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A spoonful of sugar, that is all it takes
It changes bread and water into tea and cakes
The sun was shining when John stepped out of the Baker Street tube. The Saturday morning air was crisp and cold, and there were people bustling here and there. It was a perfect mix of confused tourists standing around and looking at maps as they pointed in the wrong direction, and the locals who neatly side-stepped them and avoided eye contact. John was merely another person to maneuver around, standing right in the middle of the pavement as he blearily tried to find his bearings in the crowd, breathing the marvelously cold air, refreshingly brisk after the fuggy warmth of the tube.
It had been a long, horrible night in the A&E, compounded by the driving rain outside that made the floors wet and slippery. Everyone seemed to have a cough or a sniffle; John could feel the scratch at the back of his throat, and already anticipated Sherlock’s annoyance. “I cannot be ill, John, half my staff are blithering idiots and the rest are incompetents who would burn salad if given opportunity.”
Three car smashes, two overdoses, one sexual assault, two children scalded by a boiling-hot bath, and three heart attacks. John had already been exhausted by the time his own shift was over, but he’d long since agreed to cover enough of Patrick’s morning shift to let the man attend some family appointment or other – John wasn’t even sure what, only that Patrick had seemed keen to go.
The A&E manager had found him by the coffee machine sometime during his twelfth hour. “Watson, a word? Just wanted to thank you again for taking Turner’s shift.”
John swallowed his coffee so quickly, it scorched the back of his throat – almost pleasantly, given the ticklish feeling, but it took a moment before he was able to speak. “Right, yeah, of course. All hands to the pump, and all that. Sherlock can fend for himself for breakfast once in a while.”
The manager had laughed. “Imagine he’s a right grump about it, too – shouting if your hand is too heavy with the pepper. Don’t imagine you mind being pulled away from that too often.”
She walked away before John could answer, and he spent the rest of the morning thinking of all the things he could have said. There was more pleasure in thinking them than in saying them.
“Do you know the way to Madame Tussauds?”
John had been living in London for only a few months, but he’d learned a few things in that time, and it never ceased to amaze him that despite all the marvelous things available for tourists to see, they preferred to spend an ungodly amount of money to see wax figures of celebrities. Sherlock was even more disdainful of the place, but John thought that was mostly because there wasn’t a wax figure of him.
“Down the street to the left,” said John.
“Ask him,” hissed the teenage boy behind them, tall and gangly and pimpled all over.
“I will not,” the mother hissed back. “We’re not going to stalk some poor man’s home, even if he is a celebrity.”
“Celebrity arsehole, more like,” said the father as they started to move away, the mother gripping the boy’s arm as if she thought he’d turn around and ask John anyway.
John waited until the tourists had gone on their way before heading in the opposite direction towards home.
Mostly the tourists who wanted a glimpse of Sherlock waited at his restaurant – but it wasn’t the first time they’d shown up around Baker Street. Sherlock didn’t make much of a secret that he lived in the area – his complaints about Tussauds were legendary – but most of the fans who showed up in the area were fanatical enough that they recognized John.
The boy hadn’t seemed to recognize John, though. For one thing, if he’d realized who John was, he would have been content to simply follow John home, instead of asking him about Sherlock’s exact address.
A quick glance confirmed that the boy and his parents were already halfway to Tussauds – really, they would have seen it if they’d been looking in the right direction – and John turned to head home, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored windows of the nearby news agent’s.
It might have been the distortion from the glass, but he looked terrible: his hair was stringy and fell in his face; there were dark circles under his eyes, and his entire expression was haggard and exhausted. He’d changed back into his clothes after his shift in the A&E, but after being jostled on the train, they looked as wrinkled and worn as if he’d been wearing them all night.
No wonder the kid hadn’t recognized him. John barely recognized himself.
The short walk between the tube and the flat was usually pleasant, but John was too worn to notice it, what with the ache in his muscles and the drag of his tired bones. He’d barely had a chance to rest during the long night in the A&E, or the equally long morning. It was nearly lunchtime now, but John was too tired to be hungry. Better to catch a few hours sleep while Sherlock was out prowling the Saturday morning markets, ready to do battle with any vendor trying to pass ordinary tomatoes off as super-sweet heirloom cultivated from seed and fed only spring water from a treasured source in Switzerland.
