Epicure, PG-13
Why am I like this?!
Title: Epicure
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings, kinks & contents: Food, unresolved sexual tension
Length: 1,656
Author's Note: Uh, nothing happens in this fic, it's basically 1,600 words of Sherlock thinking about John eating. This was inspired by conversation with kikislasha, in which we agreed that we would both read an entire story about John therapeutically cooking things. Turns out there's tons of epic Sherlock food fic, but here's one more. Also, please note that Sherlock's opinions about gourmands are not necessarily my own. (Sorry, Heston Blumenthal!) No ownership implied, no offense intended. Please do let me know if you enjoy.
Summary: While Sherlock doesn’t particularly care what he eats, food matters to John, and therefore - like all things that matter to John - it is also of interest to Sherlock.
*
Food is important to John. Sherlock has noticed this. He doesn’t entirely understand the appeal, as in his experience food is largely overrated and tremendously tedious. He’s never known agony like waiting for a kettle to boil, and the eating itself, endless masticating, one bite after another, is torture. He can count on one hand the number of meals he hasn’t wished were over almost as soon as they began, and most of those are meals he’s shared with John. No, Sherlock’s interest in food is limited to some research on the fermentation of alcohol and a study of the industrial production of xylitol chewing gum (case-related, of course). But the fact remains that, while Sherlock doesn’t particularly care what he eats, food matters to John, and therefore - like all things that matter to John - it is also of interest to Sherlock.
Tea, of course, is the most obvious exponent of John’s relationship to food. He makes it almost compulsively, and it seems a sort of talisman for him, a charm (for or against what, Sherlock’s not quite sure). When they’re working on a case: tea. When John is tired the morning after a case: tea. When they quarrel: tea. When they settle a quarrel: tea. When Sherlock is ill or injured: tea. Sunday mornings over the paper: tea. It seems that in John’s estimation there is no situation in which tea is not appropriate, and on this point Sherlock can’t quite disagree. And, after all, the tea John makes is quite good, he must admit, although he’s never been able to determine what, exactly, it is that sets it apart.
Naturally, tea is not the end of John’s preoccupation with food. He eats with great vigor, demonstrating an interest in what’s on his plate that Sherlock has very rarely felt about anything edible. John digs into palak paneer with the same gusto that Sherlock devotes to particularly grisly murders, and Sherlock can’t help wondering what it would be like, to eat not just for sustenance, but for the sheer delight John obviously experiences over a meal. Sometimes his enjoyment is so extreme that his eyelids flutter closed, and Sherlock always has the feeling that he ought to avert his eyes, as if he’s witnessing some intimate indulgence, but he never can bring himself to look away.
Despite his enthusiasm, however, John’s not obvious about his love of food, the way people who declare themselves to be “foodies” are. There are no gourmet magazines lying around the flat, no outrageously overpriced organic ingredients cluttering up the fridge. Nor does he go in for all that freeze-dried, blow-torched haute cuisine that seems to be so popular these days. No molecular gastronomy for John Watson. Sherlock is privately relieved. All that sensationalist nonsense about liquefied bacon rolls is a disgrace to the name of chemistry.
Thankfully, John is as unpretentious in this as he is in everything else. He knows what he likes and has the good sense not to be ashamed of it, tending to favor simple, well-made food, dishes that he finds comforting in one way or another.
Sherlock isn’t always sure what the connection is, but he knows the connection exists. Why, for instance, does John sometimes suck on boiled sweets when he’s nervous? Why the plain fruit kind and not mint humbugs or sherbet lemons? Is it the flavor, or the feel of it, something to grit between his teeth? Possibly it’s indicative of an oral fixation. What is it they say about crushing ice with the teeth? Sexual frustration? Is John sexually frustrated? Possibly, considering his recently dating history, but if so, does gnashing a sweet between his teeth really help? Sherlock has considered asking, but something always stops him. There are some lines he knows John would rather he didn’t cross, and so Sherlock sticks to observation rather than direction questioning.
Though for the most part he favors comfort food and straightforward, hearty fare, John is educated and well traveled, and his eating habits reflect that. One of his favorite places to take his dates is a little Ethiopian restaurant near King’s Cross, and he knows how to order decent wine on a limited budget. Sherlock has interrupted enough of John’s dates to know.
