Just tomato soup
Apr. 5th, 2012 04:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: Ninth part of Eating us alive, again. Don’t know if I said that it’ll be eleven parts. Or ten parts and an epilogue. In any case, we’re getting close to the end.
The thanks and love goes to Laura.
Summary: Happiness can come from the smallest things, making them huge and important.
-x-
”It smells delicious,” John walked up behind Sherlock and placed a light hand on his back as he leaned over the pot on the stove where Sherlock was stirring tomato soup.
“Makes me nauseous,” Sherlock looked discontent, “but I’m hungry.”
“You used the processor with the white lid for the tomatoes, right?” John asked and reached down in one of the drawers to retrieve a spoon for tasting, not moving his hand from Sherlock’s back.
“Rather counterproductive to give us food poisoning, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock muttered as John dipped his spoon in the soup.
“Yes, I would in fact say so,” John smiled and blew on the spoon before he tasted, “It’s not real cream in this, is it?”
“No,” Sherlock admitted and took the spoon from John to taste the cooking himself.
“So this is more or less strained tomatoes with milk and too much garlic?”
“And butter and onions, yes,” Sherlock licked his lip in distaste, “It tastes terrible.”
“No, it doesn’t,” John assured him, placing two bowls on the counter and taking back the spoon, “Are we eating together, or…?”
Sherlock kept stirring slowly and John knew his silence meant they were eating in separate rooms today. It was fine, he trusted Sherlock to eat better if he wasn’t watched and he knew he would enjoy the meal better if he wasn’t constantly trying to see how much Sherlock ate so….
Still, it….
No, it was fine.
It was.
…just brilliant.
“Tell me when it’s done and I’ll take my bowl upstairs,” he said, once again placing his hand on Sherlock’s lower back before walking out of the kitchen.
Reading through the comments on his blog – most of them wondering why he wasn’t writing about Sherlock anymore – he listened to what Sherlock did at the stove, forcing himself not to look. It wasn’t any real cooking left, just Sherlock preparing himself to eat and that could take anything from two seconds to three hours (probably longer, but that was the record so far). John had no idea how long Sherlock had been standing there already.
Just five minutes or so later – John was pleased it didn’t take longer because he was hungry – Sherlock placed a bowl of soup next to the computer, reading over his shoulder.
“We need a case,” Sherlock muttered when he saw the comments John weren’t quick enough to hide. John didn’t bother answering, because that would, without a doubt, result in an argument and he wanted to eat the soup while it was hot.
“Thanks for the soup,” he said and presented one of their default smiles. It was far from genuine, but both of them used it so frequently now that John wasn’t sure he would recognise another type of smile. Smiles were even more effective to hide emotions from yourself than the shower.
“You can eat here,” Sherlock offered as John got to his feet.
“Do you want me to?”
“I’m going to eat in my room, so there is no need for you to leave as well.”
“Then I’ll be here,” John nodded; eating on the same floor but in separate rooms was better than eating on separate floors. It felt very intimate, which just became sad when he thought about it.
Sherlock disappeared with his own bowl and John looked at the door to his bedroom for a moment before he sat down again to eat his small portion – Sherlock never served anything more than what he could eat himself. He frowned slightly; even if he didn’t agree with Sherlock that it was terrible (he was fairly sure Sherlock didn’t think so either) he had to admit it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s best dishes. He finished the soup and scrolled down some of the comments before getting up to get more soup – and maybe a sandwich or five.
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom opened as John was putting butter on the second toast and he froze. That had gone far too fast, Sherlock could not have finished a bowl of soup in that time. All alarm bells went off in John’s head; something was wrong.
Was it the butter?
The garlic?
It couldn’t be the tomatoes, could it?
He said nothing as Sherlock appeared and didn’t even bother to pretend that he wasn’t scared or worried or panicked or whatever it was he was.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock frowned as he went over to the stove and John looked down at the sandwiches since there was no way he could change the way he was looking at Sherlock, “I’m just getting more soup.”
