Fanfic - Save the Hazelnut [Sherlock BBC: John]
Title: Save the Hazelnut
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): John
Warning(s): Spoilers for S2, especially 2x03 and 2x01.
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. In which miracles take time, and there is a particularly delicious explanation for the Vatican cameos.
Save the Hazelnut
Miracles take time. Will you wait?
John stares at the text message for a long time. Then he puts his phone away, goes to the kitchen, and makes a cup of tea. There’s nothing on the telly, but he watches it anyway. He finishes the tea, checks his emails, and eventually goes to make dinner. It doesn’t taste very good. It hasn’t for about a month now, but John suspects that the taste will come back sooner or later. His body likes playing tricks on him, he knows this.
Miracles take time.
The text had appeared on his phone as he rode home from the cemetery. From Sherlock’s grave, where John had shed his first tears since That Day, and asked Sherlock for one last miracle. Don’t be dead, he’d told the black marble. Stop being dead.
Someone is messing with John’s head, and John doesn’t know who he’d prefer it to be.
He goes to sleep. The next morning, there’s a new message on his phone. Miracle, Latin ‘miraculum’ from ‘mirari’ - ‘to wonder.’
John wonders. Then he stops. What good can it possibly do? He saw Sherlock fall, saw him hit the ground, touched his dead body and pulseless wrist. He saw - John stops and thinks that over again. He saw Sherlock fall. He saw… Sherlock on the ground. He didn’t see him hit.
Doesn’t mean anything. He needs to trust the evidence of his senses. There had been no pulse. Sherlock had been dead.
John goes about his daily routine. It’s all very mundane. He feels like he’s just back from Afghanistan; it’s exactly the same pit of numbness he’d been trying to claw his way out of then. Trying, and failing. It had taken Sherlock to throw a rope down to him. Now, though, there’s no one left topside to help him out.
The third message arrives a week later. A miracle is wondrous because its cause is hidden, and the expected effect is not what actually occurs.
John presses ‘delete.’ His phone asks him if he’s sure. He presses ‘no.’
This is not good for his nerves. Or possibly, it’s very good for them. It’s the first time since That Day that a meal tastes like it’s supposed to. John relishes every bit of his utterly ordinary, slightly-too-greasy fish and chips.
Mycroft assures John that he’s working on clearing Sherlock’s name. John thinks that perhaps he should have a hand in this as well, but he doesn’t know what he could possibly do on his own to break the intricate web of lies Moriarty has spun. And that’s an image, there. Moriarty the spider, sitting in the centre of his web and waiting while Sherlock struggled in the sticky threads. John shakes the picture out of his head. He’s been having increasingly fanciful thoughts lately.
Eventually, Mycroft does manage to do what he promises. It’s an empty gesture, and John thinks that it probably does nothing to alleviate the guilt he no doubt feels. Well. Probably feels. He honestly can’t tell, with Mycroft.
It is a month after Sherlock’s good name is restored that the next message arrives. Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep.
John hasn’t been to church in a long time, but it doesn’t take a Bible scholar to recognise the quote. Before he can think things through, he pecks out a reply and sends it. Are you seriously comparing yourself to Jesus?
No, comes the instant reply. That’s your role.
There’s something vaguely blasphemous about that. John tries very hard to forget the message. It works for all of two hours. Then he replies, Does that mean I have to do something?
The reply takes its own sweet time coming. When he gets it, John sits in his room and cries in a frankly embarrassing manner, all stuffy nose and blotchy cheeks and wailing noises.
Vatican cameos. Save the hazelnut.
It’s a stupid thing. It’s an utterly stupid thing, but the only people who know about it are Sherlock and John. And possibly Irene Adler, but she wouldn’t have known the significance, and she wouldn’t have added the second line, and anyway she’s dead. Maybe dead. Possibly dead. John isn’t sure he trusts Mycroft anymore. More to the point, he’s not sure he trusts Sherlock’s response to Irene’s supposed relocation. And Mycroft had said it himself, hadn’t he? It would have taken Sherlock to save her, and hide the fact from Mycroft.
