Fic for elwinglyre: Ingredients of Love

[methylviolet10b]

Title: Ingredients of Love
Recipient: elwinglyre
Author: a_different_equation 
Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs Hudson; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: To cheer his dear Watson up, Holmes runs an experiment in the kitchen of 221B.

"Mrs Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the world;
therefore Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest and most comfortable man"
(Arthur Conan Doyle)


It happened on an ordinary day in October towards the end of the century.

Holmes and I were sitting in our living room in 221B. After lunch, Holmes had returned to his chair and had picked up the newspapers again. He was smoking his pipe and sipped from time to time at a cup of tea. I, sitting in my chair opposite Holmes, tried to concentrate on a novel I had bought in a bookshop days ago, but my thoughts meandered. With every minute ticking by, my eyes wandered more to the flickering flames of the fireplace than the words on the page.

Autumn had reached London and with it cold nights and foggy days. The temperature had dropped considerably and with it my mood. My joints ached horribly, and if it was not my old shoulder wound that reminded me of the terrors of war, it was the approaching All Hollow's Eve, that brought the unpleasant memories of war and death upon me.

Only from afar, I registered that the clock on our mantelpiece had struck the hour. All of a sudden, Holmes exclaimed:

"Come along, old boy!"

"What? Where are we going?" I asked, but there was no reply.

I expected him to usher me out of our living room, to hurry me with getting my coat, hat and walking stick, to maybe even hear the carriage of Lestrade approaching 221B, in short, our daily routine. I have to confess that I was not as up to the game as I would have wished I were. However, I made a promise in the aftermath of what happened in Switzerland: I would never abandon Holmes again. I was ready to prepare for battle and follow Holmes into the Streets of London.

OOOOOOOOOO

Imagine my surprise, when Holmes took me by the hand and led me downstairs, all the seventeen steps into the entrance hall, and – for a second thrilled with excitement and dread, it seems as if he would move forward towards the door and we were still holding hands – but then... a turn...and into Mrs Hudson's work- and living space.

Holmes did not stop at the threshold and did not attempted to announce our – for me, at least – spontaneous visit. As we entered, I remembered that Mrs Hudson had left the house early. In fact, she had explicitly said so; it had me struck as odd when she had mentioned it over serving us lunch. However, I had been too absorbed in my own thoughts to ask further. Did Holmes have a hand in it? A free afternoon for Mrs Hudson was unusual enough, but for our complete staff? If I remembered correctly, there had been the plan of going to the shops and looking at the new fashions for the season. I would not have put it past Holmes to not only conspire with Mrs Hudson but also fund the time off. For what purpose, I wondered. What did this brilliant, wicked man have in mind?

My feeling that something out of the ordinary was indeed going on proved correct when we reached our final destination: Mrs Hudson's kitchen. As was common for respectable houses, the kitchen and the household management were women's domain. I had lived at 221B for many years, sharing the rooms upstairs with Holmes, and I had only entered the kitchen downstairs to get to the larder when we had come home very late and we did not want to disturb Mrs Hudson. Only then, I would fetch some food or drink, or, more regularly, something cooling from the icebox to tend our wounds.

Never before had I set foot into the relatively large room in broad daylight. If I had to estimate, I would guess it had the measurements of our living room. Tiled floor, a big wooden table in the middle, one cupboard for the dishes and the better china on display as is the fashion nowadays. One cupboard to hold the kitchen utensils; some pots and pans hanging up; all were made of shining copper. There was the kitchen range; cleaned until it was spotless, even though the years of daily use were apparent. The sink which I knew Mrs Hudson was particularly proud of because indoor plumbing inside the house was still uncommon. The cast iron stove was the heart of the room just like in every other kitchen.

Still, over all this lay a sense that not all was clear, that something was going on, something important, and I was again being kept in the dark. I was too distressed on that particular day to wait for the big revelation or at least so, I thought at that time when I demanded, a bit harsher than I intended, an explanation:

"Holmes, what is the meaning of all this? Is it for a case?"

After all, we had our share of poisonings in our line of work. Maybe there had been a client when I had been absent or Holmes had received a letter I was unaware of? I had been so occupied with my grief and pain, that I could not think it impossible. Still far too emotional, I pondered on:

"The abominable baker who last week's newspaper reported had tampered with the dough to expand his profits but at the horrible risk of its buyers? Is this why you brought us here? An experiment?"

It had been a short distance from our living room upstairs to the kitchen downstairs, only some minutes had passed, but my mood had changed considerably. Oh, this wicked man, he knows me well! I so love mysteries, and he had once again provided me with such. I doubted that "The Case of the Missing Household Staff" would be a story for The Strand Magazine, at least until something more sinister was involved, but my interest was awakened.

