's mind at ease.
John smiled, a bit. "Drunken debauchery on his stag night followed by a night in jail."
"No, we'll be spared that at least. I'm barred from stag night."
John frowned a bit at that. Made a disgruntled sound which, on second thought, might actually have been a burp. Ate a few bites before speaking again. "Anyway, he said something about meeting with the vicar to discuss the ceremony. You'll need to be there for that. And..." John pointed his fork at Sherlock before he could interrupt. "And he's invited me along as well to make sure you go."
Oh. Oh, that was interesting. Sherlock watched John take a sip of his wine, another bite of salad. He had a faintly smug air about him. Pleased. Pleased about being included? About the prospect of getting out of town, even if the only excitement would involve the traffic on the A12? About conspiring with Lestrade to make Sherlock do something he didn't want to? Balance of probability. The irony was that if this small inconvenience made John happy, Sherlock was surprisingly willing to go along with it.
* * * * * *
Tofu Lasagna
Source: http://allrecipes.com/recipe/25345/tofu-lasagna/
1/2 (12 ounce) package uncooked lasagna noodles
1 (12 ounce) package firm tofu, crumbled
2 eggs
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 tablespoons milk
1 cup spaghetti sauce
1 tablespoon dried parsley
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
Preheat oven to 350F / 175 C.
Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add lasagna and cook for 8 to 10 minutes or until al dente; drain.
In a medium bowl combine tofu, eggs, salt, pepper, nutmeg, milk, spaghetti sauce, parsley and 1 cup of mozzarella cheese. Spread a layer in the bottom of a 9x13 inch baking dish.
Layer lasagna noodles with the sauce mixture, ending with sauce. Sprinkle with remaining mozzarella and Parmesan cheese.
Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 35 minutes.
Chapter Three: Tasting Menu
Lestrade pulled into the driveway of a small, L-shaped bungalow halfway along a cul-de-sac lane. The brick walls were almost entirely obscured by a profusion of flowering greenery crawling up trellises and overflowing from hanging planters. Sherlock groaned as he unfolded his legs from the cramped back seat of Lestrade's Fiesta. At least he'd been able to take advantage of the entire width of the car. And John had been happy to chat with Lestrade in the front for the duration of the hour-long ride.
They'd barely closed the car doors when a chorus of female voices hailed them from the environs of the house, and Molly came down the poured concrete path followed by two other women. The older one was clearly her mother, (dyed) blond hair messily pulled back into a twist. She wore a brightly patterned shirt, grey leggings and red shoes. The other woman trailed behind, almost hesitant -- teeth clenched in an overly bright, skittish smile. Hand-knit blue fuzzy jumper, shapeless jeans, sandals. The cousin? No, must be Molly's sister, Sherlock realised as she came closer. Same eyes, same nose. Same shade of brown hair, but thinner and cut to a practical chin length. Older than Molly, but not by much. Single. Unhappily so.
Introductions were made. The mother was Daisy, the sister Posy. Sherlock wondered how Molly had escaped a flower name. Molly and Lestrade greeted each other with a quick, self-conscious peck. Daisy hugged everyone. Posy shook hands as if it pained her, her smile never wavering. She was apparently to be the maid of honour. Mother and sister clearly assumed John to be Sherlock's boyfriend despite being introduced by Lestrade only as 'Dr Watson, a friend of Sherlock's'. ('Just John, please,' John had said briskly, not touching the rest of the statement.)
And then they were off. On foot, as everything was apparently 'just down the lane' and it would be 'silly', according to Daisy, to take two cars. Sherlock suspected she just wanted a chance to pump him for information on Lestrade, as she proceeded to do just that, playing the frail old lady card to hold onto his elbow as they strolled into the village. Sherlock rolled his eyes but let her after a sharp glance from John.
The day's plan called for going to the church first to discuss the ceremony with the vicar, then on to Molly's cousin's pub for a menu tasting-cum-lunch. It had been agreed upon on their way up in the car, to everyone's mutual relief, that Sherlock and John would then be released on their own recognizance for a couple of hours while Lestrade spent the afternoon with Molly's family before they drove back to London.
While Daisy dug -- rather too obviously -- for dirt on her future son-in-law, Molly and Lestrade walked ahead holding hands, leaving John to field Posy at the rear. Sherlock half suspected Molly and Lestrade of trying to set them up together (really, why else would John have been roped into this outing?), but then again someone must have planted the boyfriend idea. Sherlock would have said Lestrade but for the way Molly had kept a close eye on her mother when John had been introduced.
The church was a relic from the late Middle Ages and charming in the way of old stone chapels, with moss and lichen providing artfully casual daubs of colour. Inside, the three-paned stained glass window behind the altar drew the eye immediately. It must have been a much newer addition, to judge by the style and freshness of the colours, and portrayed a meal, possibly the Last Supper, albeit with only three participants. The central figure was obviously meant to be Jesus, but Sherlock wasn't well enough versed in Christian lore to place the others. Some apostles or saints, most likely. The supper depicted consisted of bread, wine, and a bowl of some small green fruits. The lower panels displayed angels bearing sheaves of grain beside a bucolic river. Sherlock was leaning in to try to discern whether the fruits were meant to be olives or grapes when a voice echoed through the church:
"Here we are," the man said, cheerful, brisk, the voice of someone used to getting things done. Sherlock's entire body prickled at the sound. It couldn't be. Quick, purposeful steps on the ancient stone floor. But of course it was. The universe was just that cruel. "So, so good of you to come all the way out from the city." Same broad smile, newly receding hairline, a good two stone heavier although half of it was muscle, reaching out to shake the hand of the closest visitor (Molly), scanning the group, pleasant, bland. Stuttering, doing a double take and freezing as recognition settled in. Sherlock had gone through precisely the same process mere seconds earlier as the voice had triggered a cascade of drawers flying open in his mind palace, haphazardly tossing out sounds, smells, words, touches. Things he'd locked up years ago.
"My God. My God. Will!" Victor dropped Molly's hand and moved toward Sherlock without so much as a backward glance. His shock turned to delight as he clapped both hands on Sherlock's upper arms and squeezed. "What the hell are you doing here!"
"Sorry, Reverend, this is Sherlock Holmes, Greg's best man," Molly jumped in, gently correcting him.
A flicker of hesitation in Victor's brown eyes, his grip loosening.
"Victor." A nod. "I go by Sherlock now." He was rather pleased with the way his voice came out: steady, firm, cool. Victor's confidence returning, his hands moving away after one final reassuring squeeze. Sherlock only now noticed the wedding ring. (Married to a woman, no children.) Sherlock's desire to be quit of the place increased exponentially. Fewer explanations would be required if he stayed, though. Fewer questions from John.
"Wait, you two know each other?" Lestrade's incredulity more irritating than warranted.
A new round of introductions. Explanations. Reverend Victor Trevor, incumbent clergyman, attended the divinity course at King's College. William Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, attended the chemistry course at King's College during overlapping years. Common areas, meals, library. Really, it was quite simple, Sherlock had no idea why everyone was goggling like that.
Had Sherlock stared at John and Major Sholto the way John was now staring at him and Victor? Eyes wide, jaw tense. Assessing, comparing. Alert, as if poised to spring into action. But that was ridiculous. John would have no idea, and even if he did, why should he care?
Victor recovered quickly and the novelty of the moment soon faded for the others as well, allowing them to move on to the purpose for their visit. Victor took the lead, showing the group around the building and grounds as they discussed the facilities, music options, worship service, and the staging of the ceremony.