So if - if it’s true, Sherlock had had practice in faking a death already. If John is to presume that, and presume that Mycroft is unaware of Irene Adler’s continued good health, then that would mean that a) Sherlock has skill sets that John had been previously unaware of, and they would have proven very useful indeed, b) Sherlock has a wider range of contacts than John had suspected, and some of those have probably been lying to John’s face as they offered their condolences, and c) Sherlock is a bloody bastard.
John tries to remember when the topic of Vatican cameos had come up. It would have been… nearly a year ago. It had been a case of some sort, something too important for John to know the details of. Sherlock had been quite despondent about that. He’d evidently been extremely clever on it, and not being able to boast about it had sent him into a two-week sulk.
By the end of the first week, John had been driven downstairs to hide in Mrs Hudson’s apartment. In exchange for the temporary refuge, she’d pressed him into service as a baker’s assistant. He’d wound up helping her with the day’s baking for Speedy’s, and they’d even had enough time to whip up some extra gingerbread biscuits. On a lark, they’d cut them into ovals and decorated them with Sherlock-appropriate images - a gun, a magnifying glass and, in a fit of inspiration, an anatomically-correct heart. A lot of red and blue icing had been involved.
He and Mrs Hudson had polished off the lot between them, and John had been in a much better mood when he returned upstairs. The next day, they’d made hazelnut biscuits and decorated them the same way. The day after it had been… what had it been? Almond? Some nut or other. By the end of the week, they’d mastered the art of icing guns and brains onto cookies. Sherlock’s sulk had been showing signs of coming to an end, so they’d baked a fresh batch for him and John had brought it up as a peace offering.
The singed walls of the kitchen (just what had Sherlock been up to?) had undoubtedly been grateful for the Great Biscuit Intervention.
Sherlock had gobbled down all the hazelnut biscuits. He might possibly have snapped at John’s hands when John had very tentatively reached for one. John had wisely retreated and watched in horrified fascination as Sherlock had methodically demolished a heart, one ventricle at a time.
“These are really much more attractive cameos than the ones I was tasked to find,” Sherlock had said.
“Also, tastier,” John had said.
Sherlock had grinned at him. “Also, less likely to get someone killed in the retrieving of them.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” John had said, glancing ruefully at his hand. It had possibly had bite-marks in it. Then his attention had snapped back to Sherlock. “Hang on - killed?”
“Not me,” Sherlock had said. “Obviously. But the old hiding place had been rigged to kill the last person to find them, and so I had to lie low for a while and work out not only the new place, but also the new trap.”
John had pondered that while Sherlock had happily worked his way through the magazine on an icing rifle. “You realise,” he’d finally said, “that every time I think of cameos now, I’m going to think of unexpected traps exploding in your face.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock had said. “Shall we use that as a code word, then? Cameos. No, not quite. Vatican cameos, that will do. We do seem to always run into trouble, and really, John, you get captured far too often.”
“I do it just to liven up your day,” John had said. “And how on earth would a code word be useful?”
“Well,” Sherlock had said. “Instead of tipping off your captors by saying ‘Duck, John, for I am about to put a bullet through the head of the man holding you hostage,’ I shall simply say ‘Vatican cameos’ and you will know to drop to the ground.”
“I would very much like to hear you actually say that to a guy with a gun,” John had said.
“Alternatively, instead of saying ‘Weeks of undercover work and extreme patience on my part will be compromised if you acknowledge me now, so don’t you dare call my name out in front of my target,’ I shall say, ‘Have you seen those Vatican cameos? They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ and you will know to walk away.”
“Is this something that actually happened?” John had asked in interest.
Sherlock’s face had spoken volumes. John had offered him a biscuit inscribed with a smiley face, and the word ‘Anderson’ helpfully spelling out the owner of the face. Sherlock had bitten its forehead off with vicious relish.
No one else had known about their conversation. John certainly hadn’t expected anything to have come of it, until that day in Irene Adler’s house. And no one who’d been there would have known the significance. Or about the perils of getting between Sherlock and a particularly delicious batch of hazelnut biscuits.
Vatican cameos.
John blows his nose and washes his face. Then he goes down to Mrs Hudson’s apartment. It’s been a while since he’s had the chance to really speak to her. Perhaps they can catch up over some baking.