"Come on, old man, don't tease me so."

Holmes has a dramatic flair about him; it is true what I wrote about him in "A Scandal in Bohemia", the stage lost a fine actor when he became a specialist in crime. There was a gleam in his eyes; the one that flickered mostly when he was ready to conclude his case and present the facts before his waiting audience. It is his personal Eureka-moment, if one might search for a comparison. In addition, as is his custom, there is always this spark of mischief. After all, he already has all the facts, only we, the audience, have not caught up yet.

"Is it for a case, Holmes?"

"No, Watson."

"An experiment?"

"No."

"What is it then, Holmes?"

"Think, Watson. It is neither a case nor an experiment. We are both in the kitchen, alone. Observe and deduce. What can it be?"

"Something more...", I realized instantly that my cheeks had got a bit heated, I cleared my throat and lowered my voice a bit even though we were alone, "... of a more personal nature."

"Close, Watson. Even though I intended for a more...", now it was Holmes who searched for words, "... emotional motive."

I looked at him expectantly.

"We are going to bake a cake, a seed cake, to be precisely. A very good version, as "Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management" assured me."

For a second I was not sure if I understood him correctly. Was I; were we, truly standing in Mrs Hudson's kitchen? Was it the cold surface of the kitchen range I felt in my back? I had never heard of this book title, and I knew that Holmes' interest are peculiar but Household Management, for a man and for Holmes of all people, seemed so outlandish... I could not rein myself in, and started to laugh. Holmes looked at me irritated.

"Apologies, Holmes. It is just... We have done so many unusual things, and I have invaded Afghanistan, but the two of us in a kitchen! Oh, the things you get me into, old man!"

"This is what you call unusual, Watson? Should I remind you of all our unique encounters and little adventures? You have written them down and made them more sensational in your tales in The Strand."

"Oh, hush, Holmes. You know all too well that we share, one might say, a peculiar peculiarity. We are both queer men, in more than one sense of the word. Further, I dearly hope that you know that I would not trade our life together for the world. As you are well aware, I tamper a bit with the truth in The Strand to protect the life we have chosen. It should sound so astonishing that the reader will never imagine how we are behind closed doors. Let them have their flights of fancy..."

"...so you can fancy me."

We shared a boyish grin, underlying a besotted smile. Because that might be two secret ingredients of our shared life: he brought me back to life with the thrill of the chase and the tender care of a lover. Holmes was leaning relaxed at the door that lead to the larder; I, still feeling out of my depth, was standing a bit more awkwardly in the room. As I saw him extract a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers, which I assumed to be the recipe of this very good version of caraway seed cake Holmes had mentioned, I had to inquire once more:

"So, you really intend to bake a cake, Holmes? You were not speaking in jest?"

"Since when do you know me as a man to jest? And toward you, of all people, John."

He seemed to be slightly hurt, and so I hurriedly asked an additional question. There was still something I was not seeing.

"But Holmes... why?"

Holmes did not answer in words. He only fixed me with a stare, I looked in his beautiful eyes, and there I could read the truth in plain, simple words: because he saw me wallowing and wanted to cheer me up. Because he was afraid of the demons that plagued my soul, demons, he knew far too well. Because he loved me.

The cake was a gift.

Something simple, something extra.

I had to kiss him, and so I did.

Before we got carried away and truly used one of Mrs Hudson's kitchen surfaces, or, God forbid, the big wooden table in the middle of the room, for more personal use, I put some physical distance between us. However pleasurable the picture painting itself in my head looked now, I know that we would regret it in the future. Holmes might be good at hiding such private matters; however even I know how much he personally hates to deceive people who are close to him. I know myself: I would not be able to enter the kitchen again without spilling the beans; maybe it made me a hypocrite or a liar in the eyes of law and men, but I am proper. Most importantly, Mrs Hudson would take one look at us and would read us like an open book. And she is used to our eccentricities and supports us in her way, but we both knew that it was not the time and place.

"I believe that we have a cake to bake."

We got to work. Holmes ordered me around, taking out this and that from Mrs Hudson's larder. Probably leaving behind a mess, we would be scolded like schoolchildren later. At his request, I got butter and eggs out of the icebox. Sugar and flour were easily found as the tins were labelled; yes, Mrs Hudson was a good housekeeper. I was not sure whether or not I could spot the difference in sugar and salt, and what a difference it would make! My mother's recipe surely had the caraway seeds but nothing so fancy as nutmeg or even a wineglass of brandy. I have to admit I had to think for a second that the latter was for drinking and not for baking! Holmes took great joy in the whole process. Unlike his chemical experiments in which I mostly only got a "hush, Watson" or "help!" when something goes amiss, here, today, I was like a laboratory assistant. Like in my university days, and oh, how often Stamford and I had been up for hours to bring ingredients for experiments to our professors, because medical training is nowadays more than anatomy, a development that I think will expand in modern times.