John held Sherlock back to let the rest of the party get a few steps ahead. "Hey, you okay?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
"Fine."
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Sherlock drew himself up. "I should hope I would muster a bit more enthusiasm for a ghost."
John smiled at that. "Yeah, all right. This Reverend though." John nodded at the stolid figure engaged in some sort of discussion with Molly's mother and Greg about overflow parking, while Molly and her sister took pictures of the church with their phones. "He's not one of Sebastian Wilkes's crowd, is he?"
So that was it. Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Hardly, John. Two completely different circles. Sebastian was from Imperial, and as we've just established, I met Victor at Cambridge." He'd known Victor as an undergrad, hadn't started to groom his contacts with Sebastian, amongst others, until he'd rebranded himself as Sherlock. Put away childish things.
"Ah right. Yeah, yeah you're right. I wasn't thinking." John was only momentarily appeased, though. "So he doesn't make you uncomfortable?" he pressed.
"Please, John," Sherlock scoffed, walking around him to catch up with the others, who had moved on by now. "This entire spectacle makes me uncomfortable. Let's just try to get through it as quickly as possible, shall we?"
"Yeah, all right. I wonder what they're going to serve for lunch?"
That had been too easy. Sherlock was sure he hadn't heard the last from John on the subject, although they managed to make it through the rest of the visit without any more inquiries into Victor and Sherlock's acquaintance. Sherlock thought he was going to escape any further interactions entirely by slipping out to the adjacent cemetery for a smoke while the others attended to some of the necessary paperwork inside. Really, this shouldn't be affecting him like this. At all, in fact. It was nothing. Over and done with. It had been unexpected, that was all. Sherlock took a deep drag on his cigarette and closed his eyes to try and tidy away the chaos the earlier confrontation had caused.
Fish and chips, too hot to taste, the heavy odour of old grease, the sticky red table in the back corner. Pink lips, shiny.
The smell of books and furniture polish. His neck stiff, the buzz of a fluorescent light. A yawn from across the table, a sliver of soft stomach visible with the stretch.
Running through the freezing rain, shoes and socks sodden, cursing, laughing. A finger touching the back of his hand.
Brown eyes, up close. Too close to focus. Closing.
Lying in bed watching snow gather on the windowsill with a warm weight at his back.
Stupid. He'd been so stupid. He stuffed everything haphazardly back into the drawer they'd spilled out of and made himself run through the design of a new experiment to refocus his thoughts.
He wasn't to get off that easily, of course. John came to fetch him before they left, saying it would be rude for Sherlock not to say good-bye. Any protest would only have caused him to dig his heels in and say something about not ruining things for Molly and Lestrade. Plus he was already peeved at having caught Sherlock smoking. Sherlock grudgingly ground out his cigarette and trotted along obediently. Shook Victor's hand. Heard him say the expected things: great to see you -- have to get together -- catch up -- keep in touch. Agreed to everything with no intention of following through.
He'd have to see Victor once more, of course, at the ceremony, but it would be a simple matter to avoid speaking to him. He only needed to keep John away from him as well. It might have been smarter to let John think Victor was one of Sebastian's ilk after all. This way, all he'd done was pique John's curiosity further.
Lunch served well as a distraction. It developed that the pub used to belong to Molly's parents, and when her father died, the cousin -- Jeremy, a dour, bald man around John's age with the physique of a person who enjoyed their own cooking -- had taken it over. What he lacked in good humour he made up for in the kitchen. The food samplings presented were hearty and wholesome yet fresh and inventive, without being fussy or exotic. Things like butternut squash and sage soup with rosemary foccacia, wild mushroom and garlic puff pastry tarts, game sausages with caramelised red onion gravy, breast of chicken stuffed with porcini mushrooms. And as the reception would start with a tea service as well, stilton and poppy seed butter biscuits, raspberry shortbread, mini Victoria sponges and lavender meringue with lemon and vanilla cream.
The six of them were seated around a round table, John to Sherlock's left, making little appreciative sounds at every new dish. It was a kind of exquisite torture. An exclamation of surprise at the black bean and avocado salsa. A groan after the first spoonful of pork and pancetta pie. "Sherlock, you have to try the mini stuffed peppers. You like them? I wonder what's in the filling. Think I could try something like this. Molly, do you think your cousin would share the recipe?" John leaning across Sherlock to reach the parsnips roasted in honey. Taking two and putting one on Sherlock's plate. A quick smile, knowing Sherlock's particular weakness for honey. Their chairs closer than necessary. The simplest explanation: John had unconsciously created a buffer zone between his left hand and Posy's right, on his other side. He and Sherlock didn't even need to think about it anymore, the two of them always gravitating into position such that their dominant hands were on opposite sides for maximum mobility and dexterity. A pleasant thought, if fruitless.
"What about you two, then?" Daisy said brightly, startling Sherlock out of his observation of John's throat as he swallowed. The creases in his skin, the soft flap of his earlobe. "I hear you people can get married now," she said.
Posy and Molly's discussion over whether to have anything with garlic on the menu fell silent. Lestrade cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, his eyebrows raised.
Daisy looked around, startled. "What? Did I say something? Is that not right?"
"No, Mum, it's right--"
"Aside from the 'you people'," Greg said pointedly, but Molly shot him a look, half apologetic, half shushing, with a quick shake of her head. Sherlock agreed with her. Not worth it. Especially not with this a perennial sore subject for John. He clenched his teeth and stared at his lemon and blueberry tartlet, waiting for the denial.
"It's just..." Molly glanced hesitantly at Sherlock and John. And here it came. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Not something we've ever discussed," John said diplomatically.
Sherlock's eyes snapped to him. He looked calm. Unbothered by the insinuation. His statement was entirely truthful, yet surely he knew what it implied.
"Anyway, I was married once before. Didn't exactly end well." John gave Daisy a small, self-deprecating smile and took a sip of his mineral water. They were all drinking mineral water. The wines and other beverages would be decided on at a later date, once the food menu was set.
"Oh well now, Greg's done it twice, hasn't he?" Daisy simpered.
"Mum," Molly growled.
But her mother continued blithely, "Third time's the charm, I always say. You'll see, John, we'll get these two squared away and then it'll be your turn." She beamed and tucked back into her apple tart.
***
After lunch, everyone else went back to Molly's mother's, leaving Sherlock and John somewhat at loose ends. There wasn't much in the way of sightseeing destinations in the village, and as they'd just eaten, a visit to a cafe seemed somewhat redundant.
"I wouldn't mind stretching my legs a bit," John suggested. "Walk off some of those biscuits. We'll be sitting for an hour on the way back anyway."
It was a relatively mild afternoon, although overcast and with a bit of a breeze that hinted at rain to come later on. They set off at a leisurely pace down the road. Daisy had said there was a path branching off about a kilometre ahead that would take them into a patch of forest. It wasn't much to look at, but at least it would take them away from the road.
"So tell me about this Reverend," John said after they'd walked for a few minutes.
Sherlock had known not to trust the peace. "I already said there's nothing to tell."
"Look, you don't have to talk about it but I'm not stupid. Something about him makes you uncomfortable. I just want to make sure you're all right with this."
"It's fine, John. An old school chum. Surely you have those too?" Sherlock sneered.
John refused to be put off. "Yeah, but you don't. You've never once mentioned him, or anyone from back then. Leads me to believe you've probably deleted them all, and for good reason."