In fact, John is quite catholic in his tastes. “I’ll try anything once,” he says gamely when Angelo presents him with cuttlefish linguine one evening (John judges it to be “quite good”). And on the occasion that they crash a Christmas party hosted by the Russian mafia, John politely eats an entire helping of some truly vile-looking pork aspic, and even accepts an extra dollop of horseradish to top it off before they are found out and chased from the establishment. Sherlock finds this openness to experimentation intriguing. In many ways, John is quite conservative, but he also craves adventure. Perhaps trying new dishes is one way to exorcise that restlessness, just as his friendship with Sherlock alleviates the crushing tedium of ordinary life. If so, does that curiosity apply to other avenues of life, or only detection and food? Sherlock is sorely tempted to find out.
He hasn’t yet determined where this interest of John’s comes from. John doesn’t appear to have any strong childhood associations with food preparation or eating: he’s never characterized either of his parents as particularly exceptional cooks (Sherlock understands that rhapsodizing about Mother’s jam roly-poly is a conventional form of nostalgia), nor can Sherlock recall him mentioning any fond childhood memories of family meals (again, typical: family bonding around the shared table, generally considered to be pleasant).
He wonders whether John’s appreciation of good food has its roots in his time in the army. He can see how, after having spent a significant portion of his adult life subsisting on ORPs warmed up with exothermic heaters, John might come to crave a good home cooked meal.
Surprisingly, John is a more than adequate chef. He has the repertoire of a man used to living cheaply on his own, filling food made from inexpensive ingredients: pasta, sandwiches (tomato or Marmite most commonly), sausages. When he cooks from scratch, he tends to make the same several dishes over and over again: risotto, Welsh rarebit, omelets. Occasionally he’ll attempt a roast chicken when he’s feeling ambitious on particularly uneventful Sunday afternoons.
But John keeps a few culinary tricks up his sleeves, as well: eggs Benedict to impress his dates on nights he manages to sleep over (Sherlock knows because John has returned home on two such occasions with hollandaise sauce on the sleeve of his rumpled shirt), and a quiche Lorraine good enough that Mrs. Hudson begs him for the recipe. Even Sherlock can appreciate his basil-lemon pesto.
He seems to enjoy cooking. It might appear paradoxical that a soldier and confirmed bachelor like John should feel at home in such a domestic sphere, but in the kitchen, John is in his element. Sherlock thinks he understands this: there is a method to cooking, an order that clearly appeals to him, and John is ever so good at following directions.
Sherlock finds he likes watching John in the kitchen. He has masterful control over his tools, an economical dexterity that Sherlock has come to recognize as something uniquely John. It should come as no surprise, considering his superlative command of his service revolver, but somehow it’s a pleasant surprise every time John successfully flips an omelet or debones a chicken. His concentration, too, is a wonder to behold. Sometimes when he’s deep in the midst of preparing a meal, Sherlock observes the tip of John’s tongue stuck between his lips, a strangely childlike gesture that Sherlock finds extremely distracting.
And then there is the fact that, when John cooks, he is often cooking for Sherlock. He’s an insufferable nag about Sherlock’s health - “At least drink some orange juice,” he’s snapped more than once when Sherlock tries to follow a lead on an empty stomach. He likes to warn that Sherlock will go into hypoglycemic shock in the middle of a case one day, if he doesn’t succumb to scurvy first. It’s trying, sometimes, submitting to John’s melodramatic concern, when they both know that he’s perfectly fine. But Sherlock doesn’t mind nearly as much as he suspects he should - certainly not as much as he would if it were someone else. He knows John has only the best intentions, and even when the attention is irritating, it means John is thinking of him.
Sometimes, it’s all John can offer. When he’s up all night hitting dead end after dead end in his research, John is there with a cup of tea and a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When he catches cold during a particularly frigid stakeout, John makes him a bracing concoction of hot ginger, lemon, and honey that does actually seem to speed along his recovery. And after long and particularly grueling cases, John will force him to sit at the kitchen table and eat a full breakfast, watching intently until he clears his plate.
It’s strange, really, having someone look after him that way. Sherlock’s not used to being cared for, and that’s what all John’s nagging and cajoling is, ultimately: care. Perhaps that’s what makes his tea so superior - although, no, that’s nonsensical, no way for chemical impulses in the brain (emotions) to affect the outcome of a brewing teabag. And yet, Sherlock understands what it means to receive a meal from John. He’s become a connoisseur of these small gestures, an epicure. He savors them. They are neither of them very good at expressing their feelings, but Sherlock is happy to accept the occasional sandwich as a token of John’s regard. He may not always eat it, but he knows that those cups of tea and boxes of takeaway may be the closest John can come to telling Sherlock how much he means to him. And for that, they are important.