"Do you know what one could deduce from a common seed cake, Watson?"

Holmes voice brought me back to the present. While he had been giving me orders on where to find the ingredients and the exact quantities required for the cake, he had been a fixed point at the wooden table that we had silently agreed to be the place to prepare the cake. Now, Holmes' eyebrows were drawn together; his body clearly tensed up; he feared that the dark mood had fallen upon me again. He was so observant; and I was, am, and will be his favourite human object to study. Certainly, there were times in which his ability to read me like an open book while he himself manages to give away so little and on rare occasion only after personal request, made me a bit uneasy, but I know my Holmes. And because I am his Watson, I reassured him with our so well known line:

"I am not sure, Holmes, what one could deduce from a common seed cake but I am certain you will tell me in no time. Am I correct, dear Holmes?"

"The seed cake is one of Britain's oldest recipes. However, it stopped being popular in the early years of our Queen's reign. The common seed cake is therefore typical of the rural baking in the countryside. For centuries, it had the status of a luxury item for special occasions like harvest, the holidays etc, and for the better-off clients. As you know all too well, with the industrial revolution, people came to the cities and transformed our society forever. Cheap bread would feed the ever-growing nation, and "seed cake" would never be produced again. You yourself were drawn to the melting pot of London when you returned home from war. That even today, with the new century approaching, the wheel will not turn back – as if it ever would – you can spot it easily in the habits and appearance of my brother Mycroft. You have seen him in his Diogenes Club, Watson. He is enormous. Of course, a man like him will never go personally to one of the new shops on Kensington High Street. There is no place any more for something so common as seed cake, not even the very good version we are making today. It is time for pastry and all the new recipes named after our Queen.

"Which means, my dear Watson, that one can identify time and location from something as simple as a seed cake. Seed cake is so typical of the beginning of Queen Victoria's reign and in particular the English countryside, and more the North of our country, that knowledge of its existence, taste and even recipe, can give away a lot about one's biography."

"This is all very informative, Holmes, but how does it work in practice?"

Holmes smiled at me, warm and affectionate. It was his private smile, the one that only I can see, and only on rare occasions. It is the face of a man who loves to share his knowledge with a rapt audience. And I am, after all, his Boswell.

While he was giving his speech, his posture had already altered: even in the early days of our acquaintance, I had recognized that Holmes has different roles and with it different demeanours. When one observes closely enough, one can spot the difference between the scientist, the detective, the man, the brother, the lover, and so on. Years of personal study had told me that Holmes would change any second now from lecture to deduction, and so it happened:

"Take us, Watson. If I had not deduced your origin by your brother's watch then your eating habits would have given me insight into your past. You lost your accent after years spent at university, later in the army, and now, alongside me in London. Your clothes and most of your personal belongings are gone. However, your eyes lit up with recognition when I presented you with the recipe minutes ago. You know it so well, that you do not even need to taste it, your memory works in your, or should I say, the detective's favour. You cannot get the seed cake nowadays, so you could not have got a taste for it after you moved to London. You, old boy, know the seed cake because for years you have seen it made, and maybe, because the flour bags are very heavy and you have a curiosity, had even helped to prepare it. You can barely make out one of my experiments in the lab, but you did not even have to see all the ingredients of this recipe to deduce its name. So: John Watson, country-bred, from the North of England, born before 1870s. How did I do."

"Splendid, as always, Holmes."

"And Watson, you could deduce about my heritage as well. Or, maybe about my occupation. Do you want to give it a try?"

It is something we rarely make a habit of in public. He is Sherlock Holmes, I am John Watson. However, in the security of our rooms, we are on more of an equal footing. He loves to share not only his adventures with me, and, obviously, our rooms, but also his talent. Here, I am not only his assistant, but also his apprentice. I pondered for a moment and started my deduction.

"You knew about the seed cake because otherwise you would not make the connection. There are two possible conclusions: one, that you knew about the existence of the cake for the same reasons I do. The reason of childhood memories. Or, you learnt about it in your line of work. I do know that you have an index and your mind palace and God knows what else to store all the little titbits of our world. Most people would probably vote for this because they would assume – as I wrongly did – that you are not from the countryside. However, and I hope that you were not deceiving me, Holmes; you said that your family are country squires. They were the preferred consumers of such baked goods and as I am well aware that you and your brother alike – don't scoff, Holmes – are very fond of those, it would make a solid thesis to assume that you know about seed cake – just like me – from childhood days."

"Bravo, Watson. You know me well."

When we both smiled at his compliment, so rare but so welcome, we both knew that it was more than my surprisingly correct deduction.