John’s heart jumped and he looked up, the thrill he felt was probably very disproportional, but his head couldn’t put together a coherent thought right now.
“Are…. Are….” John stuttered, not knowing what he wanted to ask.
“Don’t look at me like that either,” Sherlock frowned again when he saw the new look on John’s face, “It’s just soup.”
“It’s not…. You-you know it’s not,” John had to put in a lot of effort to make it come out as something else than a whisper and he looked down at the sandwiches again to maybe, just maybe, be able to hide how misty-eyed he became.
This was strangely overwhelming.
“Yes, it is,” Sherlock sounded very sure of this and John glanced at him, blinking to make sure the tears actually didn’t become anything else than just a threat. He didn’t know what it was, but something in the way Sherlock looked back at him made him nod acceptingly.
“Fine, it’s just soup,” John confirmed and cleared his throat. For now, it was just soup. He understood that it could only be soup; it wasn’t allowed to be anything else. It was a second bowl of soup, not a milestone or a mountain to overcome. It was just soup.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“Go and take a shower.”
“Oh, shut up,” John chuckled and silently cursing both of them, “I’m not crying, it’s just soup. Right?”
“Right.”
“Do you want just-a-sandwich to go with that just-soup?” John tried to smirk – he managed quite well – and held out one of the sandwiches to Sherlock. His inside once again did a little happy dance when he saw that Sherlock actually thought about taking the sandwich, it didn’t really matter that he ended up shaking his head.
Sherlock walked back to his room and John almost collapsed against the table when the door closed. He needed to sit down; it was just a second bowl of soup, it wasn’t hope. He couldn’t let it be hope; he couldn’t let it be hope any more than Sherlock could let it be a mountain.
It was the first time Sherlock had taken seconds since before the purging had started. It…it wasn’t just soup.
It was hope and John was fairly sure Sherlock was climbing a mountain in his bedroom.
It wasn’t just soup.
-x-
Part X: Back where it started
The thanks and love goes to Laura.
Summary: Happiness can come from the smallest things, making them huge and important.
-x-
”It smells delicious,” John walked up behind Sherlock and placed a light hand on his back as he leaned over the pot on the stove where Sherlock was stirring tomato soup.
“Makes me nauseous,” Sherlock looked discontent, “but I’m hungry.”
“You used the processor with the white lid for the tomatoes, right?” John asked and reached down in one of the drawers to retrieve a spoon for tasting, not moving his hand from Sherlock’s back.
“Rather counterproductive to give us food poisoning, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock muttered as John dipped his spoon in the soup.
“Yes, I would in fact say so,” John smiled and blew on the spoon before he tasted, “It’s not real cream in this, is it?”
“No,” Sherlock admitted and took the spoon from John to taste the cooking himself.
“So this is more or less strained tomatoes with milk and too much garlic?”
“And butter and onions, yes,” Sherlock licked his lip in distaste, “It tastes terrible.”
“No, it doesn’t,” John assured him, placing two bowls on the counter and taking back the spoon, “Are we eating together, or…?”
Sherlock kept stirring slowly and John knew his silence meant they were eating in separate rooms today. It was fine, he trusted Sherlock to eat better if he wasn’t watched and he knew he would enjoy the meal better if he wasn’t constantly trying to see how much Sherlock ate so….
Still, it….
No, it was fine.
It was.
…just brilliant.
“Tell me when it’s done and I’ll take my bowl upstairs,” he said, once again placing his hand on Sherlock’s lower back before walking out of the kitchen.
Reading through the comments on his blog – most of them wondering why he wasn’t writing about Sherlock anymore – he listened to what Sherlock did at the stove, forcing himself not to look. It wasn’t any real cooking left, just Sherlock preparing himself to eat and that could take anything from two seconds to three hours (probably longer, but that was the record so far). John had no idea how long Sherlock had been standing there already.
Just five minutes or so later – John was pleased it didn’t take longer because he was hungry – Sherlock placed a bowl of soup next to the computer, reading over his shoulder.