Title: Epicure
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings, kinks & contents: Food, unresolved sexual tension
Length: 1,656
Author's Note: Uh, nothing happens in this fic, it's basically 1,600 words of Sherlock thinking about John eating. This was inspired by conversation with kikislasha, in which we agreed that we would both read an entire story about John therapeutically cooking things. Turns out there's tons of epic Sherlock food fic, but here's one more. Also, please note that Sherlock's opinions about gourmands are not necessarily my own. (Sorry, Heston Blumenthal!) No ownership implied, no offense intended. Please do let me know if you enjoy.
Summary: While Sherlock doesn’t particularly care what he eats, food matters to John, and therefore - like all things that matter to John - it is also of interest to Sherlock.
*
Food is important to John. Sherlock has noticed this. He doesn’t entirely understand the appeal, as in his experience food is largely overrated and tremendously tedious. He’s never known agony like waiting for a kettle to boil, and the eating itself, endless masticating, one bite after another, is torture. He can count on one hand the number of meals he hasn’t wished were over almost as soon as they began, and most of those are meals he’s shared with John. No, Sherlock’s interest in food is limited to some research on the fermentation of alcohol and a study of the industrial production of xylitol chewing gum (case-related, of course). But the fact remains that, while Sherlock doesn’t particularly care what he eats, food matters to John, and therefore - like all things that matter to John - it is also of interest to Sherlock.
Tea, of course, is the most obvious exponent of John’s relationship to food. He makes it almost compulsively, and it seems a sort of talisman for him, a charm (for or against what, Sherlock’s not quite sure). When they’re working on a case: tea. When John is tired the morning after a case: tea. When they quarrel: tea. When they settle a quarrel: tea. When Sherlock is ill or injured: tea. Sunday mornings over the paper: tea. It seems that in John’s estimation there is no situation in which tea is not appropriate, and on this point Sherlock can’t quite disagree. And, after all, the tea John makes is quite good, he must admit, although he’s never been able to determine what, exactly, it is that sets it apart.
Naturally, tea is not the end of John’s preoccupation with food. He eats with great vigor, demonstrating an interest in what’s on his plate that Sherlock has very rarely felt about anything edible. John digs into palak paneer with the same gusto that Sherlock devotes to particularly grisly murders, and Sherlock can’t help wondering what it would be like, to eat not just for sustenance, but for the sheer delight John obviously experiences over a meal. Sometimes his enjoyment is so extreme that his eyelids flutter closed, and Sherlock always has the feeling that he ought to avert his eyes, as if he’s witnessing some intimate indulgence, but he never can bring himself to look away.
Despite his enthusiasm, however, John’s not obvious about his love of food, the way people who declare themselves to be “foodies” are. There are no gourmet magazines lying around the flat, no outrageously overpriced organic ingredients cluttering up the fridge. Nor does he go in for all that freeze-dried, blow-torched haute cuisine that seems to be so popular these days. No molecular gastronomy for John Watson. Sherlock is privately relieved. All that sensationalist nonsense about liquefied bacon rolls is a disgrace to the name of chemistry.
Thankfully, John is as unpretentious in this as he is in everything else. He knows what he likes and has the good sense not to be ashamed of it, tending to favor simple, well-made food, dishes that he finds comforting in one way or another.
Sherlock isn’t always sure what the connection is, but he knows the connection exists. Why, for instance, does John sometimes suck on boiled sweets when he’s nervous? Why the plain fruit kind and not mint humbugs or sherbet lemons? Is it the flavor, or the feel of it, something to grit between his teeth? Possibly it’s indicative of an oral fixation. What is it they say about crushing ice with the teeth? Sexual frustration? Is John sexually frustrated? Possibly, considering his recently dating history, but if so, does gnashing a sweet between his teeth really help? Sherlock has considered asking, but something always stops him. There are some lines he knows John would rather he didn’t cross, and so Sherlock sticks to observation rather than direction questioning.
Though for the most part he favors comfort food and straightforward, hearty fare, John is educated and well traveled, and his eating habits reflect that. One of his favorite places to take his dates is a little Ethiopian restaurant near King’s Cross, and he knows how to order decent wine on a limited budget. Sherlock has interrupted enough of John’s dates to know.