We got back to work; now both sharing the space around the wooden table. Even though it was only early afternoon, it was so grey outside that we turned up the light. Electricity was still scarce, and so the biggest light bulb was naturally hanging over the wooden table was used as a kitchen table for the staff as well. Now and here, Holmes ordered me to beat the butter to a cream. It is the first step of making a seed cake. One that is well known to me. When my mother had grown older, my brother Harry had strayed from home more, and more, it had seemed natural for me to take over the more workmanlike tasks. Certainly one could say that we are both men, and Holmes has strength in his body, but he enjoys secretly being my commanding officer. And I enjoy it when he leads. Why should we change when we bake? Therefore, Holmes announced with his all-too-familiar voice task after task, and I followed them.

I dredged the flour; I would never make a mess. I added the sugar, mace, nutmeg and the caraway seeds to the dough. I am well aware of the fact that Holmes orders me around to mix it and maybe even prolongs the task a bit because he personally enjoys the play of my muscles. I will admit that whisking the eggs can be a tease, and I will leave it to my reader to imagine what one could make out of such a line. I will only report that it made my dear Holmes blush because oh, he definitely is not the country boy. I was even bolder: I suggested that when I had stirred the brandy into the cake and had beaten it for another 10 minutes, we had earned a drink. After all, all that was left is to put the dough into a tin lined with buttered paper and wait until the cake is done in 1 ½ to 2 hours.

Would it not be boring to wait next to the oven until the cake is ready? The kitchen had become hot with the heat of the oven, to escape for some time into the cooler rooms upstairs, seems heavenly, and who knows, if he wished for some heat, we could surely think of something...

Holmes did not openly speak about such matters. However, his actions speak volumes. More than I could ever report. He might not say it but days like that day show me how much he loves me. Simple things, unremarkable for some, that make the difference.

OOOOOOOOOO

No man would enter a kitchen; no man would bake a cake; no man would do all this for another man. The world could never find out. It might be such a small thing, a simple cake, but it had such a strong connotation. I knew the moment we left the kitchen, when we ate the cake, and when we shared it with our family of choice, it would be unspoken that a woman had made it. Let it be a grateful female client or patient, Mrs Hudson or her maid who had baked it. Alternatively, it had been bought, tough even in the case of a common seed cake that would be a lie unwise to tell. Therefore, it would probably have been Mrs Hudson, who was much more than a housekeeper, who would have seen me miserable because of the weather and had, as society expected from a competent and skilled woman, taken matters into her own hands and presented me with a seed cake.

Only for less than half an hour preparation time, could Holmes and I be a household on our own. Only behind closed doors and the house empty of the other members, could we be a unit.

Two men who share good days and bad days, and who not only lead a public, professional life but also a private one. For half an hour, we shared not only conversation, companionship and maybe carnal relations while the cake is in the oven, but also the declared common aspect of household chores.

Even when we retire to the countryside, somewhere on the Sussex Downs, as we have spoken about already, there will be a woman from the village to cook and clean. Two men living together might be raising suspicion already but the world knows through my stories about our peculiarities (even though they only know only half of it, thanks to my editing), but two men doing basic household chores?

It is the housekeeper, the wife, the maid – it is never a man. Not even when you are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, can you take such liberties in the open.

But I know that he is a wicked man and I am a hopeless romantic, so I guess we will not only take the memories of our respective youth and our shared lives in 221B with us to retirement but also the recipes. Moreover, when a dark mood befalls one of us, or, both, and Mrs Hudson will not be near (and no place for a doting wife!) and the thrill of the chase is over, then it will be the smell and taste and sight of a common seed cake that will bring us comfort.

It will sit unassumingly at the table and none will be the wiser.


NOTES:
"Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management" (1861)
Serious and very good cookery book of mid-Victorian and early 19th century recipes. She, her cook and her kitchen maid tried out every recipe in her own kitchen. First criterion: truly economical (very few marked "rich").
A Very Good Seed-Cake (1776)
Ingredients: 1 lb of butter; 6 eggs; ¾ lb of sifted sugar; pounded mace and grated nutmeg to taste; 1 lb of flour; ¾ oz of caraway seeds; 1 wineglass of Brandy
Mode: Beat the butter to a cream; dredge the flour; add the sugar, mace, nutmeg, and caraway seeds, and mix these ingredients well together. Whisk the eggs, stir to them the brandy, and beat the cake again – for 10 minutes. Put it into a tin lined with buttered paper, and bake it from 1 ½ to 2 hours.
Cost: 2s 6d
(www.mrsbeeton.com/35-chapter35.html)
Learn more about Mrs Beeton and her life in Victorian England, and her famous cook book and its legacy, here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mrs_Beeton%27s_Book_of_Household_Management