Title: The Solstice Suite: Baking. Fandom: Sherlock (BBC) Pairing: Gen, UST if you tilt your head and squint. Rating: G, maybe PG if you're easily offended by baking and language. Word Count: 1700 Summary: Gonna try and do a fic a week based around the weeks leading up to Christmas for our two favourite boys. If you have any particular requests, go for it, I'll try to work it in. I have two solid ideas, but! My present to you- does it remain gen, or do they get together? What of Lestrade? This one is the first week of November. Notes/Warnings: Fluff, basically. Hopefully not too terrible.
He’d been woken up at four am.
“John, come quickly!” it sounded urgent, and John swung out of bed automatically, a leftover from his days as a medical student and army doctor.
“What? What is it?” he asked, expecting to see… Well, he didn’t know what. He blinked in the sudden light of the living room.
“Can you hold this for me? And stay still?” Sherlock thrust a couple wires at him. John took them blankly.
“I would have put them on the chair, but it was full… We really need more surfaces, you know,”
John was so tired he couldn’t really take it in. “Surfaces?”
“Hold still,” Sherlock busied himself for a few moments. “Right. Riiight. That’s fine.”
John yawned, jaw cracking. It was chilly in the flat, and he shivered, despite himself.
“I said don’t move, John. Listen, would you?” he didn’t look up.
“It’s four am, Sherlock.”
“I’m aware of the time, John,”
“I have work in four hours. And it’s freezing in here, why is it so cold?”
“Because I turned off the heat and its winter,” Sherlock said like it was obvious.
“Why did you do that?” John considered throwing the wires he was holding on the floor and going to bed.
“It was important for the experiment,” Sherlock sat back, looking pleased. “There, done. Give me those wires John, and put the kettle on. Mrs Hudson said she’d throw me out if I got her out of bed one more time,”
John opened his mouth. John shut his mouth, and resignedly went into the kitchen.
“Can I at least put the heat back on?” he asked over the noise of the kettle.
“Not unless you want to ruin all my work,” Sherlock called serenely. John looked at his watch. Four thirty. He’d have to be at work at eight. Up at six-thirty, out the door by seven-thirty. Going to bed now might just make him more tired. Maybe next time he’d just stay in bed. He came back out with two mugs. Sherlock took his with one hand, the other busily scribbling on an A4 pad. John sat in his accustomed chair and warmed his hands on his mug. It really was cold. He yawned again. This wasn’t the first time he’d been woken up in the middle of the night recently, and it was starting to get to him. He leaned back and shut his eyes…
And woke with a start. His tea was gone, and bright winter sunlight streamed through the window. He looked at his watch. Half-past seven. He swore, and ran upstairs, and came down five minutes later pulling a jumper over his head.
“What’s the rush?” Sherlock asked from the sofa. He was running his long fingers up and down the neck of his violin idly.
“I’m late for bloody work.”
“What?”
“I’m late for bloody work because my bloody stupid flatmate got me up at bloody stupid oh clock, and I overslept. Why can’t you do something normal at four am? Like surf the internet, or watch telly or read a book or- or- bake? Or anything, just anything that doesn’t involve me standing around in my pyjamas freezing to death at four am?” he ranted as he grabbed his keys and wallet and found a slice of toast and gulped some orange juice and ran out the door, banging it behind him.
It was a long day. There was an outbreak of flu, and John went through two boxes of the tissues on his desk. Small children, students, old people… they all got a sympathetic smile and some decongestants. Some parents had diagnosed their kids with Wikipedia, and were now better qualified than him to know what was wrong with their angel. It was a relief when five-thirty rolled round and he was allowed to leave. It was dark, and London was preparing for Christmas at the end of the month. Fairy lights decorated shop windows, and tinsel wound round signs claiming HUGE SAVINGS HERE NOW. John’s shoulder twinged, it always did in winter. Some early revellers brushed past him. The sky was full of orange-grey cloud, promising rain or snow. He stopped in a brightly-lit chippy for dinner for himself and Sherlock, and yawned, washed out by white neon light.
He let himself into 221B Baker Street without issue, thumping upstairs, nose streaming from the cold outside. He couldn’t smell much beside the sharp vinegar and hot fat rising from the chips… Was that burning? He opened the door with a hint of trepidation.
The flat did smell like burning, but also spices. The various experiments that usually littered the surfaces now littered the front room floor, and John stepped wincingly between them.
