Work Text:
Sherlock looked at the alcohol covered fruit pieces. They definitely smelt of expensive brandy. (A gift from Mycroft last Christmas, so he'd used the whole bottle yesterday, when John wasn't looking.)
He'd been asked to help make the Christmas pudding, (Mrs Hudson's hip was giving her bother) and so with reluctance he had sent John off for the ingredients and committed the relevant page from the BBC website to his short term memory bank.
The recipe didn't look too difficult, and in his mind with a bit of tweaking would be a fabulous flaming masterpiece in the end.
He finished greasing the large pudding basin, and brought the large mixing bowl, whisk and ingredients forward.
The 'creamed butter' took ages - much longer than the five minutes the recipe claimed - and he felt as if his arm was going to fall off by the time it reached the right 'fluffy' consistency. Perhaps he should actually have used the electric eggbeater that'd been suggested.
Huffing when he recalled the rest of the recipe included more whisking he plugged in the device and flicked the switch. It whirled into action and splattered him with the mixed butter.
Lunging over he turned off the appliance and scowled when the metal whisk fell into his carefully fluffed butter.
Where was John when he needed him? Oh, of course at work.
Removing the whisk from the mixture he threw it into the basin and lifted the hand-held whisk again to continue manually.
The eggs where cracked into the batter with surprising dexterity and he only had to scoop two eggshells out. Then the residue alcohol (about two litres) and soaked fruits were added and stirred into the bowl.
Next came the flour and breadcrumbs, his arm was screaming at him to stop but he was spattered with butter and almost finished so he persevered.
Scattering in a teaspoon of nutmeg and cinnamon, and a splash more brandy for luck.
He was just turning away from the steaming pudding (awkwardly packed) when John came home. His doctor took one look at him and burst into giggles.
"Did the eggbeater attack you?"
"No, it was faulty." Sherlock huffed loudly.
John, scooped a bit of the sweetened butter from his nose onto his finger; swirling his tongue around it, he hummed, "delicious, Sher."
The detective smiled and leaned down for a proper kiss when all of a sudden there was a low boom from the kitchen.
Whipping his head up he looked at the small fire on the stove.
"Sherlock!" John yelled rushing over to beat away the minor inferno.
The detective went red, "I might have added too much brandy."