“We need a case,” Sherlock muttered when he saw the comments John weren’t quick enough to hide. John didn’t bother answering, because that would, without a doubt, result in an argument and he wanted to eat the soup while it was hot.
“Thanks for the soup,” he said and presented one of their default smiles. It was far from genuine, but both of them used it so frequently now that John wasn’t sure he would recognise another type of smile. Smiles were even more effective to hide emotions from yourself than the shower.
“You can eat here,” Sherlock offered as John got to his feet.
“Do you want me to?”
“I’m going to eat in my room, so there is no need for you to leave as well.”
“Then I’ll be here,” John nodded; eating on the same floor but in separate rooms was better than eating on separate floors. It felt very intimate, which just became sad when he thought about it.
Sherlock disappeared with his own bowl and John looked at the door to his bedroom for a moment before he sat down again to eat his small portion – Sherlock never served anything more than what he could eat himself. He frowned slightly; even if he didn’t agree with Sherlock that it was terrible (he was fairly sure Sherlock didn’t think so either) he had to admit it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s best dishes. He finished the soup and scrolled down some of the comments before getting up to get more soup – and maybe a sandwich or five.
The door to Sherlock’s bedroom opened as John was putting butter on the second toast and he froze. That had gone far too fast, Sherlock could not have finished a bowl of soup in that time. All alarm bells went off in John’s head; something was wrong.
Was it the butter?
The garlic?
It couldn’t be the tomatoes, could it?
He said nothing as Sherlock appeared and didn’t even bother to pretend that he wasn’t scared or worried or panicked or whatever it was he was.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock frowned as he went over to the stove and John looked down at the sandwiches since there was no way he could change the way he was looking at Sherlock, “I’m just getting more soup.”
John’s heart jumped and he looked up, the thrill he felt was probably very disproportional, but his head couldn’t put together a coherent thought right now.
“Are…. Are….” John stuttered, not knowing what he wanted to ask.
“Don’t look at me like that either,” Sherlock frowned again when he saw the new look on John’s face, “It’s just soup.”
“It’s not…. You-you know it’s not,” John had to put in a lot of effort to make it come out as something else than a whisper and he looked down at the sandwiches again to maybe, just maybe, be able to hide how misty-eyed he became.
This was strangely overwhelming.
“Yes, it is,” Sherlock sounded very sure of this and John glanced at him, blinking to make sure the tears actually didn’t become anything else than just a threat. He didn’t know what it was, but something in the way Sherlock looked back at him made him nod acceptingly.
“Fine, it’s just soup,” John confirmed and cleared his throat. For now, it was just soup. He understood that it could only be soup; it wasn’t allowed to be anything else. It was a second bowl of soup, not a milestone or a mountain to overcome. It was just soup.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“Go and take a shower.”
“Oh, shut up,” John chuckled and silently cursing both of them, “I’m not crying, it’s just soup. Right?”
“Right.”
“Do you want just-a-sandwich to go with that just-soup?” John tried to smirk – he managed quite well – and held out one of the sandwiches to Sherlock. His inside once again did a little happy dance when he saw that Sherlock actually thought about taking the sandwich, it didn’t really matter that he ended up shaking his head.
Sherlock walked back to his room and John almost collapsed against the table when the door closed. He needed to sit down; it was just a second bowl of soup, it wasn’t hope. He couldn’t let it be hope; he couldn’t let it be hope any more than Sherlock could let it be a mountain.
It was the first time Sherlock had taken seconds since before the purging had started. It…it wasn’t just soup.
It was hope and John was fairly sure Sherlock was climbing a mountain in his bedroom.
It wasn’t just soup.
-x-
Part X: Back where it started
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no subject
Date: 2012-04-05 09:44 pm (UTC)This is a lovely series, and I can't help but be impressed by the way you're dealing with the emotional and psychological aspects involved in this - in regards to both Sherlock and John!
I'd rather not go into the reasons why this fic is personally striking, but I am happy to say that it is, and sensitively, realistically so. Great work!
no subject
Date: 2012-04-06 10:20 am (UTC)And showering the face is the best! I promise.