“Sherlock? Why have you-,” he stopped as he entered the kitchen. The skull, retrieved from its latest hiding place, grinned down from the top of the fridge like a bizarre parody of a heathen god. Flour, sugar, milk, egg-shells, packets of spices and random kitchen utensils took up the place previously taken up by the ongoing eyeball experiment, something green in a peanut-butter jar and several sundry items of lab equipment. Dirty bowls and spoons filled the sink. Curiously spotless in the middle of the apparent chaos was Sherlock’s laptop, with several piles of paper beside it. And standing in the middle of it all, with an apron wrapped waiter-style round his middle, flour in his hair and smudges on his shirt, was the world’s only consulting detective, standing over a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon in hand.
“You… Went shopping, then,” John said, carefully laying the chips down.
“Yes, it was most edifying…” Sherlock prodded at the mix in the bowl with the spoon.
John picked a question out of the many clamouring to be asked.
“You didn’t take the skull did you?”
“No, though it has proved invaluable company through the day. Also Tesco’s said they would ban me if I came in with it again.” Sherlock carefully measured out a few teaspoons of something.
“Oh. What are you making?” John asked cautiously, thinking he’s finally cracked. That’s it. What am I going to tell people?
“Biscuits. Mrs. Hudson said it was the best place to start. Do you know that the amount a cup holds can vary between types by as much as up to fifty grams? Not to mention our oven- a hundred and eighty degrees Celsius? More like a hundred and eighty-three, not to mention the variables when it comes to ratios. The recipes online are quite imprecise, but I believe a pinch of salt is-,”
“I think I get the gist. So where are these biscuits?”
“They’re not done yet. Recipes never take into account the molecular level. The failed ones are there though,” Sherlock pointed with the spoon and twisted his mouth in concentration. John stepped round his flatmate. On a tray by the sink were biscuits. Quite a few were burnt. Others looked underdone. One or two looked perfect, but were apparently not perfect enough. He picked one up and nibbled it, cautiously. It was pretty good. He tried not to be surprised.
“I’ve been making notes as I go of course, and I believe I’ve finally got it,” Sherlock carefully slid the baking tray into the oven and straightened up, setting a timer.
“Timers are another interesting thing. Our oven, for example, believes a second is roughly one hundred nanoseconds longer than it should be. And that ridiculous clockwork tomato you bought needs serious work. I had to borrow this from the lab,” he rubbed his nose, leaving another smear of flour and biscuit dough. “Did you get chips? Excellent. One of the interesting side-effects of this baking lark appears to be hunger. I really must investigate further,” he didn’t take off the apron, but swept past John to pick up the chips and sit down in the living room. John sighed. He looked up towards the heavens, hoping, as ever, that an answer to his housemate’s behaviour might lie above.
“Sherlock. How did you get flour on the ceiling?”
The next day, John took several Tupperware boxes of biscuits to work. There was enough for a plate in the waiting room, and elevenses several times over. Whatever his mad flatmate thought, they were good, and John was glad he had saved them from the bin. The kitchen was clear, and Sherlock tipped an armful of chemical bottles over the table. On top of the fridge, with the skull standing a cheerful watch, was a plate of perfect biscuits.
Post-Script
“John, come quickly!” it sounded urgent. John stumbled out of bed. It was four am.
“What? What is it?” he asked, expecting to see… Well, he didn’t know what.
The common area was well lit, and John blinked against the light. Sherlock loomed in front of him.
“Open,” he commanded. John opened his mouth, obediently. Sherlock brushed his lips lightly with long fingers as he popped a morsel into his mouth. “Close. Chew, slowly. Swallow.” John furrowed his brow. It was soft, warm, and decadently chocolate. “Well?” John blinked again and bit his lip where it still tingled from the other man’s touch, the lights were less blinding now, and he could clearly make out Sherlock. He was wearing an apron. There was flour on his shirt and what looked like a smudge of cocoa-powder striping his cheek.
“It’s… Good. Definitely- definitely...” He broke off, yawning. Sherlock put something else in his mouth and John made a muffled noise of annoyance and shut it quickly. It tasted the same, maybe a hint more cinnamon?
“It’s still not right,” Sherlock looked at the plate in his hand with distaste and frustration. There was flour on the carpet. As Sherlock made his way back to the kitchen to make a note, John noticed that he was leaving tracks of flour, white powder stuck to the bottom of his black socks. He sighed, swallowed the cake, which seemed fine to him, but what did he know? He went to put the kettle on. At least the rooms were warm. And the cake was good.
