May. 26th, 2009 09:51 pm
le_russe_satan: (Default)

Now, that I've (finally) got space for lots of pretty icons I actually thought about how many fandoms I have. And... WOW. x _ x And I've decided to write them all down. You can have a look under the cut. They are divided by medium (book, tv series, movie) and in those cases where the fandom spans more than one, I've put their names under the medium heading that 'started it all'!  (And I shan't even mention Russian language fandoms, well except one, which is available in English XD).

I'm sure I've missed some. *sigh*
Read more... )

UPD: I just realised I have three Agatha Christie's Poirot DVDs in duplicate. They are: 'Mysterious Affair at Styles', The Kidnapped Prime Minister/The Adventure of the Western Star', 'The Plymouth Express/Wasp's Nest' .  If any of you lovely people on my f-list want them, drop me a line, I can send them to you by post.

And the prize DVDs go to [personal profile] latin_cat 


Feb. 24th, 2009 09:35 am
le_russe_satan: (Default)

A new Russian Sherlock Holmes series?! You have got to be kidding me... And no one knows who the new Holmes will be. Curse them and their suspence!

 Found my copy of the 'Curtain', the last book about Poirot. Hid it again. I never read it and doubt I will any time soon, I just can't. x_x

 Need to go to the stationery store. I seem to have run out of my favourite squared paper. ;_;

 Must. Stop. Pretending. That I am Tolkien. Cause I am not and don't particularly want to be. XD

 And seriously this pain-relief cream mom got me for my back has menthol. Makes me feel like someone chucked ice into my pants. O_O

le_russe_satan: (Default)

Title: Violet ice & Sushi.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
A/N:  violet ice and sushi ideas by [info]nunewesen and [info]pblazer respectively. 


Read more... )
le_russe_satan: (Default)

Title: Garlic & Cream
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG-13 for suggestiveness.
A/N: Yet another installment.


Read more... )
le_russe_satan: (Default)
Life ramblings under cut. )

le_russe_satan: (Default)

Title: Almonds and Camomile.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG-13.
A/N: Finally, another installment. Sorry it's so short. 
Prunus dulcis,

'The sweet twilight breeze fragrant with almond...' . Jaime Manrique.

There are no sounds save for their breathing. It is warm, too warm: Holmes can feel tiny droplets of sweat gather on his skin and then roll down, leaving glistening tracks in their wake. Then something cool touches his skin, making him shiver, his fingers twisting the covers.
'What... what is it?' he manages to ask.
'Oleum amygdalae,' comes Watson's ever professional reply, his tone far from clinical though: hushed and sweltering like the air around them. Holmes tenses at the feeling of the cool liquid on Watson's fingers at first, but then it warms and the last words Holmes is able to make out are 'It is supposed to be emollient', and then he is pulled under, his senses clouded, the sweet and exotic smell of almonds filling the air.

Matricaria recutita.

'How the Doctor's brow should smile, Crown'd with wreaths of camomile.' Michael Eyquen de Montaigne.

  It is only due to the heroic effort of will that Watson manages not to slam the door as he leaves their living room. He sits down on the stairs heavily, tired and defeated. Holmes is back behind the closed door, his eyes unnaturaly bright with the poison of cocaine, coursing through his veins. Watson curses himself for a fool: why did he think that their changed relationship would cure Holmes of the ugly habit? Did he honestly hope that he would be distraction enough?
 There are soft footsteps on the landing as Mrs. Hudson approaches. She does not ask him anything, but he suspects from the soft and sad look in her eyes that she knows the truth better than even he does.
'Come, Doctor. Why don't we have some camomile tea? I've just put the kettle on'.
  Obediently, he follows her, and as the acerbic taste of the drink burns his mouth several minutes later, he feels it wash away the bitterness of his disappointment, filling him with a determination to go on. If only to put the smile back into Mrs. Hudson's eyes.


le_russe_satan: (Default)

Title: Peaches & Honey.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG, possibly PG-13 for suggestiveness.