(He’d watched such a battle once, along with half of London. It had been spectacular and mortifying all at once, and had nearly caused a riot.)
Just a few hours of sleep, that was all John really wanted. The entire ride home, John had been thinking longingly of the bed waiting in their bedroom, the curtains pulled against the light. The way the soft, smooth-like-cream pillow case would feel cool against his cheek, the duvet settling over him like a marshmallow cloud. When Sherlock returned, he’d wake John up and they could have tea and toast before it was time for Sherlock to leave for the restaurant’s dinner service. And then John could put his feet up and watch some terrible telly, or maybe get off his lazy bum and go shopping for whatever he’d need to turn Sherlock’s farmer’s market finds into a reasonably edible dinner.
If John hadn’t been so exhausted, he might have put the effort into looking forward to it. And perhaps none of it would seem like so much work when he’d had some rest.
He was halfway up the stairs to their flat when he smelled the sugar-vanilla scent. All thoughts of sleep were promptly dashed as the delicious smells drew him up the rest of the stairs that much quicker, but it was only when he opened the door and stepped into the flat that the scents intensified, gloriously warm and sweet. He could hear the music playing, a bit echoey and tinny from Sherlock’s iPhone cranked to full volume, something completely unintelligible, or maybe in another language altogether.
John breathed in the sugared air. The bed in the back of the flat still beckoned; his weary body longed for it, but John could already hear the sounds of Sherlock in the kitchen, the scrape of a spoon against the side of a metal bowl, the shuffling of Sherlock’s feet as he paced, ran the water for a moment, and continued mixing whatever it was he made. The smell of cake and cream and berries made John’s stomach rumble softly, a gentle reminder that he was, in fact, hungry.
The entire horrid shift melted away, became a distant and unattached memory in the face of hearth and home and cake and cream. Maybe he’d just have to amend that daydream of falling asleep alone in the bedroom.
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to clean up whatever mess you’re making in my kitchen,” he called out teasingly as he hung his coat on the peg and started to unwind his scarf.
“You weren’t meant to be home for another hour,” said Sherlock. The words were accusatory, the tone was anything but.
“Patrick’s to-do took less time than he thought it would,” said John. He walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe to watch Sherlock at the counter, mixing something in a bowl. He was wearing one of John’s aprons. Normally he eschewed them entirely, so the sight of him wearing it made John smile. “So I didn’t need to cover his entire shift after all.”
“You shouldn’t have covered it anyway, you’ve been working since six last night.” Sherlock didn’t look up; he was too busy concentrating on whatever was in the bowl. He stopped mixing for a moment, and gave it a quick taste with one of the small tasting spoons from the jar on the counter. He frowned, added a few drops more of whatever flavoring was measured out in the shot glass, and then kept mixing.
“You’re one to talk, I hardly see you weekends anyway. What’s that there?”
“John,” said Sherlock patiently, and proceeded to point it out. “Cake. Strawberry jam. Whipped cream. I realize that some time has passed since you worked in the food service industry, but do I really need to remind you of what goes into a Victoria sponge?”
“Wanker. I meant who’s it for? And why are you making it in my kitchen?”
“I do live here.”
“Yes, and you have an entire professional kitchen at your disposal at your restaurant. The kitchen here is mine, we discussed this already.”
Sherlock didn’t answer; he began to dollop the whipped cream onto the first layer of sponge already spread with the bright red strawberry jam. He worked quickly, dropping the cream in mounds before swirling them together to form a thick layer. It was mesmerizing: the stiff cream rising in peaks, folding over itself like a wave about to crest and break.
John watched Sherlock swirl the cream onto the cake, in endless circles that smoothed the surface. Sherlock worked quickly, smoothly, efficiently – it was like watching someone dancing a complicated routine without a single falter, making the final performance not only flawless, but seemingly easy. John didn’t have the chance to watch Sherlock in the kitchen so often anymore, unless he went to the restaurant, and then, it wasn’t the same as watching him at home. At the restaurant, Sherlock wore his toque and his chef’s jacket, and barked out orders to his staff, barely noticing anything but the food in front of him. He had that same focus now, as he crouched down to check that the cream was evenly spread, but he was calmer here, quieter, a little more peaceful, even if the concentration was just as intense.
The bowl of cream sat on the counter next to the cake, and John could smell the sugar and something sharper.
