Food series

[le_russe_satan]

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'.

Whiskey.

“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.

Comments

[le-russe-satan.livejournal.com]

Heh, I'm never cheerful in the mornings especially before my first cup of coffee. I tend to growl at people XD. I can only be cheerful in the morning if I'm still drunk from the night before. O_o

Thanks for reading. :)

[sparkedbylore.livejournal.com]

I'd be more grumpy if the dogs didn't give me the big puppy dog eyes first thing. Can't be mean to them, but they don't eat till I've got the pot going on the stove.

[le-russe-satan.livejournal.com]

Heh, that is why I leave alone: so I can be grumpy right and left. XD