Prunus persica.

“The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.”
 Andrew Marvell.

 The Countess is a curious woman. There is no doubting her elegance or manners, her upbringing and her intelligence, but what sets her apart from the her English counterparts is the mischevous spark in her eyes that I find somewhat unsettling. What she is proposing is not a case per se, but rather an adventure and I can see that Holmes is liking the idea.
 A servant brings in a huge dish filled with fruits of all kinds. The dinner was excellent and even Holmes has shown uncharacteristic appetite but my mouth still manages to water at the sight of the new dish. I throw a glance at Holmes curious to see whether what he will choose.
'Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must try the peaches', practically drawls our hostess as her elegant fingers close around the fruit gently and hold it out to my friend. She looks like a picture of the Serpent seducing Eve. Holmes smiles and accepts and cannot help but feel an irrational stab of jealousy.
 Suddenly the Countess gets up, waving us back into the seats: 'Oh, my, I quite forgot about something. I shall not be long gentlemen, please, do enjoy the peaches', the smile she turns on me is positively devious and in a swirl of expensive cloth she's gone.
 'What an interesting woman', I say turning to Holmes, whose only reply is the sound of pleasure he makes as he bites into the ripe fruit. Immediately a tiny rivulet of juice runs down from the corner of his mouth: I manage to stop it with a swipe of my finger before it reaches his chin. As I lick the drop off my finger, I have to admit that the Countess was quite right to insist that we try the peaches: it tastes heavenly.
 Holmes's eyes are darkened when I look back at him, his lips moist with the nectar lifted at one corner in a small smile.
'Ah, I do believe our hostess is a very perceptive woman. I think this peach is most delicious', he says finally and reaches out the fruit to me.

Calluna vulgaris.

"Life is the flower for which love is the honey."
 Victor Hugo.

The clear golden liquid trickles down slower and slower, glinting like amber when the sunlight hits it through the window. Outside there is first snow and first bracing cold of early winter, yet where the sun touches my skin it is as warm as in the spring. I can hear Watson come up behind me, his hand circling my waist.
'Mmm, I see Mrs. Hudson broke out the heather honey her cousin sent her', murmurs Watson dreamily. 'I rather hoped she would, one must brace oneself for the cold with something'.
I lean back, away from the sunlight, but the warmth of another's hand and chest against me is infinitely better.
'Yes, John, one most assuredly must'.
le_russe_satan: (Default)

Title: 'Juniper'
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG, possibly PG-13 for a kiss (yup, I'm finally there).
A/N: I am still sneezing from sniffing at the berries, so forgive me any typos. :)


“A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey's gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind”
 John Cheeve.

Watson is away in the country for a few days. Few days only, and yet whatever I do, I feel his absence most acutely. When Mrs. Hudson brings the food in, there is no one chiding or encouraging me to eat. When I strike a match to light a cigarette, I cannot use it to light his and the match dies away slowly in the ashtray. I feel bored and no one's there trying to whatever he can to prevent me from using cocaine as an escape. I talk and no one listens, no one answers.
 And when I get a case there's excitement, yes, but when I get a cut on my hand from fighting with the criminal there's no one to bind it for me. And when I sit and drink my client's gin and tonic that he has favoured since India and listen to his stories of the place, the drink seems much more bitter and not quite real.

Juniperus communis.

"And as he lay and slept under a juniper tree, behold, then an angel touched him...",
The Bible.

 Stanford has been most kind: I am not quite sure how he wrangled an invitation from his aunt that allowed me to spend some days at her estate, but I am exceedingly grateful. The house itself is not very big but very old and charming and the grounds are beautiful, with a small lake, a flower garden and a park that seemed to stretch into infinity. It is so different from what I see in London and yet I cannot help but think of Holmes, hoping that the 'black' mood did not settle in, although he seemed on the way there when I was leaving for the country.
 The morning is fresh and clear when I set off for the walk to the park: the other inhabitants of the house are still at their breakfast. The sky is shrouded with a light grey gauze of clouds, but the dew still sparkles gently on the juniper shrubs, when I pause in my walk, stopping next to them. For a moment I look them over, breathing in the fresh sharp scent, then I pick a berry: when chewed fresh they leave a pleasant 'buzz' on one's tongue. I am so absorbed in my own thoughts, I never hear his footfall.