"I didn't delete Victor Trevor," Sherlock scoffed. "I simply had no reason to speak of him. You're making too big a deal of this, John, really. It's nothing more than a funny coincidence that we should run into him here. There were hundreds of fellows at King's at the same time as me. Thousands at Imperial. The real wonder is that we don't come across more of them."
John's peered at him from the side, trying to find the lie, trying to find the truth hidden behind Sherlock's obfuscations.
"Quite honestly, I wouldn't put it past you to have kept tabs on all of them so you know what places to avoid." John grinned.
"Far too labour-intensive. Much easier to farm that kind of thing out to Mycroft. Give him something to do between starting wars."
John chuckled. Stepped around a pile of horse manure, bringing him close enough for their arms to brush through his jacket and Sherlock's coat. Both their hands were in their pockets, otherwise they couldn't have avoided touching skin. Should Sherlock move over to give John more space? But now the path was clear again, and John could resume his former distance. Only he didn't. Maybe he didn't realise how close they were. His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching for any more heaps.
John cleared his throat. "I hope you weren't insulted before. During lunch, I mean, what Daisy said."
"Her dubious matchmaking attempts, you mean?"
"Mm. I didn't want to put her on the spot by correcting her." A slight frown.
That made sense, in a way. Although John had never worried about putting people on the spot before, but what he probably meant was that he didn't want to put himself on the spot, open up a discussion of his private life. That's why he'd mentioned his past, unfortunate marriage.
"It's true we never have discussed it," Sherlock offered, by which he meant to offset any potential guilt John might have felt at misleading Molly's mother.
"No, we haven't," John agreed, his intonation indicating he was going to say something more, only he didn't.
They'd never discussed it: John's marriage. Mary. Everything that had happened. Sherlock sometimes (constantly) wondered whether John was still angry. No, he didn't wonder that. He knew it. John was still angry. Furious. Filled with a kind of desperate, impotent rage. Thus the pies and coffee cakes and cinnamon scones. John needed to act, to do, to confront, to engage, to interact. Physically, with his hands and feet, elbows and knees. But what Sherlock didn't know was whether John was still angry at him, at Sherlock, for his part in it all. He wanted to tell John he hadn't known. He hadn't known any of it. He'd been just as blindsided as John to see the face of Mary Watson on the other side of that gun. In the grainy, faxed image in Mycroft's dossier. On the stainless steel slab.
Did John want to discuss it now? Was that an opening? He'd taken his hands out of his pockets, flexing his hands. Working himself up to something. Sherlock got the queerest feeling in his stomach, and all of a sudden he was both desperate to hear what John had to say, and panicked at the thought of it.
But then John let his breath out, a light chuckle, put his hands back into his pockets. Mission aborted. Adjusted his course so there was once again a hand's breadth of space between himself and Sherlock "I don't envy Greg, though," he said, his tone coloured by amusement. "I can tell Daisy's going to be a handful to have for a mother-in-law."
The stray, intrusive thought popped up in Sherlock's mind of what kind of mother-in-law John thought Sherlock's mother would be, before he brutally squashed it. Where in the world had that come from?
***
An email arrived for Sherlock while they were driving back to London. John and Lestrade were in the front again, arguing eloquently and loudly on the merits of some classic rock band. Sherlock took one look at the sender of the email (sent to his work address: he'd looked up Sherlock's website) and put his phone back in his pocket, message unread. He could imagine what it was going to say, and he wasn't interested.
However, that didn't explain why it took him until they were back in London, John long since gone upstairs to bed, to delete it.
* * * * * *
Mini Stuffed Peppers
Source: http://www.instructables.com/id/goat-cheese-stuffed-peppers/
8-12 mini sweet peppers
1/2 cup goat cheese, softened at room temp - unflavored chevre is best!
herbs and spices of your choice
black pepper
salt
olive oil
Preheat oven to 400 F / 200 C.
Cut the peppers in half and pull out the membranes and the seeds. They won't add any spice - they'll just taste bitter!
Pop them on a baking sheet and drizzle over a little olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Mix them so every single pepper is nice and coated.
Mix your cheese and spices. I used several pinches of dried parsley and a couple pinches each of oregano and red pepper flakes with a few grinds of black pepper.
Add a small amount of cheese to each pepper - press it down with your fingers as you fill them so it gets in all the nooks and crannies.
Pop them in the oven for 15-20 minutes, or until the peppers start to soften and wrinkle. The cheese should be beginning to brown as well as the bottom of the peppers.
Eat them while hot!
Author: swissmarg
Recipient: tiltedsyllogism
Beta reader: frodosweetstuff
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 21K
Relationships: Sherlock/John, Greg/Molly, past Sherlock/Victor
Summary: When Greg asks Sherlock to be his best man, the past returns in an unexpected way, confronting Sherlock and John with the need to define what they are to each other. Set about a year after series 3.
Warnings: Food is used as a compensatory mechanism of sorts in this story, although there is no depiction of eating disorders. However, if descriptions of food, eating, and the enjoyment of food might be uncomfortable for you, please proceed with caution.
Notes: Dear giftee, your request was rather broad which I always find has two sides because I felt free to write pretty much anything but I'm not sure if it will suit your taste. In any case you mentioned exploring something about a character that intrigued me along with some Greg/Molly so that's what I tried to do. I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter One: Shepherd's Pie
That was not at all what he had expected when Lestrade had texted, asking Sherlock to meet him at the pub near New Scotland Yard after work. Specifically requesting he come alone. To be honest, Sherlock had thought the detective was going to talk to him about John. He'd been prepared for an awkward and painful conversation about the stages of grief and emotions and being a good friend. And he'd been willing to go through with it, for John's sake. Because it was clear that John still wasn't happy, even after all this time. It had been nearly a year. Fifteen months since the mess with Magnussen. Sherlock had done all he knew how to, taking as many cases as he could, even boring ones, when there was any sort of prospect of danger or thrills. When was he going to get the old John back?
A drawer in one of the filing cabinets deep in his mind palace popped open. He slammed it shut again, but not before his own voice had echoed back at him: But that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset? Sherlock shook his head as he unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street. Not now.
As it turned out, Lestrade hadn't wanted to talk about John after all. Although it had still been an awkward and painful conversation. Sherlock went up the stairs, registering the muted sounds of the telly coming from Mrs Hudson's flat along with the mixed scents of shepherd's pie, cinnamon scones, and fish curry in the stairway. And very faintly, marijuana. The latter two from their landlady (Chatterjee must be on the outs with his wife again), the former from upstairs. John had been cooking. Not only cooking, but baking. Sherlock steeled himself and opened the door to the flat.
"That you, Sherlock?"
Sounds from the kitchen. The telly was on here too, the early evening news. A good sign. Sherlock relaxed slightly and grunted in a vague response -- it would have had to be a very clever intruder indeed to duplicate precisely the weight, speed, and rhythm of Sherlock's gait on the stairs along with the specific twist he habitually gave the doorknob and the rustle of his coat across his shoulders. But then John had likely been listening to the latest political furor or international outrage instead of paying attention to the sounds from outside. Or to his own internal demons.
Sherlock went straight to his desk after divesting himself of his outerwear, tapping the laptop that stood open there to wake it up.
"Lestrade says to say hello," Sherlock said over the sound of the sportscaster reading the league results or something equally vapid.
"Oh? You saw Greg?" John appeared in the kitchen doorway, florid and shiny-faced from the heat of the oven and with one of Mrs Hudson's blue-flowered tea towels slung over one shoulder.
