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Before he met John Watson, there were a lot of things Sherlock Holmes didn’t do. If he were to make a list, it would include, among other things:
1. cleaning the flat
2. eating regularly
3. sleeping in a bed
4. having sex
5. cooking.
Thanks to John, Sherlock has been able to cross most of these things off his list. For the most part, Sherlock is fine with this change, especially the sex. (And, if he had to be honest, the eating regularly helped with having energy for the sex. And the sleeping in a bed just provided a convenient place for whenever the sex happened.)
But he really didn’t clean the flat at all, and he absolutely did not cook. Those were still strictly John’s purview.
Until now.
~~
The day had started like any other. Wake up in the comfortable bed, indulge in some sleepy kissing that morphed into sleepy lovemaking. If Sherlock was honest with himself, he would admit that, as much as he enjoyed the heart-pounding, gasping, frantic, animalistic fucking, his favourites were the early-morning shags. They just set the tone for the whole day.
With a final kiss, John had gotten up to make tea. And that’s when the whole day went to hell.
There had been a brief but vicious fight over Sherlock’s tendency to leave experiments (in this case, a human foot) out all night on the kitchen worktop. All of Sherlock’s explanations about ambient temperature had been disregarded, and things had swiftly deteriorated into an accusation of holding back the Cause of Science and letting a murderer go free (Sherlock) and a threat of moving into the upstairs bedroom for a week, and leaving a certain consulting detective to his own devices (John).
The fight had culminated with a broken mug and a slammed door, and Sherlock standing, stunned, in the kitchen, alone.
~~
After cleaning up the broken ceramic and checking on his foot, Sherlock sat in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. This seemed, he reflected, a little more serious than the usual way in which John expressed his frustration with him. He seemed genuinely angry, this time. But why? They had been flat-sharing for over a year, and together for about half of that; surely in that time, John had become accustomed to finding odd things lying about? What was different about the foot?
“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock!”
Sherlock frowned as Mrs. Hudson bustled into the sitting room. “Was that John I heard slamming out earlier? Dear me, have you two had a bit of a row?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Oh, dear me, Sherlock. What have you done?”
Sherlock fixed her with a glower, but Mrs. Hudson, unfazed, sat in John’s chair across from him. “Why do you assume this is my fault?”
“Because it usually is, dear, you know that.” Sherlock glowered deeper. Mrs. Hudson reached forward and patted his knee. “Now now, dear, I’m sure it can be solved. John loves you, you know. He can’t stay angry forever. You just have to be patient.” She rose to her feet. “You know, my dear nan used to say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Oh, speaking of which…” She slipped into the hall and returned, bearing a plate covered with wax paper. “I made you boys some Jammie Dodgers. Do try to save John one or two, won’t you?” She handed him the plate and patted his cheek. “Cheer up, dear. He won’t be angry for much longer, I’m sure.” And she closed the sitting room door behind her, leaving Sherlock alone with the biscuits and her homey wisdom.
Sherlock sat in his chair, idly munching his way through the plate of biscuits as he considered how to get back on John’s good side. The answer, when it came, was so stunning in its simplicity that he could not believe it. Setting the plate aside (and noticing with guilt that there were only four Jammie Dodgers left), he grabbed his laptop from the floor.
~~
Sherlock Holmes, despite today’s evidence to the contrary, knows John very, very well.
Which is why, when he was researching recipes on the Internet, he skipped over all the look-fancy-but-are-really-quite-simple things like risotto and puttanesca, and settled on something homey. Something comforting. Something that said “I’m sorry I was such a prat and I want you to know that you mean a lot to me.”
In other words, shepherd’s pie.
Sherlock had never had shepherd’s pie. Growing up as he did, in a big house with a cook and parents who dressed for dinner and had cocktails, meals were more likely to be roast lamb with parsnips or something equally as intimidating. Even at school, he had avoided the odd-looking food, preferring, on those nights, to stick to simple veg and bread. As an adult, he had lived on takeaway and whatever leftovers Mrs. Hudson sent up to him. But then he had met John.