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The Solstice Suite
Nov. 1st, 2010 04:57 amFandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Gen, UST if you tilt your head and squint.
Rating: G, maybe PG if you're easily offended by baking and language.
Word Count: 1700
Summary: Gonna try and do a fic a week based around the weeks leading up to Christmas for our two favourite boys. If you have any particular requests, go for it, I'll try to work it in. I have two solid ideas, but! My present to you- does it remain gen, or do they get together? What of Lestrade? This one is the first week of November.
Notes/Warnings: Fluff, basically. Hopefully not too terrible.
He’d been woken up at four am.
“John, come quickly!” it sounded urgent, and John swung out of bed automatically, a leftover from his days as a medical student and army doctor.
“What? What is it?” he asked, expecting to see… Well, he didn’t know what. He blinked in the sudden light of the living room.
“Can you hold this for me? And stay still?” Sherlock thrust a couple wires at him. John took them blankly.
“I would have put them on the chair, but it was full… We really need more surfaces, you know,”
John was so tired he couldn’t really take it in. “Surfaces?”
“Hold still,” Sherlock busied himself for a few moments. “Right. Riiight. That’s fine.”
John yawned, jaw cracking. It was chilly in the flat, and he shivered, despite himself.
“I said don’t move, John. Listen, would you?” he didn’t look up.
“It’s four am, Sherlock.”
“I’m aware of the time, John,”
“I have work in four hours. And it’s freezing in here, why is it so cold?”
“Because I turned off the heat and its winter,” Sherlock said like it was obvious.
“Why did you do that?” John considered throwing the wires he was holding on the floor and going to bed.
“It was important for the experiment,” Sherlock sat back, looking pleased. “There, done. Give me those wires John, and put the kettle on. Mrs Hudson said she’d throw me out if I got her out of bed one more time,”
John opened his mouth. John shut his mouth, and resignedly went into the kitchen.
“Can I at least put the heat back on?” he asked over the noise of the kettle.
“Not unless you want to ruin all my work,” Sherlock called serenely. John looked at his watch. Four thirty. He’d have to be at work at eight. Up at six-thirty, out the door by seven-thirty. Going to bed now might just make him more tired. Maybe next time he’d just stay in bed. He came back out with two mugs. Sherlock took his with one hand, the other busily scribbling on an A4 pad. John sat in his accustomed chair and warmed his hands on his mug. It really was cold. He yawned again. This wasn’t the first time he’d been woken up in the middle of the night recently, and it was starting to get to him. He leaned back and shut his eyes…
And woke with a start. His tea was gone, and bright winter sunlight streamed through the window. He looked at his watch. Half-past seven. He swore, and ran upstairs, and came down five minutes later pulling a jumper over his head.
“What’s the rush?” Sherlock asked from the sofa. He was running his long fingers up and down the neck of his violin idly.
“I’m late for bloody work.”
“What?”
“I’m late for bloody work because my bloody stupid flatmate got me up at bloody stupid oh clock, and I overslept. Why can’t you do something normal at four am? Like surf the internet, or watch telly or read a book or- or- bake? Or anything, just anything that doesn’t involve me standing around in my pyjamas freezing to death at four am?” he ranted as he grabbed his keys and wallet and found a slice of toast and gulped some orange juice and ran out the door, banging it behind him.
It was a long day. There was an outbreak of flu, and John went through two boxes of the tissues on his desk. Small children, students, old people… they all got a sympathetic smile and some decongestants. Some parents had diagnosed their kids with Wikipedia, and were now better qualified than him to know what was wrong with their angel. It was a relief when five-thirty rolled round and he was allowed to leave. It was dark, and London was preparing for Christmas at the end of the month. Fairy lights decorated shop windows, and tinsel wound round signs claiming HUGE SAVINGS HERE NOW. John’s shoulder twinged, it always did in winter. Some early revellers brushed past him. The sky was full of orange-grey cloud, promising rain or snow. He stopped in a brightly-lit chippy for dinner for himself and Sherlock, and yawned, washed out by white neon light.
He let himself into 221B Baker Street without issue, thumping upstairs, nose streaming from the cold outside. He couldn’t smell much beside the sharp vinegar and hot fat rising from the chips… Was that burning? He opened the door with a hint of trepidation.
The flat did smell like burning, but also spices. The various experiments that usually littered the surfaces now littered the front room floor, and John stepped wincingly between them.
