Pepper

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

 

Pepper

 

“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”.

                                                                                                   Anonymous

 

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.

 

Holmes.

 

 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.