Sherlock glanced at him then said as he entered his password, "You got off work early, they closed up half an hour early for that nurse's farewell party but you skipped out, not really your thing, plus you didn't want to give that other one..." Sherlock snapped his fingers in John's direction.
"Rona?" John grinned, half embarrassed and half flattered.
Sherlock pointed at him to confirm. "...Rona any more chances to corner you. You should just tell her you're not interested." Sherlock was of course not-so-secretly pleased that John wasn't interested in this Rona. He hadn't dated anyone since Mary. On the other hand, Sherlock knew it wasn't a good sign for John's mental state. Having a female companion was virtually a prerequisite of his identity. Sherlock might eventually have to do something about that. Eventually.
John came over and stood next to the table. Close enough that Sherlock could see the faint stubble on his chin (he'd shaved carefully that morning: another good sign) and smell the cinnamon caught on his jumper (he'd spilt some on the counter, brushed it away with his sleeve). Also his aftershave (when had he taken to wearing that again?) and the slight sourness of his breath at the end of the day (no alcohol, though; Sherlock might have been wrong about the reason for the pie).
"Who says I'm not interested?" But it was teasing. John was smiling at Sherlock, something warm and happy in his eyes. Maybe the baking did help. Something loosened inside Sherlock that he hadn't even been aware was clenched tight.
Sherlock reached down and clicked open the browser. With any luck he still had the pertinent bookmarks stored somewhere.
"Greg?" John prompted, his voice thrumming with an undercurrent of excitement and anticipation.
"Oh. No, no case," Sherlock said, regretfully, as he slid into his chair. They'd just wrapped up a case last week but it hadn't involved much legwork. Mostly combing through phone records and tracking down the manufacturer of a certain type of piano wire. John had been happy anyway. Sherlock wished Lestrade had a case for them. Sherlock would have liked to see again the way John's entire body came to life, the way his expression became focused and his jaw firm with purpose. But that would have to wait. Lestrade had other things entirely on his mind at the moment.
"Apparently Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr Hooper are getting married," Sherlock muttered as he dug around in the bowels of his hard drive. Not that it was a complete surprise. They'd been dating for over a year, the man practically lived at her flat.
John barked out a laugh. "Really? That's fantastic. When?"
"In six weeks."
"Wow, that's soon," John said. "Cutting it close on invitations. You don't think... is Molly?"
"Not pregnant, no," Sherlock said. Refrained from adding a remark that might be construed as referring to John's wedding. He hadn't known, after all. "I gather they simply want to do it and don't see any reason to drag it out. Very close friends and family only, no big fuss," he said distractedly as he opened the bookmark library.
"Right. Right yes, of course." His earlier upbeat tone turning stiff.
For God's sake. While it was true John's interactions with both Lestrade and Molly had been more cordial than warm since his marriage, he was obviously included if Sherlock was going. "Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock said irritably, "of course you're invited too. Although, that wasn't the only reason he wanted to see me." He scrolled through the entries. Ah, here it was. He hadn't deleted it after all.
"Then what did he want? You have a caterer who owes you a favour or something?"
"He's asked me to be his best man." Sherlock opened the internet page. Tips for a Best Man Speech. It had all ended up being entirely useless for what he'd wanted to say at John's wedding, but this was only Lestrade. It didn't really matter what he said.
Beside him, John stilled, then shifted. "Oh?" Too casual. What was wrong now? Sherlock glanced up at John but he was already moving away. "You should open a side business." His voice tense and clipped.
Sherlock blinked at the retreating figure, then sprang up and followed him into the kitchen.
"What-- you're not jealous, are you? You're welcome to the job." He hadn't thought it was that important. John rarely saw Lestrade outside of their investigations. But then John rarely saw anyone outside of their investigations and his own erratic locum assignments. He'd never actually gone back to work full-time. Maybe Sherlock had underestimated the strength of his friendship with the inspector.
John went to the oven and took out the pan with the pie. The scones were already done, cooling on the sideboard. He sighed. "No, no. Greg wants you. Course he does. You eating?" He didn't sound angry or hurt now. Conciliatory. Maybe resigned.
Sherlock took down two plates and got cutlery from the drawer to lay the table while John cut up the pie.
"It's nice, for Molly and Greg," John said, and that sounded more sincere. "Nice to have some good news. I'll call them later to congratulate them. Or is it all right that you've told me? Not meant to be a secret or anything?" John raised his eyebrows and glanced at Sherlock, but immediately looked away again, concentrating on serving up two large, piping hot portions of potatoes and vegetables onto the plates.
"No, I don't think so." Sherlock was nonplussed by John's reaction. He was also somewhat distracted by the fact that the pie looked suspiciously like his father's recipe. "We were in that pub all the Yarders go to," Sherlock said. "Anyone could have overheard."
John nodded. His mouth did that thing where the corners turned down to indicate he'd heard and acknowledged the statement. It made him look unnecessarily grim.
Sherlock frowned. He'd used to be baffled (surprised, delighted) on a regular basis by John's reactions to things, but he hadn't been this far off base in a long time.
"This doesn't actually bother you, does it? I don't know why he asked me, really," Sherlock said, waving his hand around. "It would have made more sense for him to ask you in the first place. Or that sergeant, Dimblock --"
"Dimmock," John sighed under his breath, shaking his head, but his mouth was edging towards a smile.
Sherlock ignored him -- pointedly, he knew the man's name perfectly well -- and ploughed on: "They seem to get on swimmingly. After the way I botched it at yours..."
That got John's attention. He stopped dishing up the food and looked at Sherlock earnestly. "Sherlock," he said in that firm, low voice that meant he was not going to accept any arguments. "You did not botch being my best man. You were you, and you were perfect. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way."
Sherlock felt inexplicably warm. His ears tingled. Something in his stomach too. He recognised the sensation but knew it wasn't productive so he ignored it. Tried to anyway. It wasn't easy, not with John's blue eyes staring into his. All Sherlock would have to do was lift his hand to rest it on John's arm or place it against his cheek. The roughness of his five o'clock shadow under Sherlock's thumb. His breath hot and damp on Sherlock's palm. But that wouldn't be welcome. Still, the moment hung there, as if waiting for the prompter to whisper the next line into one of their ears. Sherlock became extremely aware of his body, his chest rising and falling inside his shirt with his breaths, the slight prickling of nervous perspiration under his arms, his hands hanging large and buzzing with undirected energy at his sides.
John's tongue darted forward to touch the inside of his bottom lip. He broke eye contact suddenly, his gaze skittering down across Sherlock's mouth before landing on the food again, almost surprised to remember what he was doing. He took a quick step back. When he spoke again, it was with a casual, almost false cheer.
"Greg's probably just hoping to end up with an attempted murder at the reception. You know, spice things up a bit. It's his third, have to make it special." He flashed Sherlock a quick, tight smile and picked up one of the plates in one hand, knife and fork in the other. "Think I'll just take this upstairs. Get out of your way and let you work."
Sherlock was momentarily aghast. This was absolulely not the way he'd imagined the evening going. He hadn't visualised it in detail, but he'd had the vague notion that John would help him, that this was a project they'd work on together. Well, honestly, that John would do most of the speechwriting. But if the mere thought of it was causing him to flee in panic... Fine. Sherlock could adjust.
"No, no," he said quickly. "No need. Plenty of time, I've hardly anything to do anyway. Nothing, really. Forget about weddings and all that rubbish. We can..."