Sherlock was so deep into his own creation, carefully lowering the top layer of cake onto the thick cream, that he didn’t even notice when John leaned over and ran his finger in the bowl of cream, scooping up a large dollop to pop into his mouth.
The flavor burst on John’s tongue; warm and spicy, instantly waking him up. He sucked on his finger as he pulled it slowly past his lips, let the sharp bite of the alcohol go straight to his head, and down into his limbs, a tingle of pleasure. “Oh, that’s…cinnamon schnapps?”
Sherlock stood quickly and glared at him. He picked up the bowl and held it to his chest possessively. “Highly unhygienic, John.”
John reached for another scoop, and Sherlock stepped further away. “No, I’m missing something, give me another taste.”
“It doesn’t count until it’s on the cake,” said Sherlock loftily, but John was too quick, and managed another scoop before Sherlock finally lifted the bowl and spatula up above his head where John couldn’t reach.
John looked at the cream on his fingertip, and then at Sherlock, who was still glaring. It might have been the alcohol on his empty stomach, or the strange detachment exhaustion had inflicted, but suddenly John was feeling particularly playful. “So I guess it won’t matter if I just…lick…this…bit….”
“Ah,” said Sherlock, eyes wide. John closed his mouth around his finger one more time, and was pleased to see Sherlock swallow hard.
“Mmm.” John rolled the cream around on his tongue – more to play it up for Sherlock than to actually determine the flavors, though it certainly helped. “Not cinnamon schnapps. Cinnamon, though. And…rum? I thought Mrs Turner abstained from alcohol.”
“Not for Mrs Turner,” Sherlock managed to say. “It’s for you. The cake.”
“Ah,” said John, pleased. “I thought so.”
John leaned in to Sherlock and kissed him, one arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock tasted rather strongly of strawberries and sugar – no doubt from the samples as he’d gone along. The flavors mingled with those already in John’s mouth – the warmth of cinnamon, the bite of the alcohol, the sweet strawberries and the faint crunch of the sugar. Sherlock’s tongue stroked the flavors into John’s mouth, swirling them together in a perfect spicy-sweet tingle.
Sherlock moved slightly – John heard the spatula and bowl set down on the table or counter or maybe handed off to invisible elves. He didn’t care, because now Sherlock’s arms were around him, and their bodies were warm and pressed together, with Sherlock holding him up. John moved with him, and they kept moving, slowly around the kitchen table, almost in time to the soft music that played in the background.
“It’s a very nice cake,” said John when Sherlock broke away, and Sherlock chuckled. He rested his lips on John’s hair, and John closed his eyes, letting his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder. The spark of alcohol was already fading fast, and the music and Sherlock’s swaying was soothing and soporific. The quiet thump of Sherlock’s heart was a safe and steady beat, and John could have melted into him, relaxed and fallen asleep there in the middle of the kitchen, standing up.
He heard the echo of Sherlock’s chuckle in his chest, and felt Sherlock turn, swaying them across the room, but didn’t quite realize they’d danced their way into the bedroom until the backs of his knees hit the bed.
“No,” said John suddenly, but trying to stay upright was a chore again, and he swayed against Sherlock. “I can stay awake a little longer. You made me a cake, I should eat it.”
“I know,” said Sherlock, as he helped John sway down onto the bed. “But it’s not done yet, and I can’t hold you up and dust the cake with sugar at the same time.”
The sheets were cool and crisp, and John felt himself sink into the soft top of the mattress. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“All right.” Sherlock was humoring him, really, but John didn’t mind. He’d get up in a moment, he really would. A slice of cake would be just the thing to wake him up a bit…only the proper thing to do, if Sherlock had made it just for him….
Just another moment….
*
John was asleep before Sherlock had finished drawing the curtains. He carefully removed John’s shoes, and pulled the blanket over him, before closing the door softly.
In the back of the flat, John slept. When the cake was done, Sherlock would join him, press his nose to the back of John’s neck and wrap his arm around his waist. He might fall asleep himself, made drowsy by osmosis, and they’d dream of feeding the cream and berries and cake to each other, bite by bite, before licking the sugar off each other’s lips.
In the meantime, the music continued to play, sweet notes that covered the noise from the street outside. Sherlock heard none of it as he concentrated on the task at hand. The sugar drifted down onto the top of the cake, a gentle snowfall that blanketed the entire kitchen counter, barely making a sound.