In fact, John is quite catholic in his tastes. “I’ll try anything once,” he says gamely when Angelo presents him with cuttlefish linguine one evening (John judges it to be “quite good”). And on the occasion that they crash a Christmas party hosted by the Russian mafia, John politely eats an entire helping of some truly vile-looking pork aspic, and even accepts an extra dollop of horseradish to top it off before they are found out and chased from the establishment. Sherlock finds this openness to experimentation intriguing. In many ways, John is quite conservative, but he also craves adventure. Perhaps trying new dishes is one way to exorcise that restlessness, just as his friendship with Sherlock alleviates the crushing tedium of ordinary life. If so, does that curiosity apply to other avenues of life, or only detection and food? Sherlock is sorely tempted to find out.
He hasn’t yet determined where this interest of John’s comes from. John doesn’t appear to have any strong childhood associations with food preparation or eating: he’s never characterized either of his parents as particularly exceptional cooks (Sherlock understands that rhapsodizing about Mother’s jam roly-poly is a conventional form of nostalgia), nor can Sherlock recall him mentioning any fond childhood memories of family meals (again, typical: family bonding around the shared table, generally considered to be pleasant).
He wonders whether John’s appreciation of good food has its roots in his time in the army. He can see how, after having spent a significant portion of his adult life subsisting on ORPs warmed up with exothermic heaters, John might come to crave a good home cooked meal.
Surprisingly, John is a more than adequate chef. He has the repertoire of a man used to living cheaply on his own, filling food made from inexpensive ingredients: pasta, sandwiches (tomato or Marmite most commonly), sausages. When he cooks from scratch, he tends to make the same several dishes over and over again: risotto, Welsh rarebit, omelets. Occasionally he’ll attempt a roast chicken when he’s feeling ambitious on particularly uneventful Sunday afternoons.
But John keeps a few culinary tricks up his sleeves, as well: eggs Benedict to impress his dates on nights he manages to sleep over (Sherlock knows because John has returned home on two such occasions with hollandaise sauce on the sleeve of his rumpled shirt), and a quiche Lorraine good enough that Mrs. Hudson begs him for the recipe. Even Sherlock can appreciate his basil-lemon pesto.
He seems to enjoy cooking. It might appear paradoxical that a soldier and confirmed bachelor like John should feel at home in such a domestic sphere, but in the kitchen, John is in his element. Sherlock thinks he understands this: there is a method to cooking, an order that clearly appeals to him, and John is ever so good at following directions.
Sherlock finds he likes watching John in the kitchen. He has masterful control over his tools, an economical dexterity that Sherlock has come to recognize as something uniquely John. It should come as no surprise, considering his superlative command of his service revolver, but somehow it’s a pleasant surprise every time John successfully flips an omelet or debones a chicken. His concentration, too, is a wonder to behold. Sometimes when he’s deep in the midst of preparing a meal, Sherlock observes the tip of John’s tongue stuck between his lips, a strangely childlike gesture that Sherlock finds extremely distracting.
And then there is the fact that, when John cooks, he is often cooking for Sherlock. He’s an insufferable nag about Sherlock’s health - “At least drink some orange juice,” he’s snapped more than once when Sherlock tries to follow a lead on an empty stomach. He likes to warn that Sherlock will go into hypoglycemic shock in the middle of a case one day, if he doesn’t succumb to scurvy first. It’s trying, sometimes, submitting to John’s melodramatic concern, when they both know that he’s perfectly fine. But Sherlock doesn’t mind nearly as much as he suspects he should - certainly not as much as he would if it were someone else. He knows John has only the best intentions, and even when the attention is irritating, it means John is thinking of him.
Sometimes, it’s all John can offer. When he’s up all night hitting dead end after dead end in his research, John is there with a cup of tea and a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When he catches cold during a particularly frigid stakeout, John makes him a bracing concoction of hot ginger, lemon, and honey that does actually seem to speed along his recovery. And after long and particularly grueling cases, John will force him to sit at the kitchen table and eat a full breakfast, watching intently until he clears his plate.
It’s strange, really, having someone look after him that way. Sherlock’s not used to being cared for, and that’s what all John’s nagging and cajoling is, ultimately: care. Perhaps that’s what makes his tea so superior - although, no, that’s nonsensical, no way for chemical impulses in the brain (emotions) to affect the outcome of a brewing teabag. And yet, Sherlock understands what it means to receive a meal from John. He’s become a connoisseur of these small gestures, an epicure. He savors them. They are neither of them very good at expressing their feelings, but Sherlock is happy to accept the occasional sandwich as a token of John’s regard. He may not always eat it, but he knows that those cups of tea and boxes of takeaway may be the closest John can come to telling Sherlock how much he means to him. And for that, they are important.