Sherlock stepped over to the desk and disconnected his laptop from the charging cable so he could bring it back to the kitchen with him. He sat down, haphazardly shoving dishes aside to balance the computer on the edge of the table and twirling it around so the screen would be facing John's chair. If he would sit down.
"Here, check my inbox," Sherlock said, pointing from John to the computer. "I'm gasping for a good missing pet case. Maybe an affair with the secretary." He picked up a forkful of food from the plate in front of him and shoved it into his mouth, hoping to make John believe they were already eating together. It would be rude of him to leave now.
John chuckled. "You are not, you bloodthirsty savage. You need a good decapitation is what. All right, let's see what you've got then..." He put his plate back on the table and sat down catty-corner from Sherlock. When he scooted his chair in, his knee accidentally bumped Sherlock's, but he didn't move it away. Maybe he thought it was the table leg. Sherlock didn't dare move. Hardly dared breathe. He took another bite of the pie. It tasted like his father's too. He poked around, visually gauging the ratio of sweetcorn to peas and surreptitiously testing the viscosity of the gravy.
* * * * * *
Vegetarian Shepherd's Pie
Source: http://pureella.com/vegan-dinner-lentil-shepherds-pie/
1 onion
2 carrots
1/2 cup sweet peas (frozen are fine)
1 stalk of celery (optional)
1 can of sweet corn
1 large can of lentils (or 1 cup dried lentils, cooked)
5-7 large yukon gold potatoes
1/4 cup rice milk
sea salt and pepper to taste
pinch of cumin
1/2 teaspoon thyme
2 tablespoons of soy sauce
1 teaspoon dried paprika
oil for cooking
In a large pot, cook the peeled potatoes in salted water. In a large pan, saute the chopped onions, carrots, celery - cook until golden, add the frozen peas and lentils and cover to cook for a few minutes. Add a bit of water if these veggies start to stick to the bottom of the pan. Add in the corn, soy sauce, and season with cumin and thyme, salt and pepper. Keep covered, turn down the heat to low.
Your potatoes should be boiled by now, drain them leaving some of the water near the bottom, mash them with the rice milk until a puree forms. Taste and season with salt and pepper.
In an oven -safe dish, place in the whole mix of vegetables with lentils into the bottom of the pan and spread out evenly. Add the mashed potatoes on top and smooth out over top with the back of the spoon. Sprinkle the top with dried paprika, and poke through with a fork to make vents in the mashed potatoes.
Bake at 350 F /175 C for 20-30 minutes. Let it set for 10 minutes before serving, but serve while still hot.
Chapter Two: Leftover Lasagna
They hadn't found a case they both agreed on, but at least John had been distracted from whatever dark thoughts had been fomenting in his brain, and they'd ended up spending quite a pleasant evening in. Sherlock had stayed scrupulously away from any mention of Lestrade, Molly Hooper, or weddings, and that seemed to be the wisest course.
What was it that had put John off? It wasn't the relationship itself. John had never shown any signs of being jealous of either Lestrade or Molly, and in fact had expressed spontaneous delight and pleasure upon first hearing the news. It wasn't until Sherlock had mentioned he was going to be involved as the best man that John had retreated and extended his bristles. Did he think Sherlock was going to fill their shared living space with sample books, mock-ups, menus, and scale models the way they had for John's wedding?
Sherlock would have to reassure John that he wasn't planning the thing this time. Lestrade had made that clear. Sherlock's duties extended only as far as bearing legal witness to the proceedings with his signature, keeping track of the rings during the ceremony, and giving a toast at the reception. ('Five minutes max, Sherlock, no eviscerations, no mention of anything even remotely illegal, nothing you wouldn't want your mum or a judge to hear, and for God's sake no deducing anyone.') Lestrade had also expressly forbidden him from organising a stag night, which was fortuitous as Sherlock would have refused anyway. He had less than no interest in watching Lestrade become inebriated.
It might still be something else that was bothering John, of course. Sherlock would keep an eye out. It seemed as if he did nothing but observe John these days. Trying to suss out what would coax a smile, inspire a humorous jab, prompt a relaxed stance, ensure a good night's sleep. It wasn't a hardship, precisely; Sherlock was fairly certain he would never tire of watching John, listening to him, sensing his presence a room or a floor or even half a city away. Was that possible? Bioelectrical fields or something even more esoteric. It did leave him with a gnawing sense of emptiness sometimes, though, as if all that John-targeted focus were draining him of something essential.
Maybe he was just hungry.
Sherlock glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer screen. John would be back in about twenty minutes. He'd texted to ask Sherlock what he should pick up for dinner on the way home from work. (Four weeks at a clinic in Edgeware, covering for a doctor recovering from back surgery. The commute was tolerable, forty minutes each way door to door.) Sherlock had replied that he'd make something. He'd noticed a correlation between takeout and John's sleep habits. Too much salt and grease tended to have him settling late, or up in the middle of the night.
They were getting too old to sustain that kind of diet. Especially John. His parents had both died of cardiovascular deficiencies (his father had suffered cardiac arrest at 54, his mother a massive stroke at 68). Sherlock probably didn't have as much to worry about: Mummy and Dad were still in excellent health, not even so much as a hint of high blood pressure, although Mummy did have slight diabetic tendencies. But if John was to enjoy a healthier diet, then so was Sherlock.
It wasn't something they'd addressed directly. Sherlock didn't feel that confronting John with his own mortality would have been either particularly welcome or productive. But whenever he could, Sherlock silently encouraged vegetables and food made from scratch, long walks and quick sprints. The project dovetailed nicely with John's newly acquired tendency to cook as a method of emotional distraction. A distressing dream would see him making shortbread at 4 a.m. Too many pregnant women and push-chairs in the Tube would have him looking up pasta primavera recipes. Sherlock had quietly asked Mrs Hudson to siphon off a portion of the surplus fruits and vegetables Mr Chatterjee passed on to her from his shop, to make sure their larder always had a selection for John to work with when the mood hit.
It wasn't that John was overeating. The cooking alone seemed to satisfy whatever was in need of an outlet. Anything that wasn't consumed in the course of a modestly portioned meal went into the freezer, or was shared with Mrs Hudson. Or -- particularly in the case of baked goods -- taken to work for the break room. Sherlock had been mildly embarrassed when John brought along an entire coffee cake to a deposition for a case they'd been involved in three months back, but the solicitors on both sides had been appreciative. One had later sent John an email asking for the recipe. And fishing for a date, but that had been politely declined. Eventually, Sherlock reminded himself.
Sherlock went into the kitchen and took the heavy-duty plastic zip-loc bag with half a lasagna out of the freezer and turned on the oven. There was still half a packet of rocket and some porcini he could turn into a salad.
He'd just finished slicing up the last of the mushrooms when he heard John downstairs. Sherlock paused, the knife hovering in mid-air, to listen. Footsteps measured, not quick but not plodding. Probably just tired. No hesitation at the top, the door opened as soon as he reached the last step. Sherlock set himself into motion again, sweeping the mushrooms off the cutting board into the dressing to marinate.
"Hi, smells good," John called from the other room.
"It's just the rest of that tofu lasagna," Sherlock said. "It'll be about ten more minutes."
John came into the kitchen and went straight to the sink to fill a glass with water. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye as he ran water over the greens. Tired, an underlying tension in his shoulders. Slept poorly again, or spent too long sitting behind a desk. They needed a case.
"What'd you get up to today?" John asked, leaning back against the sink. His arms crossed, still holding his half-full glass.
Sherlock made a noncommittal sound. "Nothing much. Some research." Outlining his speech, rummaging in his mind palace and John's notes for "humorous" anecdotes involving Lestrade.