 Watson is looking at me startled and surprised.
'Holmes, what on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?', his eyes are worried.
'No, I wanted to apologise: when we parted a few days ago, I behaved abominably'.
Watson looks at me like I took leave of my senses, but then, perhaps, I have.
'You came all the way here just for that?' he asks incredulously.
I have not, but I do not know how to say it. I, the great Sherlock Holmes, do not know what to do. Very often I can deduce what is going on in someone's mind, but I cannot quite fathom the expression on Watson's face as I look at him, lost and unsure. And when his hand touches my face, a cleansing, refreshing smell of juniper reaches my nostrils, and when he kisses me, I do not know whether the 'buzz' on my tongue is from the berries or him, but what I feel is so sharp and clear and vivid that no deduction can ever compare with it.

le_russe_satan: (Default)

Title: Coffee & Whiskey.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Rating: PG
A/N: Some time ago I have written four short stories with the common theme of food. This is the continuation.

Coffea arabica.

"Good coffee should be black like the devil, hot like hell, and sweet like a kiss." Hungarian saying.

  Most mornings Watson is cheerful and wide awake, bestowing smiles upon me from above the top of his newspaper whenever I choose to join him. Yet, there are occasions when he stumbles out of bed puffy-eyed, grumpy and mildly confused, substituting normal speech with grumbling and monosyllabic responses. I always found these occasions amusing: sometimes he holds the paper upside down for a full minute before realising what's wrong with it; sometimes he surpasses myself in uncharitable treatment of our landlady and morning visitors; sometimes he stumbles into me when I get in the way and does not move away for a good few moments, his body trying to readjust itself to its spatial position. I will gladly admit to anyone, Watson included, that I find these mornings amusing. What I'll withhold is that I find these mornings somehow endearing and for want of a better word, adorable. They remind me that a human being (even the one I berate and live with) is the greatest mystery ever created. I am enamoured of mysteries. I am enamoured of Watson.
'Pass the coffee'.
'Not your cheerful self today, eh, Watson?'
 There seems to be a growl starting somewhere deep in Watson's throat: 'Pass the goddamn coffee, Holmes'. As I pass the coffepot, our fingers brushing gainst each other, as he pours the pungent liquid into his cup, I allow myself a smile, which thankfully no one ever sees.I know the smile particularly indicative of my fondness for the Doctor that no man must witness.
'Hell's bells, Holmes, either you quit that inane smiling or I am checking you for fresh needle marks'.


“Champagne's funny stuff. I'm used to whiskey. Whiskey is a slap on the back, and champagne's a heavy mist before my eyes.”
Jimmy Stewart

   Mrs. Lewis offers us a drink. The choice is not big and we settle for whiskey. We drink in companiable silence, then our host's husband comes back and it is time to take our leave. I catch  a whiff of Holmes's breath as he leans in to whisper that Major Lewis has undoubtedly came from his mistress tonight. But I care not for this piece of deduction, preferring to indulge my own conjecturing.
  I know how various kinds of alcohol colour Holmes's breath. There's ale, which I do not like. When Holmes drank ale it usually meant an 'undercover or discreet enquiries, an area of Holmes's life I never would be a part of. I am afraid of this smell. There is the smell of champagne. The triumphant aroma that saddens me a little, though I rather like it: it was too rare a guest upon my friend's breath. And then there is whiskey: a companiable, amicable scent. It is the smell of whiskey we kept at their flat, its fumes permeating their friendship and bond. It was his favourite smell, the smell of their privacy together, and though it was the most frequent companion to Holmes's breath, nevertheless I could never get enough. If love could have a scent, to me it would smell like whiskey.