~fin
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): John
Warning(s): Spoilers for S2, especially 2x03 and 2x01.
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. In which miracles take time, and there is a particularly delicious explanation for the Vatican cameos.
Save the Hazelnut
Miracles take time. Will you wait?
John stares at the text message for a long time. Then he puts his phone away, goes to the kitchen, and makes a cup of tea. There’s nothing on the telly, but he watches it anyway. He finishes the tea, checks his emails, and eventually goes to make dinner. It doesn’t taste very good. It hasn’t for about a month now, but John suspects that the taste will come back sooner or later. His body likes playing tricks on him, he knows this.
Miracles take time.
The text had appeared on his phone as he rode home from the cemetery. From Sherlock’s grave, where John had shed his first tears since That Day, and asked Sherlock for one last miracle. Don’t be dead, he’d told the black marble. Stop being dead.
Someone is messing with John’s head, and John doesn’t know who he’d prefer it to be.
He goes to sleep. The next morning, there’s a new message on his phone. Miracle, Latin ‘miraculum’ from ‘mirari’ - ‘to wonder.’
John wonders. Then he stops. What good can it possibly do? He saw Sherlock fall, saw him hit the ground, touched his dead body and pulseless wrist. He saw - John stops and thinks that over again. He saw Sherlock fall. He saw… Sherlock on the ground. He didn’t see him hit.
Doesn’t mean anything. He needs to trust the evidence of his senses. There had been no pulse. Sherlock had been dead.
John goes about his daily routine. It’s all very mundane. He feels like he’s just back from Afghanistan; it’s exactly the same pit of numbness he’d been trying to claw his way out of then. Trying, and failing. It had taken Sherlock to throw a rope down to him. Now, though, there’s no one left topside to help him out.
The third message arrives a week later. A miracle is wondrous because its cause is hidden, and the expected effect is not what actually occurs.
John presses ‘delete.’ His phone asks him if he’s sure. He presses ‘no.’
This is not good for his nerves. Or possibly, it’s very good for them. It’s the first time since That Day that a meal tastes like it’s supposed to. John relishes every bit of his utterly ordinary, slightly-too-greasy fish and chips.
Mycroft assures John that he’s working on clearing Sherlock’s name. John thinks that perhaps he should have a hand in this as well, but he doesn’t know what he could possibly do on his own to break the intricate web of lies Moriarty has spun. And that’s an image, there. Moriarty the spider, sitting in the centre of his web and waiting while Sherlock struggled in the sticky threads. John shakes the picture out of his head. He’s been having increasingly fanciful thoughts lately.
Eventually, Mycroft does manage to do what he promises. It’s an empty gesture, and John thinks that it probably does nothing to alleviate the guilt he no doubt feels. Well. Probably feels. He honestly can’t tell, with Mycroft.
It is a month after Sherlock’s good name is restored that the next message arrives. Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep.
John hasn’t been to church in a long time, but it doesn’t take a Bible scholar to recognise the quote. Before he can think things through, he pecks out a reply and sends it. Are you seriously comparing yourself to Jesus?
No, comes the instant reply. That’s your role.
There’s something vaguely blasphemous about that. John tries very hard to forget the message. It works for all of two hours. Then he replies, Does that mean I have to do something?
The reply takes its own sweet time coming. When he gets it, John sits in his room and cries in a frankly embarrassing manner, all stuffy nose and blotchy cheeks and wailing noises.
Vatican cameos. Save the hazelnut.
It’s a stupid thing. It’s an utterly stupid thing, but the only people who know about it are Sherlock and John. And possibly Irene Adler, but she wouldn’t have known the significance, and she wouldn’t have added the second line, and anyway she’s dead. Maybe dead. Possibly dead. John isn’t sure he trusts Mycroft anymore. More to the point, he’s not sure he trusts Sherlock’s response to Irene’s supposed relocation. And Mycroft had said it himself, hadn’t he? It would have taken Sherlock to save her, and hide the fact from Mycroft.