"New case?"
"No, old stuff. Boring." Sherlock had ended up being distracted for more hours than he cared to admit reviewing his internal files on John. His actions, behaviour, reactions, quips, smiles, outfits, postures, and expressions. Sherlock told himself it was relevant. Not to Lestrade's wedding, that was immaterial. But to this new John Sherlock had had thrust upon him. This time it wasn't a psychosomatic limp he needed to heal. This time, the limp was emotional; much more subtle, much more entrenched.
John sighed and set the glass down. "Sounds like my day. Anything I can help with?" He nodded at the counter where Sherlock was working.
Sherlock glanced at the oven, glad to move onto safer ground. "Just waiting for the lasagna."
"I'll go wash up then." John pushed away from the counter and went to the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, everything was ready.
Sherlock had never appreciated regular mealtimes before, but this was something he found himself looking forward to, on days when he had nothing else on: sitting with John at the kitchen table or on the couch with their plates in their laps, sharing a meal they'd both had a hand in (whether by buying it, picking it up, making it, or just preparing the area for them to enjoy it in pleasant, sanitary surroundings); half watching the mindless early evening fare or talking about anything that came to mind, what they'd done during their hours apart, what they'd read or heard, theories or ideas they found intriguing or puzzling or troubling, plans for the evening or the weekend or 'some day'. More often than not -- always, in fact, unless they were interrupted -- the mood would carry over through the rest of the evening, a lively discussion continuing into the living room, perhaps accompanied by a bottle of wine, a philosophical disagreement requiring additional research and proofs to be looked up at the desk with John leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, or simply the comfortable hum of mutual understanding and good will and the simple, bone-deep pleasure of each other's company while they both settled into their own pursuits with reading material or music.
John made an appreciative sound as he took a bite of the salad. "This is good. What'd you put in? Some kind of nut?"
"Walnut oil. And lime."
John nodded. "'S good," he said again around his next mouthful.
There was something deeply satisfying in watching John eat. Sherlock had noticed that from the very start, that night at Angelo's. The way he appreciated every bite; not necessarily concentrating on the food, none of that mindfulness nonsense, but simply unconsciously responding to the flavours, the textures. Sherlock always knew whether John liked what he was eating, whether or not he said it out loud. Whether or not John was even thinking about it himself.
"So I spoke to Greg today over lunch," John said, cutting into his lasagna.
Sherlock made an inqisitive sound as he picked up his wine glass. A bordeaux, probably too heavy, but Sherlock had thought it would be optimal for helping John relax and maybe sleep well tonight.
"He said you're all going up to Molly's mum's this weekend?" The question wide-eyed, overly innocent. He knew something more.
And what was Lestrade up to? It was true Lestrade had mentioned a desire to that effect but Sherlock had never had any intention of accompanying him. He shook his head. "He's going. No need for me to be there. All they're doing is finalising the arrangements for the chapel and the reception."
"That may be but as the best man he's counting on you to be there too."
"I'm not helping with the planning this time, John. Just misplacing the rings, making an atrociously embarrassing toast--" he teased, glad for the opportunity to put John's mind at ease.
John smiled, a bit. "Drunken debauchery on his stag night followed by a night in jail."
"No, we'll be spared that at least. I'm barred from stag night."
John frowned a bit at that. Made a disgruntled sound which, on second thought, might actually have been a burp. Ate a few bites before speaking again. "Anyway, he said something about meeting with the vicar to discuss the ceremony. You'll need to be there for that. And..." John pointed his fork at Sherlock before he could interrupt. "And he's invited me along as well to make sure you go."
Oh. Oh, that was interesting. Sherlock watched John take a sip of his wine, another bite of salad. He had a faintly smug air about him. Pleased. Pleased about being included? About the prospect of getting out of town, even if the only excitement would involve the traffic on the A12? About conspiring with Lestrade to make Sherlock do something he didn't want to? Balance of probability. The irony was that if this small inconvenience made John happy, Sherlock was surprisingly willing to go along with it.
* * * * * *
Tofu Lasagna
Source: http://allrecipes.com/recipe/25345/tofu-lasagna/
1/2 (12 ounce) package uncooked lasagna noodles
1 (12 ounce) package firm tofu, crumbled
2 eggs
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 tablespoons milk
1 cup spaghetti sauce
1 tablespoon dried parsley
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
Preheat oven to 350F / 175 C.
Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add lasagna and cook for 8 to 10 minutes or until al dente; drain.
In a medium bowl combine tofu, eggs, salt, pepper, nutmeg, milk, spaghetti sauce, parsley and 1 cup of mozzarella cheese. Spread a layer in the bottom of a 9x13 inch baking dish.
Layer lasagna noodles with the sauce mixture, ending with sauce. Sprinkle with remaining mozzarella and Parmesan cheese.
Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 35 minutes.
Chapter Three: Tasting Menu
Lestrade pulled into the driveway of a small, L-shaped bungalow halfway along a cul-de-sac lane. The brick walls were almost entirely obscured by a profusion of flowering greenery crawling up trellises and overflowing from hanging planters. Sherlock groaned as he unfolded his legs from the cramped back seat of Lestrade's Fiesta. At least he'd been able to take advantage of the entire width of the car. And John had been happy to chat with Lestrade in the front for the duration of the hour-long ride.
They'd barely closed the car doors when a chorus of female voices hailed them from the environs of the house, and Molly came down the poured concrete path followed by two other women. The older one was clearly her mother, (dyed) blond hair messily pulled back into a twist. She wore a brightly patterned shirt, grey leggings and red shoes. The other woman trailed behind, almost hesitant -- teeth clenched in an overly bright, skittish smile. Hand-knit blue fuzzy jumper, shapeless jeans, sandals. The cousin? No, must be Molly's sister, Sherlock realised as she came closer. Same eyes, same nose. Same shade of brown hair, but thinner and cut to a practical chin length. Older than Molly, but not by much. Single. Unhappily so.
Introductions were made. The mother was Daisy, the sister Posy. Sherlock wondered how Molly had escaped a flower name. Molly and Lestrade greeted each other with a quick, self-conscious peck. Daisy hugged everyone. Posy shook hands as if it pained her, her smile never wavering. She was apparently to be the maid of honour. Mother and sister clearly assumed John to be Sherlock's boyfriend despite being introduced by Lestrade only as 'Dr Watson, a friend of Sherlock's'. ('Just John, please,' John had said briskly, not touching the rest of the statement.)
And then they were off. On foot, as everything was apparently 'just down the lane' and it would be 'silly', according to Daisy, to take two cars. Sherlock suspected she just wanted a chance to pump him for information on Lestrade, as she proceeded to do just that, playing the frail old lady card to hold onto his elbow as they strolled into the village. Sherlock rolled his eyes but let her after a sharp glance from John.
The day's plan called for going to the church first to discuss the ceremony with the vicar, then on to Molly's cousin's pub for a menu tasting-cum-lunch. It had been agreed upon on their way up in the car, to everyone's mutual relief, that Sherlock and John would then be released on their own recognizance for a couple of hours while Lestrade spent the afternoon with Molly's family before they drove back to London.
While Daisy dug -- rather too obviously -- for dirt on her future son-in-law, Molly and Lestrade walked ahead holding hands, leaving John to field Posy at the rear. Sherlock half suspected Molly and Lestrade of trying to set them up together (really, why else would John have been roped into this outing?), but then again someone must have planted the boyfriend idea. Sherlock would have said Lestrade but for the way Molly had kept a close eye on her mother when John had been introduced.