Dec. 23rd, 2007 12:48 am
le_russe_satan: (Default)
Title: Citrus
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Rating: PG 

Citrus limon
My best indicator has always been our lemon trees because they blossom earlier than oranges and grapefruit".
                                                                                                                                   Kathy Oleson
Holmes and I are taking a walk in the Regent’s Park. It’s a warm September day and the sun has already started its inevitable decent towards the horizon. Holmes is not, thankfully in a black mood, but neither he is effervescent. Our conversation ceased almost as soon as we came out of our house and made our way here. My friend seems to be in deep thought, his face expressionless, although I fancy I saw a small sad smile distort his lips briefly, before he schooled his features back into a sphinx – like mask.
 I am sure he does not wander what is on my mind. Not only because he could not really care less, but simply because he cannot fail to see what must be written in my every expression, my every gesture, my every glance.
 I am startled out of my thoughts by the light touch of Holmes’ hand on my arm.
- Watson, look over there. They are selling fresh lemons. Do you think we should purchase some for ourselves and Mrs. Hudson?
 I nod in agreement as leads me to the makeshift stall, the smell and the sunny colour of the lemons enticing me, leaving no space for anything else to be noticed by my exhausted senses.
 Watson must have noticed something odd in my behaviour as he is unusually subdued. I just hope that my skills as an actor conceal the true nature of the “oddness”. I notice the lemons and although it’s a strange place to see a street vendor, the fruits look beautiful. Deceitfully beautiful, for they are so sour on the inside. I touch Watson’s hand to get his attention, and wish I could do much more than that.
Citrus paradisi
“There is a lot more juice in a grapefruit than meets the eye."
-         I find grapefruit to be a thoroughly strange fruit.
-         And why is that, Watson?
-         I don’t really know how to put this feeling into words,  or the reasons for it: after all feelings do not always stem from logical reasons.
-         That is exactly why I have no time for feelings, - snaps Holmes, wishing that this simple statement could make his feelings disappear.
 Watson smiles knowingly and returns to peeling his grapefruit, being careful to clean off all the thin white skin between the rind and the flesh of the fruit, which he knows to be the bitterest part.
Citrus sinensis
An orange on the table, your dress on the rug, and you in my bed, sweet present of the present, cool of night, warmth of my life".
                                                                                                             Jacques Prever

 Holmes is on the rug in front of the fireplace. He is wearing only his nightshirt as it is rather hot in our house, and I find myself wishing I could be as Bohemian as Holmes. As he is not exactly lying still, the nightshirt has ridden up his legs to just above his knees, and I am indulging in the guilty pleasure of studying his well shaped calves. To divert myself I pick up a plate full of orange segments and place it in my lap. The fruit is fresh and delicious, but I am rather full to contemplate having more than a few pieces.
Watson calls out to me, and I lift my head to look at him. He is holding the plate with orange pieces out to me: I ignore it.
-         Come, Holmes, have some. It’d be a pity to waste it. You just have to eat it: see it’s peeled and separated into segments, as if for a child.
I feel rather in a mood to behave like a child, more so, like a spoiled brat. In one quick movement I abandon my spot, and take up position between Watson’s legs. I lean against the settee with my back, and stretch out my legs.
      -      Well, feed me then like a child.
I can’t see Watson’s face, but he probably looks exasperated and annoyed. I smile to myself. My poor friend. I expect him to either tell me off, or thrust the damned plate into my hand. What I certainly do not anticipate is to see Watson’s hand circling round to press a piece of sweet-smelling orange against my lips. All of a sudden I am not so sure about who won this round.

Holmes fic

Dec. 19th, 2007 09:05 pm
le_russe_satan: (Default)
 Well, here's another product of my "fiery" imagination. 

