![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unovis posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sherlockbbcTitle: Five Things Sherlock Ate That Agreed With Him
Author: Unovis
Rating: ridiculously G
Word Count: 431
Notes: Food fluff forcarenejeans, in lieu of the story she wanted.
1.
He was seven when he encountered his first lobster. “Children don’t like lobster,” said Aunt May. She was an aunt by marriage, not blood; blood meant things, he was discovering. She shooed Mycroft ahead, past the tank. Sherlock tarried. May did not have shooing privileges regarding him. This particular lobster, hunkered behind a clump of artificial vegetation, looked furious and bored. Sherlock tapped the glass and nodded at it. The lobster nodded back.
It was interesting, he decided. He liked the texture and taste and dissection at table, with linen and china and waiters in attendance. He kept it down. He did not have nightmares. He never repeated the experiment.
2.
There was also a pleasant piglet at Uncle Siger’s place, when he was ten, who bit Mycroft. Aunt Charlotte let him keep the skull, with Cook’s help. It was his favorite Christmas dinner.
3.
Vegetarianism was a sentimental inconvenience, he decided at twenty-two. It had been an interesting inconvenience to others, for a time. It had prompted some of the vilest dinners imaginable, at school. Fasting was preferable. “A delicate digestion,” he found, protected him from fibrous extremes and fried monstrosities.
His mother had no talent for cooking, or indeed, for eating. She had one dish. She produced it for Sherlock only--rationally, he knew it was because Mycroft loathed raisins and his father disliked all sweets. Irrationally, and correctly, he knew it was because he was extraordinary. Rice pudding, warm, soft, expressionless, was a grateful comfort on his stomach. Eaten at the kitchen table, at midnight, in the midst of sticky pots and cups and bowls and Mummy opposite, with a drop of sticky cream on her chin, he could talk, or not, and she’d listen.
4.
Angelo made a superior risotto. He learned it from his mother and his grandmother. He was allowed to produce it in his uncle’s ristorante. He was fired, after being caught sneaking plates of it to a pathetic specimen, a cadaverous, rude, drug-addled sod who drove away business. Well, as fired as a relative could be. His uncle knew a man who knew a man who knew a fence.
Following his little difficulty, Angelo was able, through secret savings, to open his own restaurant. He was dissuaded, with threats, from naming his risotto on the menu after its most avid consumer.
5.
John, it transpired, after Sarah had finally gone home, after they’d both cleaned off the filth of the tunnel floor, after they'd settled in pajamas and dressing gowns, could cook one thing. Without raisins, but Sherlock intended to enlarge his repertoire.
Author: Unovis
Rating: ridiculously G
Word Count: 431
Notes: Food fluff for
carenejeans, in lieu of the story she wanted.1.
He was seven when he encountered his first lobster. “Children don’t like lobster,” said Aunt May. She was an aunt by marriage, not blood; blood meant things, he was discovering. She shooed Mycroft ahead, past the tank. Sherlock tarried. May did not have shooing privileges regarding him. This particular lobster, hunkered behind a clump of artificial vegetation, looked furious and bored. Sherlock tapped the glass and nodded at it. The lobster nodded back.
It was interesting, he decided. He liked the texture and taste and dissection at table, with linen and china and waiters in attendance. He kept it down. He did not have nightmares. He never repeated the experiment.
2.
There was also a pleasant piglet at Uncle Siger’s place, when he was ten, who bit Mycroft. Aunt Charlotte let him keep the skull, with Cook’s help. It was his favorite Christmas dinner.
3.
Vegetarianism was a sentimental inconvenience, he decided at twenty-two. It had been an interesting inconvenience to others, for a time. It had prompted some of the vilest dinners imaginable, at school. Fasting was preferable. “A delicate digestion,” he found, protected him from fibrous extremes and fried monstrosities.
His mother had no talent for cooking, or indeed, for eating. She had one dish. She produced it for Sherlock only--rationally, he knew it was because Mycroft loathed raisins and his father disliked all sweets. Irrationally, and correctly, he knew it was because he was extraordinary. Rice pudding, warm, soft, expressionless, was a grateful comfort on his stomach. Eaten at the kitchen table, at midnight, in the midst of sticky pots and cups and bowls and Mummy opposite, with a drop of sticky cream on her chin, he could talk, or not, and she’d listen.
4.
Angelo made a superior risotto. He learned it from his mother and his grandmother. He was allowed to produce it in his uncle’s ristorante. He was fired, after being caught sneaking plates of it to a pathetic specimen, a cadaverous, rude, drug-addled sod who drove away business. Well, as fired as a relative could be. His uncle knew a man who knew a man who knew a fence.
Following his little difficulty, Angelo was able, through secret savings, to open his own restaurant. He was dissuaded, with threats, from naming his risotto on the menu after its most avid consumer.
5.
John, it transpired, after Sarah had finally gone home, after they’d both cleaned off the filth of the tunnel floor, after they'd settled in pajamas and dressing gowns, could cook one thing. Without raisins, but Sherlock intended to enlarge his repertoire.