The church was a relic from the late Middle Ages and charming in the way of old stone chapels, with moss and lichen providing artfully casual daubs of colour. Inside, the three-paned stained glass window behind the altar drew the eye immediately. It must have been a much newer addition, to judge by the style and freshness of the colours, and portrayed a meal, possibly the Last Supper, albeit with only three participants. The central figure was obviously meant to be Jesus, but Sherlock wasn't well enough versed in Christian lore to place the others. Some apostles or saints, most likely. The supper depicted consisted of bread, wine, and a bowl of some small green fruits. The lower panels displayed angels bearing sheaves of grain beside a bucolic river. Sherlock was leaning in to try to discern whether the fruits were meant to be olives or grapes when a voice echoed through the church:
"Here we are," the man said, cheerful, brisk, the voice of someone used to getting things done. Sherlock's entire body prickled at the sound. It couldn't be. Quick, purposeful steps on the ancient stone floor. But of course it was. The universe was just that cruel. "So, so good of you to come all the way out from the city." Same broad smile, newly receding hairline, a good two stone heavier although half of it was muscle, reaching out to shake the hand of the closest visitor (Molly), scanning the group, pleasant, bland. Stuttering, doing a double take and freezing as recognition settled in. Sherlock had gone through precisely the same process mere seconds earlier as the voice had triggered a cascade of drawers flying open in his mind palace, haphazardly tossing out sounds, smells, words, touches. Things he'd locked up years ago.
"My God. My God. Will!" Victor dropped Molly's hand and moved toward Sherlock without so much as a backward glance. His shock turned to delight as he clapped both hands on Sherlock's upper arms and squeezed. "What the hell are you doing here!"
"Sorry, Reverend, this is Sherlock Holmes, Greg's best man," Molly jumped in, gently correcting him.
A flicker of hesitation in Victor's brown eyes, his grip loosening.
"Victor." A nod. "I go by Sherlock now." He was rather pleased with the way his voice came out: steady, firm, cool. Victor's confidence returning, his hands moving away after one final reassuring squeeze. Sherlock only now noticed the wedding ring. (Married to a woman, no children.) Sherlock's desire to be quit of the place increased exponentially. Fewer explanations would be required if he stayed, though. Fewer questions from John.
"Wait, you two know each other?" Lestrade's incredulity more irritating than warranted.
A new round of introductions. Explanations. Reverend Victor Trevor, incumbent clergyman, attended the divinity course at King's College. William Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, attended the chemistry course at King's College during overlapping years. Common areas, meals, library. Really, it was quite simple, Sherlock had no idea why everyone was goggling like that.
Had Sherlock stared at John and Major Sholto the way John was now staring at him and Victor? Eyes wide, jaw tense. Assessing, comparing. Alert, as if poised to spring into action. But that was ridiculous. John would have no idea, and even if he did, why should he care?
Victor recovered quickly and the novelty of the moment soon faded for the others as well, allowing them to move on to the purpose for their visit. Victor took the lead, showing the group around the building and grounds as they discussed the facilities, music options, worship service, and the staging of the ceremony.
John held Sherlock back to let the rest of the party get a few steps ahead. "Hey, you okay?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
"Fine."
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Sherlock drew himself up. "I should hope I would muster a bit more enthusiasm for a ghost."
John smiled at that. "Yeah, all right. This Reverend though." John nodded at the stolid figure engaged in some sort of discussion with Molly's mother and Greg about overflow parking, while Molly and her sister took pictures of the church with their phones. "He's not one of Sebastian Wilkes's crowd, is he?"
So that was it. Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Hardly, John. Two completely different circles. Sebastian was from Imperial, and as we've just established, I met Victor at Cambridge." He'd known Victor as an undergrad, hadn't started to groom his contacts with Sebastian, amongst others, until he'd rebranded himself as Sherlock. Put away childish things.
"Ah right. Yeah, yeah you're right. I wasn't thinking." John was only momentarily appeased, though. "So he doesn't make you uncomfortable?" he pressed.
"Please, John," Sherlock scoffed, walking around him to catch up with the others, who had moved on by now. "This entire spectacle makes me uncomfortable. Let's just try to get through it as quickly as possible, shall we?"
"Yeah, all right. I wonder what they're going to serve for lunch?"
That had been too easy. Sherlock was sure he hadn't heard the last from John on the subject, although they managed to make it through the rest of the visit without any more inquiries into Victor and Sherlock's acquaintance. Sherlock thought he was going to escape any further interactions entirely by slipping out to the adjacent cemetery for a smoke while the others attended to some of the necessary paperwork inside. Really, this shouldn't be affecting him like this. At all, in fact. It was nothing. Over and done with. It had been unexpected, that was all. Sherlock took a deep drag on his cigarette and closed his eyes to try and tidy away the chaos the earlier confrontation had caused.
Fish and chips, too hot to taste, the heavy odour of old grease, the sticky red table in the back corner. Pink lips, shiny.
The smell of books and furniture polish. His neck stiff, the buzz of a fluorescent light. A yawn from across the table, a sliver of soft stomach visible with the stretch.
Running through the freezing rain, shoes and socks sodden, cursing, laughing. A finger touching the back of his hand.
Brown eyes, up close. Too close to focus. Closing.
Lying in bed watching snow gather on the windowsill with a warm weight at his back.
Stupid. He'd been so stupid. He stuffed everything haphazardly back into the drawer they'd spilled out of and made himself run through the design of a new experiment to refocus his thoughts.
He wasn't to get off that easily, of course. John came to fetch him before they left, saying it would be rude for Sherlock not to say good-bye. Any protest would only have caused him to dig his heels in and say something about not ruining things for Molly and Lestrade. Plus he was already peeved at having caught Sherlock smoking. Sherlock grudgingly ground out his cigarette and trotted along obediently. Shook Victor's hand. Heard him say the expected things: great to see you -- have to get together -- catch up -- keep in touch. Agreed to everything with no intention of following through.
He'd have to see Victor once more, of course, at the ceremony, but it would be a simple matter to avoid speaking to him. He only needed to keep John away from him as well. It might have been smarter to let John think Victor was one of Sebastian's ilk after all. This way, all he'd done was pique John's curiosity further.
Lunch served well as a distraction. It developed that the pub used to belong to Molly's parents, and when her father died, the cousin -- Jeremy, a dour, bald man around John's age with the physique of a person who enjoyed their own cooking -- had taken it over. What he lacked in good humour he made up for in the kitchen. The food samplings presented were hearty and wholesome yet fresh and inventive, without being fussy or exotic. Things like butternut squash and sage soup with rosemary foccacia, wild mushroom and garlic puff pastry tarts, game sausages with caramelised red onion gravy, breast of chicken stuffed with porcini mushrooms. And as the reception would start with a tea service as well, stilton and poppy seed butter biscuits, raspberry shortbread, mini Victoria sponges and lavender meringue with lemon and vanilla cream.
The six of them were seated around a round table, John to Sherlock's left, making little appreciative sounds at every new dish. It was a kind of exquisite torture. An exclamation of surprise at the black bean and avocado salsa. A groan after the first spoonful of pork and pancetta pie. "Sherlock, you have to try the mini stuffed peppers. You like them? I wonder what's in the filling. Think I could try something like this. Molly, do you think your cousin would share the recipe?" John leaning across Sherlock to reach the parsnips roasted in honey. Taking two and putting one on Sherlock's plate. A quick smile, knowing Sherlock's particular weakness for honey. Their chairs closer than necessary. The simplest explanation: John had unconsciously created a buffer zone between his left hand and Posy's right, on his other side. He and Sherlock didn't even need to think about it anymore, the two of them always gravitating into position such that their dominant hands were on opposite sides for maximum mobility and dexterity. A pleasant thought, if fruitless.