Title: Mint
Rating: PG
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash

"As for the garden of mint, the very smell of it alone recovers and refreshes our spirits, as the taste stirs up our appetite…”[1]
Mentha spirata.
-         I say Holmes, there is no need to look at it as if you have been offered some sort of refuse.
 Holmes grunts and continues to eye the cup in front of him so suspiciously, as if he was Lestrade questioning a suspect whose story was full of holes.
-         Come Holmes, it’s essentially just tea with mint.
 Watson is having too much fun on my account. I steel myself and make a cautious sip. The taste is strange: certainly not the kind of tea I am used to. It is definitely too sweet for my liking, but I find myself strangely enjoying the mint aftertaste. Watson leans over to take a piece of Turkish delight:
-         See, it was not so bad after all, was it?
He chuckles, his breath ghosting across my neck, and I ma not sure whether it is the echo of having been in the Turkish baths or the aroma of Watson’s breath tinged with mint that makes my blood heat up uncontrollably.
Mentha pulegium, Mentha suaveolens.
-         Watson, she was poisoned by pennyroyal essential oil.
-         Yes, Holmes, despite the fact that I am nowhere as good with deduction as you are, being a doctor, thankfully, has equipped me with knowledge pertaining to the subject of pulegone[2] poisoning. However, I must point out to you that it might have been accidental: we do not know whether her pregnancy was desirable.
 Holmes does not even snort derisively, instead he starts pouting: an action I am sure he will deny ever having engaged in, was he told of it. It is the first time since the day we met that he neither had to explain an aspect of a case to me, nor had substantial enough proof and reasoning to argue against my reasoning. I felt almost smug about the whole situation.
 Dropping himself onto the settee with less than his usual grace, Holmes exclaimed:
-         I hate this case! I curse the day they discovered both the medicinal and poisonous quantities of this damned pennyroyal mint!
It is really hard for me not to laugh: the look on Holmes’s face is that of a really prodigious child that has for once made a mistake. Yet, I keep my composure, hiding myself behind a newspaper.
 Mrs. Hudson chooses this moment to come in with our dinner. The smell wafting in is rather good.
-         What have you made for us tonight, Mrs. Hudson? I must say, it smells delicious!
-         Oh, I just decided to give old recipe a little twist, Doctor: it is lamb with apple mint jelly.
Holmes practically catapults from his seat and stomps away into his bedroom, leaving Mrs. Hudson bewildered and me laughing.
Mentha piperita.  
 Our cabdriver is executing his job with enthusiasm. We are nearing Baker Street with alarming speed. Watson is silent, except for the occasional rustle of the paper bag that holds his freshly purchased sweets.
 The cab does a sharp turn to the right and Watson flies into me, his body pressed along mine for a few moments, pleasant heat seeping through my coat.
-         Watson?
-         Yes, Holmes?
 He still has not moved away completely, when I call his name. He looks up at me, head tilted just so, and his mouth is alarmingly close to mine. I have to swallow down a lump that has suddenly appeared in my throat, before I manage to say:
-         Could I have one of your peppermints?
Watson smiles and hands me the bag. I suck on the sweet knowing that it is not mint that I want to taste, but Watson.

[1] The actual quote ends with “appetite for meat”, but I decided to cut out the last bit for obvious reasons. ^^
[2] I am not exactly sure if this is correct, but that’s the toxic element in the oil.



Dec. 16th, 2007 07:52 pm
le_russe_satan: (Default)
Title: Pepper
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Rating: PG 

