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holmes_minorTitle: Final Exam
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: ACD (WWI Era); set in my 2020 Holmes Minor prompt series dealing with Watson's return from the war.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 500
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: A year’s worth of practise, for this.
Author's Notes: Written for the 2021 Holmes Minor monthly prompts, in order:
January (Singing)
February (Cupboards, Cabinets and Chests)
March (Code)
April (Space)
May (Glasses)
June (Measure)
July (Teamwork)
August (Timing)
September (Case)
October (Business)
November (Eggs)
December (Dash)
***
He was nervous – he wouldn’t be singing “Here We Are Again” while washing his hands otherwise. But he would do this.
The cupboards and cabinets of the kitchen were now as familiar by touch and remembered place as they’d once been by sight. He brushed his fingers over a set of stout canisters marked at the top with a paper tape stamped in the alphabetic Braille code. F L O U R. SALT. SUGAR. Smaller jars bore abbreviated labels – CIN, NTM, GNG.
He opened drawers and took out the tools he’d need, sharing space on the counter beside the ingredients. Spoons and cups with TB TS C H 4 3 on the handles – tablespoon, teaspoon, cup, half-cup, quarter-cup, one-third-cup.
Sherlock was out taking a walk. No one was here to quickly correct him from adding a full cup of salt to the bowl, or to save a glass measure-cup from tumbling to the floor, milk and all.
John, do you remember my first attempt at scones? All cooks suffer mishaps, even those who merely need reading glasses.
“Here we are again…”
The oven. Box of matches in its usual spot. Find the correct dial, now adorned with small beads at regular intervals. Open door. Strike match. Turn dial till hiss. Reach in with the match – feel the heat and hear the whoosh as the gas was lit. Close door and touch round the dial anticlockwise from the pointer, counting. There was the temperature. Turn to set.
Butter on the counter that he’d already cut to measure. That had required teamwork – in prior cooking sessions Sherlock had cut the amount and he’d weighed it, feeling the location of the scale needle. He’d also held the butter slab to gauge its weight and dimensions.
A simple recipe today, that would not rely on precise timing of the various stages.
Butter, sugar. Beat together. He would solve this case himself.
Mixing bowl on the counter. Open icebox. Two eggs. Cabinet. A dash of vanilla. Flour and spices, scooped and leveled.
The metal sheet he’d buttered. Spoonfuls of the mixture rolled between wet hands and spaced on the sheet. Into the oven. Timer, turned to the width of his thumb – 10 minutes.
They smelled wonderful – even if the first batch smelled a tiny bit burnt. Smiling and relieved, he reset the timer, then moved it back just a little for the next sheet. He laughed when one fell to the floor as he removed them from the sheet; that one would feed the birds.
He heard his husband come into the house and walk into the kitchen, still smelling of cold and snow. Sherlock made a pleased noise and bustled about at the other end of the kitchen with … teakettle, water, tea canister. No cry of joy nor word of praise.
John grinned and continued to mold and set spoonfuls of dough on the next sheet, also without a word. Of course he could make fresh biscuits for their tea, of course.
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: ACD (WWI Era); set in my 2020 Holmes Minor prompt series dealing with Watson's return from the war.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 500
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: A year’s worth of practise, for this.
Author's Notes: Written for the 2021 Holmes Minor monthly prompts, in order:
January (Singing)
February (Cupboards, Cabinets and Chests)
March (Code)
April (Space)
May (Glasses)
June (Measure)
July (Teamwork)
August (Timing)
September (Case)
October (Business)
November (Eggs)
December (Dash)
***
He was nervous – he wouldn’t be singing “Here We Are Again” while washing his hands otherwise. But he would do this.
The cupboards and cabinets of the kitchen were now as familiar by touch and remembered place as they’d once been by sight. He brushed his fingers over a set of stout canisters marked at the top with a paper tape stamped in the alphabetic Braille code. F L O U R. SALT. SUGAR. Smaller jars bore abbreviated labels – CIN, NTM, GNG.
He opened drawers and took out the tools he’d need, sharing space on the counter beside the ingredients. Spoons and cups with TB TS C H 4 3 on the handles – tablespoon, teaspoon, cup, half-cup, quarter-cup, one-third-cup.
Sherlock was out taking a walk. No one was here to quickly correct him from adding a full cup of salt to the bowl, or to save a glass measure-cup from tumbling to the floor, milk and all.
John, do you remember my first attempt at scones? All cooks suffer mishaps, even those who merely need reading glasses.
“Here we are again…”
The oven. Box of matches in its usual spot. Find the correct dial, now adorned with small beads at regular intervals. Open door. Strike match. Turn dial till hiss. Reach in with the match – feel the heat and hear the whoosh as the gas was lit. Close door and touch round the dial anticlockwise from the pointer, counting. There was the temperature. Turn to set.
Butter on the counter that he’d already cut to measure. That had required teamwork – in prior cooking sessions Sherlock had cut the amount and he’d weighed it, feeling the location of the scale needle. He’d also held the butter slab to gauge its weight and dimensions.
A simple recipe today, that would not rely on precise timing of the various stages.
Butter, sugar. Beat together. He would solve this case himself.
Mixing bowl on the counter. Open icebox. Two eggs. Cabinet. A dash of vanilla. Flour and spices, scooped and leveled.
The metal sheet he’d buttered. Spoonfuls of the mixture rolled between wet hands and spaced on the sheet. Into the oven. Timer, turned to the width of his thumb – 10 minutes.
They smelled wonderful – even if the first batch smelled a tiny bit burnt. Smiling and relieved, he reset the timer, then moved it back just a little for the next sheet. He laughed when one fell to the floor as he removed them from the sheet; that one would feed the birds.
He heard his husband come into the house and walk into the kitchen, still smelling of cold and snow. Sherlock made a pleased noise and bustled about at the other end of the kitchen with … teakettle, water, tea canister. No cry of joy nor word of praise.
John grinned and continued to mold and set spoonfuls of dough on the next sheet, also without a word. Of course he could make fresh biscuits for their tea, of course.