"What about you two, then?" Daisy said brightly, startling Sherlock out of his observation of John's throat as he swallowed. The creases in his skin, the soft flap of his earlobe. "I hear you people can get married now," she said.
Posy and Molly's discussion over whether to have anything with garlic on the menu fell silent. Lestrade cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, his eyebrows raised.
Daisy looked around, startled. "What? Did I say something? Is that not right?"
"No, Mum, it's right--"
"Aside from the 'you people'," Greg said pointedly, but Molly shot him a look, half apologetic, half shushing, with a quick shake of her head. Sherlock agreed with her. Not worth it. Especially not with this a perennial sore subject for John. He clenched his teeth and stared at his lemon and blueberry tartlet, waiting for the denial.
"It's just..." Molly glanced hesitantly at Sherlock and John. And here it came. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Not something we've ever discussed," John said diplomatically.
Sherlock's eyes snapped to him. He looked calm. Unbothered by the insinuation. His statement was entirely truthful, yet surely he knew what it implied.
"Anyway, I was married once before. Didn't exactly end well." John gave Daisy a small, self-deprecating smile and took a sip of his mineral water. They were all drinking mineral water. The wines and other beverages would be decided on at a later date, once the food menu was set.
"Oh well now, Greg's done it twice, hasn't he?" Daisy simpered.
"Mum," Molly growled.
But her mother continued blithely, "Third time's the charm, I always say. You'll see, John, we'll get these two squared away and then it'll be your turn." She beamed and tucked back into her apple tart.
***
After lunch, everyone else went back to Molly's mother's, leaving Sherlock and John somewhat at loose ends. There wasn't much in the way of sightseeing destinations in the village, and as they'd just eaten, a visit to a cafe seemed somewhat redundant.
"I wouldn't mind stretching my legs a bit," John suggested. "Walk off some of those biscuits. We'll be sitting for an hour on the way back anyway."
It was a relatively mild afternoon, although overcast and with a bit of a breeze that hinted at rain to come later on. They set off at a leisurely pace down the road. Daisy had said there was a path branching off about a kilometre ahead that would take them into a patch of forest. It wasn't much to look at, but at least it would take them away from the road.
"So tell me about this Reverend," John said after they'd walked for a few minutes.
Sherlock had known not to trust the peace. "I already said there's nothing to tell."
"Look, you don't have to talk about it but I'm not stupid. Something about him makes you uncomfortable. I just want to make sure you're all right with this."
"It's fine, John. An old school chum. Surely you have those too?" Sherlock sneered.
John refused to be put off. "Yeah, but you don't. You've never once mentioned him, or anyone from back then. Leads me to believe you've probably deleted them all, and for good reason."
"I didn't delete Victor Trevor," Sherlock scoffed. "I simply had no reason to speak of him. You're making too big a deal of this, John, really. It's nothing more than a funny coincidence that we should run into him here. There were hundreds of fellows at King's at the same time as me. Thousands at Imperial. The real wonder is that we don't come across more of them."
John's peered at him from the side, trying to find the lie, trying to find the truth hidden behind Sherlock's obfuscations.
"Quite honestly, I wouldn't put it past you to have kept tabs on all of them so you know what places to avoid." John grinned.
"Far too labour-intensive. Much easier to farm that kind of thing out to Mycroft. Give him something to do between starting wars."
John chuckled. Stepped around a pile of horse manure, bringing him close enough for their arms to brush through his jacket and Sherlock's coat. Both their hands were in their pockets, otherwise they couldn't have avoided touching skin. Should Sherlock move over to give John more space? But now the path was clear again, and John could resume his former distance. Only he didn't. Maybe he didn't realise how close they were. His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching for any more heaps.
John cleared his throat. "I hope you weren't insulted before. During lunch, I mean, what Daisy said."
"Her dubious matchmaking attempts, you mean?"
"Mm. I didn't want to put her on the spot by correcting her." A slight frown.
That made sense, in a way. Although John had never worried about putting people on the spot before, but what he probably meant was that he didn't want to put himself on the spot, open up a discussion of his private life. That's why he'd mentioned his past, unfortunate marriage.
"It's true we never have discussed it," Sherlock offered, by which he meant to offset any potential guilt John might have felt at misleading Molly's mother.
"No, we haven't," John agreed, his intonation indicating he was going to say something more, only he didn't.
They'd never discussed it: John's marriage. Mary. Everything that had happened. Sherlock sometimes (constantly) wondered whether John was still angry. No, he didn't wonder that. He knew it. John was still angry. Furious. Filled with a kind of desperate, impotent rage. Thus the pies and coffee cakes and cinnamon scones. John needed to act, to do, to confront, to engage, to interact. Physically, with his hands and feet, elbows and knees. But what Sherlock didn't know was whether John was still angry at him, at Sherlock, for his part in it all. He wanted to tell John he hadn't known. He hadn't known any of it. He'd been just as blindsided as John to see the face of Mary Watson on the other side of that gun. In the grainy, faxed image in Mycroft's dossier. On the stainless steel slab.
Did John want to discuss it now? Was that an opening? He'd taken his hands out of his pockets, flexing his hands. Working himself up to something. Sherlock got the queerest feeling in his stomach, and all of a sudden he was both desperate to hear what John had to say, and panicked at the thought of it.
But then John let his breath out, a light chuckle, put his hands back into his pockets. Mission aborted. Adjusted his course so there was once again a hand's breadth of space between himself and Sherlock "I don't envy Greg, though," he said, his tone coloured by amusement. "I can tell Daisy's going to be a handful to have for a mother-in-law."
The stray, intrusive thought popped up in Sherlock's mind of what kind of mother-in-law John thought Sherlock's mother would be, before he brutally squashed it. Where in the world had that come from?
***
An email arrived for Sherlock while they were driving back to London. John and Lestrade were in the front again, arguing eloquently and loudly on the merits of some classic rock band. Sherlock took one look at the sender of the email (sent to his work address: he'd looked up Sherlock's website) and put his phone back in his pocket, message unread. He could imagine what it was going to say, and he wasn't interested.
However, that didn't explain why it took him until they were back in London, John long since gone upstairs to bed, to delete it.
* * * * * *
Mini Stuffed Peppers
Source: http://www.instructables.com/id/goat-cheese-stuffed-peppers/
8-12 mini sweet peppers
1/2 cup goat cheese, softened at room temp - unflavored chevre is best!
herbs and spices of your choice
black pepper
salt
olive oil
Preheat oven to 400 F / 200 C.
Cut the peppers in half and pull out the membranes and the seeds. They won't add any spice - they'll just taste bitter!
Pop them on a baking sheet and drizzle over a little olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Mix them so every single pepper is nice and coated.
Mix your cheese and spices. I used several pinches of dried parsley and a couple pinches each of oregano and red pepper flakes with a few grinds of black pepper.
Add a small amount of cheese to each pepper - press it down with your fingers as you fill them so it gets in all the nooks and crannies.
Pop them in the oven for 15-20 minutes, or until the peppers start to soften and wrinkle. The cheese should be beginning to brown as well as the bottom of the peppers.
Eat them while hot!