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holmes_minor2022-04-17 05:42 pm
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote in holmes_minor2022-04-17 05:42 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Currants or Sultanas: Gen
Title: Currants or Sultanas
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
For: April prompt
Summary: Holmes & Watson are asked to say whose buns are better.
“So?” asked Mrs. Hudson.
“So?” asked Mrs. Turner.
Holmes and I drew off our blindfolds.
Thankfully, we had our mouths full, so, at the risk of gross impropriety, we were unable to reply immediately to the landladies’ demands.
We chewed. We avoided the landladies’ hard stares and exchanged a glance between ourselves.
It was a situation which called for the wisdom of Solomon.
I swallowed and cleared my throat.
“Your hot cross buns, Mrs. Hudson, are delightful. The lemon zest and the sultanas are perfect.”
I punctuated my statement with a short, satisfied hum.
Holmes took a sip of water, then said,
“But your hot cross buns, Mrs. Turner, are scrumptious. The orange zest and the currants are truly exquisite.”
The landladies’ brows furrowed.
“I told you they wouldn’t give us a straight answer,” muttered Mrs. Hudson.
“Most inconclusive,” agreed Mrs. Turner though her tone suggested she wished to use a different descriptor altogether.
The landladies reached for the pair of plates which rested on the table between Holmes and myself. On each plate was a generous sampling of hot cross buns arranged on a large white cloth napkin.
At the same time, Holmes and I also reached for the plates, forestalling their removal.
“Come now, gentlemen,” admonished Mrs. Turner as she and I played a gentle tug-of-war. “If you cannot tell us which of our recipes will win the Central London Landladies’ Easter Baking Competition, I am afraid we must find someone who can!”
“Mister Smoakes, the greengrocer,” said Mrs. Hudson. “And his son.”
“Wait, wait,” said Holmes. He raised his free hand, and Mrs. Hudson relinquished her grip on the plate.
“A hot cross bun possessed of orange and lemon zest…,” Holmes began.
“Currants as well as sultanas,” I continued.
“…would be unbeatable. Mrs. Turner’s fortifying dough.”
“Mrs. Hudson’s delicious glaze.”
The landladies’ eyes widened. They turned to one another.
“Why did we not think of it?” asked Mrs. Hudson.
“Split that prize money,” said Mrs. Turner. “And the glory.”
Mrs. Hudson turned on her heels and extended a bent elbow.
Mrs. Turner turned on her heels and took the proffered elbow.
They strode out of the room as I met Holmes’s gaze. We smiled warmly at one another, and at the two plates of buns which were still on the table between us.
Then, a thought occurred to me.
“I don’t suppose I could trouble them for a pot of tea.”
“I wouldn’t risk it. Better to head down, before they get to work on their masterpiece, and make it yourself.”
“On the other hand, I shouldn’t like to be in way, and I’m fairly certain they shouldn’t like me in the way.”
“True enough. So?”
“My club?”
Holmes smiled. “Your club. But, by all means, let us take our prize.”
He and I leaned forward and folded the white cloth napkin around each pile of buns. Then we rose and made for the door, grinning and carrying our toothsome bundles like the priceless troves they were.
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
For: April prompt
Summary: Holmes & Watson are asked to say whose buns are better.
“So?” asked Mrs. Hudson.
“So?” asked Mrs. Turner.
Holmes and I drew off our blindfolds.
Thankfully, we had our mouths full, so, at the risk of gross impropriety, we were unable to reply immediately to the landladies’ demands.
We chewed. We avoided the landladies’ hard stares and exchanged a glance between ourselves.
It was a situation which called for the wisdom of Solomon.
I swallowed and cleared my throat.
“Your hot cross buns, Mrs. Hudson, are delightful. The lemon zest and the sultanas are perfect.”
I punctuated my statement with a short, satisfied hum.
Holmes took a sip of water, then said,
“But your hot cross buns, Mrs. Turner, are scrumptious. The orange zest and the currants are truly exquisite.”
The landladies’ brows furrowed.
“I told you they wouldn’t give us a straight answer,” muttered Mrs. Hudson.
“Most inconclusive,” agreed Mrs. Turner though her tone suggested she wished to use a different descriptor altogether.
The landladies reached for the pair of plates which rested on the table between Holmes and myself. On each plate was a generous sampling of hot cross buns arranged on a large white cloth napkin.
At the same time, Holmes and I also reached for the plates, forestalling their removal.
“Come now, gentlemen,” admonished Mrs. Turner as she and I played a gentle tug-of-war. “If you cannot tell us which of our recipes will win the Central London Landladies’ Easter Baking Competition, I am afraid we must find someone who can!”
“Mister Smoakes, the greengrocer,” said Mrs. Hudson. “And his son.”
“Wait, wait,” said Holmes. He raised his free hand, and Mrs. Hudson relinquished her grip on the plate.
“A hot cross bun possessed of orange and lemon zest…,” Holmes began.
“Currants as well as sultanas,” I continued.
“…would be unbeatable. Mrs. Turner’s fortifying dough.”
“Mrs. Hudson’s delicious glaze.”
The landladies’ eyes widened. They turned to one another.
“Why did we not think of it?” asked Mrs. Hudson.
“Split that prize money,” said Mrs. Turner. “And the glory.”
Mrs. Hudson turned on her heels and extended a bent elbow.
Mrs. Turner turned on her heels and took the proffered elbow.
They strode out of the room as I met Holmes’s gaze. We smiled warmly at one another, and at the two plates of buns which were still on the table between us.
Then, a thought occurred to me.
“I don’t suppose I could trouble them for a pot of tea.”
“I wouldn’t risk it. Better to head down, before they get to work on their masterpiece, and make it yourself.”
“On the other hand, I shouldn’t like to be in way, and I’m fairly certain they shouldn’t like me in the way.”
“True enough. So?”
“My club?”
Holmes smiled. “Your club. But, by all means, let us take our prize.”
He and I leaned forward and folded the white cloth napkin around each pile of buns. Then we rose and made for the door, grinning and carrying our toothsome bundles like the priceless troves they were.