“Love is like swallowing hot chocolate before it has cooled. It takes you by surprise at first, but keeps you warm for a long time”.
Some might find it strange, but I was looking forward to my second English summer after returning from Afghanistan. Pleasant warmth instead of searing heat, perhaps a trip to seaside would do my health some good, but as someone once told me: “Human hopes, yet the God decides”. Trust Holmes to get tonsillitis in July!
 A lot of my patients – no matter how pleasant and amiable in normal circumstances – when ill became somewhat irate and unpleasant, yet Holmes beat them all to the title of the most impossible patient I have ever treated. My nerves were already frayed by his constant complaints, refusal to eat properly and to keep to the bed. In addition I had to practically shove the medicine down his throat. Today was especially bad: Mrs. Hudson was called away by family business until tomorrow morning. I managed to talk Holmes into eating some toast – that took about half an hour - with his coffee, yet I dreaded the lunch hour, and in retrospect I was right to do so.
 Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson left in quite a hurry and the task of preparing broth was left to me. Thankfully I am – if I say so myself – rather skillful when it comes to cooking, so preparing the meal held no difficulties. I brought the bowl upstairs, not bothering with the whole lunch paraphernalia, and I handed it to Holmes. He groaned, he cursed and, finally, having eaten less than a half of his portion, pronounced:
-         Will you just take it away?! It’s bloody tasteless!
Of course I am aware that when one has tonsillitis, it can affect one’s ability to taste food properly, yet I was so put upon by Holmes in these last few days that it is all I can do not to upend the contents of the bowl onto his head, but calmly take the dish and myself downstairs. However, I am embarrassed to say that I slammed the front door rather forcefully when I left the house.
 I walked aimlessly for quite a while in an effort to calm my nerves, chanting a mantra: “He’s ill, it’s not his fault”, when I came across a small spice shop. I am not sure what made me go inside, but probably it was the exotic smell of myriads of spices that I haven’t encountered since my time in India. It’s dim and cool inside and the aroma is all the stronger. I browse the offered wares with somewhat nostalgic delight, when I realize that the store also trades in certain delicacies, one of them being a very expensive bag of cocoa of South American origin. In fifteen minutes or so I leave the shop carrying a rather big package.
 I am almost taken aback when I find that Holmes is for once following my medical advice: he is lying in his bed, reading a book, when I look in on him, having left my purchases downstairs. As I close the door to his bedroom, there’s a fleeting look on his face as if he wants to tell me something, but I put it down to my imagination.
 My actions the next half an hour make me feel like I am weaving a spell, not simply making a drink. The mixed smell of cocoa, cloves, cinnamon and vanilla create a heady aroma that is both warm and somehow seductive, but it is when I take out cayenne pepper that I feel the full sensual power of spices: the images that start flashing in my mind stir heat in my long neglected loins. I shake my head as if that can help and go back to Holmes’s room.
 He’s silent as I approach him, eyeing the cup in my hands apprehensively, almost like a child would do when faced with medicine. I sit gingerly on the edge of the bed and offer him the cup.
-         Watson, please tell me, this is not cocoa, - Holmes’s face is so disdainful that I almost give up there and than.
-         Yes, it is, Holmes. You did complain about the tastelessness of other dishes, I thought this might help.
I am not sure whether it is indeed his desire to be able to taste or my “no-arguments” face, or his guilt for how he treated me has finally caught up with him, but he takes the cup from me and takes a small sip. Oh, yes, he can taste! It is not for nothing I put almost twice as much pepper than required by the recipe. I can see his cheeks flush almost immediately and his eyes widen slightly at no doubt a rather strong burning sensation making him look incredibly beautiful to my eyes, but I don’t see him wanting to drink anymore. I stand up and leave, feeling a little like a kicked puppy.
 A couple of hours later I overcome my irritation in favour of my professional duty and look in on Holmes. He is asleep peacefully. The cup is on the bedside table, empty. I think I smiled at this discovery. There is also a smudge of chocolate at the corner of Holmes’s mouth, which I wipe away gently.
 Again I have a problem determining whether I am awake or not. In the end I decide it is a dream: why else would Watson stroke my lips? I think I kissed his finger before the darkness took me again.
le_russe_satan: (Default)

 Just a little fluffy fic about Holmes, Watson and strawberries

Title: Strawberries
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Raiting: PG