So if - if it’s true, Sherlock had had practice in faking a death already. If John is to presume that, and presume that Mycroft is unaware of Irene Adler’s continued good health, then that would mean that a) Sherlock has skill sets that John had been previously unaware of, and they would have proven very useful indeed, b) Sherlock has a wider range of contacts than John had suspected, and some of those have probably been lying to John’s face as they offered their condolences, and c) Sherlock is a bloody bastard.
John tries to remember when the topic of Vatican cameos had come up. It would have been… nearly a year ago. It had been a case of some sort, something too important for John to know the details of. Sherlock had been quite despondent about that. He’d evidently been extremely clever on it, and not being able to boast about it had sent him into a two-week sulk.
By the end of the first week, John had been driven downstairs to hide in Mrs Hudson’s apartment. In exchange for the temporary refuge, she’d pressed him into service as a baker’s assistant. He’d wound up helping her with the day’s baking for Speedy’s, and they’d even had enough time to whip up some extra gingerbread biscuits. On a lark, they’d cut them into ovals and decorated them with Sherlock-appropriate images - a gun, a magnifying glass and, in a fit of inspiration, an anatomically-correct heart. A lot of red and blue icing had been involved.
He and Mrs Hudson had polished off the lot between them, and John had been in a much better mood when he returned upstairs. The next day, they’d made hazelnut biscuits and decorated them the same way. The day after it had been… what had it been? Almond? Some nut or other. By the end of the week, they’d mastered the art of icing guns and brains onto cookies. Sherlock’s sulk had been showing signs of coming to an end, so they’d baked a fresh batch for him and John had brought it up as a peace offering.
The singed walls of the kitchen (just what had Sherlock been up to?) had undoubtedly been grateful for the Great Biscuit Intervention.
Sherlock had gobbled down all the hazelnut biscuits. He might possibly have snapped at John’s hands when John had very tentatively reached for one. John had wisely retreated and watched in horrified fascination as Sherlock had methodically demolished a heart, one ventricle at a time.
“These are really much more attractive cameos than the ones I was tasked to find,” Sherlock had said.
“Also, tastier,” John had said.
Sherlock had grinned at him. “Also, less likely to get someone killed in the retrieving of them.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” John had said, glancing ruefully at his hand. It had possibly had bite-marks in it. Then his attention had snapped back to Sherlock. “Hang on - killed?”
“Not me,” Sherlock had said. “Obviously. But the old hiding place had been rigged to kill the last person to find them, and so I had to lie low for a while and work out not only the new place, but also the new trap.”
John had pondered that while Sherlock had happily worked his way through the magazine on an icing rifle. “You realise,” he’d finally said, “that every time I think of cameos now, I’m going to think of unexpected traps exploding in your face.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock had said. “Shall we use that as a code word, then? Cameos. No, not quite. Vatican cameos, that will do. We do seem to always run into trouble, and really, John, you get captured far too often.”
“I do it just to liven up your day,” John had said. “And how on earth would a code word be useful?”
“Well,” Sherlock had said. “Instead of tipping off your captors by saying ‘Duck, John, for I am about to put a bullet through the head of the man holding you hostage,’ I shall simply say ‘Vatican cameos’ and you will know to drop to the ground.”
“I would very much like to hear you actually say that to a guy with a gun,” John had said.
“Alternatively, instead of saying ‘Weeks of undercover work and extreme patience on my part will be compromised if you acknowledge me now, so don’t you dare call my name out in front of my target,’ I shall say, ‘Have you seen those Vatican cameos? They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ and you will know to walk away.”
“Is this something that actually happened?” John had asked in interest.
Sherlock’s face had spoken volumes. John had offered him a biscuit inscribed with a smiley face, and the word ‘Anderson’ helpfully spelling out the owner of the face. Sherlock had bitten its forehead off with vicious relish.
No one else had known about their conversation. John certainly hadn’t expected anything to have come of it, until that day in Irene Adler’s house. And no one who’d been there would have known the significance. Or about the perils of getting between Sherlock and a particularly delicious batch of hazelnut biscuits.
Vatican cameos.
John blows his nose and washes his face. Then he goes down to Mrs Hudson’s apartment. It’s been a while since he’s had the chance to really speak to her. Perhaps they can catch up over some baking.
~fin