“Sherlock? Why have you-,” he stopped as he entered the kitchen. The skull, retrieved from its latest hiding place, grinned down from the top of the fridge like a bizarre parody of a heathen god. Flour, sugar, milk, egg-shells, packets of spices and random kitchen utensils took up the place previously taken up by the ongoing eyeball experiment, something green in a peanut-butter jar and several sundry items of lab equipment. Dirty bowls and spoons filled the sink. Curiously spotless in the middle of the apparent chaos was Sherlock’s laptop, with several piles of paper beside it. And standing in the middle of it all, with an apron wrapped waiter-style round his middle, flour in his hair and smudges on his shirt, was the world’s only consulting detective, standing over a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon in hand.
“You… Went shopping, then,” John said, carefully laying the chips down.
“Yes, it was most edifying…” Sherlock prodded at the mix in the bowl with the spoon.
John picked a question out of the many clamouring to be asked.
“You didn’t take the skull did you?”
“No, though it has proved invaluable company through the day. Also Tesco’s said they would ban me if I came in with it again.” Sherlock carefully measured out a few teaspoons of something.
“Oh. What are you making?” John asked cautiously, thinking he’s finally cracked. That’s it. What am I going to tell people?
“Biscuits. Mrs. Hudson said it was the best place to start. Do you know that the amount a cup holds can vary between types by as much as up to fifty grams? Not to mention our oven- a hundred and eighty degrees Celsius? More like a hundred and eighty-three, not to mention the variables when it comes to ratios. The recipes online are quite imprecise, but I believe a pinch of salt is-,”
“I think I get the gist. So where are these biscuits?”
“They’re not done yet. Recipes never take into account the molecular level. The failed ones are there though,” Sherlock pointed with the spoon and twisted his mouth in concentration. John stepped round his flatmate. On a tray by the sink were biscuits. Quite a few were burnt. Others looked underdone. One or two looked perfect, but were apparently not perfect enough. He picked one up and nibbled it, cautiously. It was pretty good. He tried not to be surprised.
“I’ve been making notes as I go of course, and I believe I’ve finally got it,” Sherlock carefully slid the baking tray into the oven and straightened up, setting a timer.
“Timers are another interesting thing. Our oven, for example, believes a second is roughly one hundred nanoseconds longer than it should be. And that ridiculous clockwork tomato you bought needs serious work. I had to borrow this from the lab,” he rubbed his nose, leaving another smear of flour and biscuit dough. “Did you get chips? Excellent. One of the interesting side-effects of this baking lark appears to be hunger. I really must investigate further,” he didn’t take off the apron, but swept past John to pick up the chips and sit down in the living room. John sighed. He looked up towards the heavens, hoping, as ever, that an answer to his housemate’s behaviour might lie above.
“Sherlock. How did you get flour on the ceiling?”
The next day, John took several Tupperware boxes of biscuits to work. There was enough for a plate in the waiting room, and elevenses several times over. Whatever his mad flatmate thought, they were good, and John was glad he had saved them from the bin. The kitchen was clear, and Sherlock tipped an armful of chemical bottles over the table. On top of the fridge, with the skull standing a cheerful watch, was a plate of perfect biscuits.
Post-Script
“John, come quickly!” it sounded urgent. John stumbled out of bed. It was four am.
“What? What is it?” he asked, expecting to see… Well, he didn’t know what.
The common area was well lit, and John blinked against the light. Sherlock loomed in front of him.
“Open,” he commanded. John opened his mouth, obediently. Sherlock brushed his lips lightly with long fingers as he popped a morsel into his mouth. “Close. Chew, slowly. Swallow.” John furrowed his brow. It was soft, warm, and decadently chocolate. “Well?” John blinked again and bit his lip where it still tingled from the other man’s touch, the lights were less blinding now, and he could clearly make out Sherlock. He was wearing an apron. There was flour on his shirt and what looked like a smudge of cocoa-powder striping his cheek.
“It’s… Good. Definitely- definitely...” He broke off, yawning. Sherlock put something else in his mouth and John made a muffled noise of annoyance and shut it quickly. It tasted the same, maybe a hint more cinnamon?
“It’s still not right,” Sherlock looked at the plate in his hand with distaste and frustration. There was flour on the carpet. As Sherlock made his way back to the kitchen to make a note, John noticed that he was leaving tracks of flour, white powder stuck to the bottom of his black socks. He sighed, swallowed the cake, which seemed fine to him, but what did he know? He went to put the kettle on. At least the rooms were warm. And the cake was good.