 I have been away for only three days, but Holmes has not been losing any time:
 “Is Mr. Holmes in?” – I enquire.
“Oh, yes, Doctor, but I’m afraid he has another of his black moods coming on. He has not eaten anything for two days”, - says Mrs. Hudson taking my coat. I cannot help but sigh. Although I have lived for almost one and half years with Holmes, I still cannot get used to his mood swings, or to his abuse of his own body. I trudge upstairs, not looking forward to the scene that is about to greet me.
 The living room is filled with smoke, which hangs like a thick fog over the furniture. Holmes is reclining on the settee wearing only a nightshirt with a dressing gown over it. He does not pay any attention to my entrance, or my subsequent actions which are opening the window and lighting a fire in the long neglected fireplace. I am on the verge of asking him to have some food, but I know it is going to be useless, so – feeling rather tired after my journey- I wash and decide to turn in for the day. I’m already drifting off into the arms of Morpheus, when a recollection strikes me. What was that Mr. Parker said by way of making small talk? The first strawberries are in? Immediately a plan hatches in my mind.
 As many people know now, thanks to my novel, Holmes can be almost ascetic in his needs, indeed he neglects his body to a horrifying – to a doctor – extent, especially when it comes to nutrition. My constant battle is to make him eat, especially when he’s in a black mood. The man enjoys good food, yet he has only one weakness in that area, that I have recently learnt of. Strawberries. You may laugh, but Holmes fights his craving for strawberries as I wish he would fight his cocaine habit. He probably thinks it would spoil his image if he shows how much he enjoys that simple fruit. I fall asleep with a smile.
 Thankfully, Holmes is sleeping when I wake up, which is not surprising as it is only six in the morning. I go through my morning toilette quickly and hurry downstairs. Mrs. Hudson is awake and a little annoyed at my intention of going out this early.
 “Doctor, can’t you wait a little? I’ll have your breakfast upstairs in no time, or have you succumbed to Mr. Holmes’s ways?”
 I chuckle at that and calm her by saying that I shall be back presently and if she could please set about making a sumptuous breakfast enough for two. I rush to the closest market wanting to be there just as the stalls open. I almost start praising Heavens when I see that Mr. Parker was right: strawberries season has started. There are only a couple of stalls selling them and the prices are quite high, but that does not stop me. I buy four pounds of strawberries.
 When I come back to Baker Street, Holmes is still asleep and the breakfast is almost ready. I hand the strawberries to Mrs. Hudson and wait for her to wash them.
-         Would you like me to bring them up with the breakfast, Doctor? – asks our landlady trying to find a bowl big enough to hold all the strawberries.
-         No, keep them here. I’ll come and fetch them myself.
There is a slightly confused look on her face, as I find a small dish and place a few strawberries on it.
-         Just bring the breakfast up when it’s ready.
I carry the dish with me upstairs. Knocking on Holmes’s bedroom door I enter, but he does not stir. Placing the dish on the bedside table, I draw a chair next to his bed and shake him awake.
I heard a knock on my door, but I cannot bring myself to wake up. The world can go to hell as far as I am concerned. But then someone’s hand is on my shoulder, and I am forced to wake up if only to curse at the owner of the damned limb. When I do open my eyes, it is all I can do not to gasp. Watson is sitting next to my bed, and there is a positively mischievous smile on his face. I am about to enquire whether we have a client, when he reaches for something and suddenly there is a strawberry hovering just out of the reach of my lips. Oh, it’s a dream. One of those dreams, which would undoubtedly soil my sheets were I a teenager. Watson and strawberries. I part my lips and the fruit slides in suggestively. I practically moan as I feel the taste of it and the tingling sensation where Watson’s finger brushed over my lip. I swallow, and there is another strawberry waiting for me. I think I consume about four or five more of them, when suddenly the sweet torture stops.
- Watson, why did you stop? Aren’t there more?
- Oh, you want more?
- Oh, for Christ’s sake, you know I do!
- Well, you’ll have to do something for me, if you want them, Holmes.
I am all anticipation as I ask what is it that he wants, but the answer is very far from what I expected.
- Holmes, you will get up and eat your share of the breakfast, - states Watson firmly and leaves.
I shut my eyes and groan. I should have realised it was not a dream.


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