John had grown up in a much simpler atmosphere, and his tastes reflected this. Sherlock recalled vividly when they had spent a good part of an evening in a pub, watching a house across the street, and when John had seen his favourite on the menu his whole face had lit up. When Sherlock told him to order, since they were likely to be a while, John was ecstatic, and tucked into his dinner with something near to glee. Through bites (“good, but not as good as my mum’s”), John had talked about how much he had missed his mum’s cooking while in the army, especially her shepherd’s pie. “There’s just no substitute for it, Sherlock,” he had explained dreamily. “It’s hot, it’s filling, it’s delicious…it’s a perfect meal!”
So when Sherlock sees the recipe, he’s certain he’s found the right thing. The photo just confirms it: a buttery, gold-brown potato crust covering a filling of minced meat, peas and carrots. Sherlock smiles and scans the list of ingredients. Most are easy to obtain, if not in the flat already; Mrs. Hudson has the rest, and is happy to share if it means a reconciliation with John. She gives Sherlock a package of minced lamb (“mind you don’t overcook it, dear, or it gets tough!”) and a tin of broth with a smile.
So Sherlock sets to work. He hasn’t got an apron, but a lab coat is a perfect substitute. Pouring a glass of wine and finding the Classical post on the radio, he reads the recipe and frowns.
Many of these words are unfamiliar in this context.
He sighs and clicks over to Google, where he types “how to sauté”.
A few videos later, Sherlock feels much more prepared. He carefully lights the burner on the cooktop (mindful of what happened after his last experiment; it had taken nearly a month for John’s eyebrows to come back in) and finds a pan. Then, with his laptop on the table, Lakmé on the radio and Merlot in his glass, he starts peeling and dicing.
Humming along, Sherlock slides into the peace and calm that comes over him when he experiments. Really, cooking is just like chemistry, isn’t it? He chops, stirs, and mashes with precision. The flat is heavy with the rich smells of caramelized onions and lamb.
By the end of The Flower Duet, everything is done and ready for assembly. Sherlock finds a casserole dish (its last use, he remembers, was as a resting place for a dozen severed fingers, laid out like madeleines; good thing John is so aggressive about disinfecting everything), lays his lamb and veg mixture in the bottom, and spreads out his mashed potatoes, leaving cross-hatch marks with a fork like the recipe suggests. He drops a few pats of butter on the top and slides the dish into the oven.
He’s just closing the oven door and setting the timer on his phone when he hears a throat clear behind him. Closing his eyes, he feels his lips turn up.
“How long have you been standing there?”
John enters the kitchen fully. He gets another wine glass out of the cupboard as he takes in the scene of Sherlock, in his lab coat, surrounded by pots and pans. Pots and pans which have food instead of something odd in them, for a change.
“Since the high part,” he says, tilting his head towards the radio. “Since you were mashing potatoes.” Putting his glass on the table, he touches the laptop. The screensaver winks out and the recipe comes on. “Sherlock… shepherd’s pie? For me?”
Sherlock stays facing the oven. “Because of the foot,” he offers in explanation.
John can’t help but stare at Sherlock’s back, at the space of white neck between the collar of the coat and the ends of his black curls. Any residual anger he felt from the morning slipped out through his toes, and all he feels now is warm. Warm and home.
Crossing the kitchen, he slips his hands through the slits in the sides of the lab coat and puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He rests his forehead on Sherlock’s back and when the detective speaks, he can feel the vibrations of the baritone voice down through his face and into his chest.
“It’s your favourite.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“Please don’t leave like that again.”
“I won’t.”
Sherlock rests his hands on the smaller ones at his waist. They stand like that through the end of the aria on the radio.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm?”
“Where is the foot now?”
“In a container in the fridge. I’m taking it to Molly in the morning.”
“Good.”
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm?”
“Is something burning?”
~~
It is a measure of the depth of Sherlock’s love for John that he put his experiment aside and made shepherd’s pie.
It is a measure of the depth of John’s love for Sherlock that he ate it.