Evil Russian

 So, yes, wtf?! *headdesks multiple times, then groaning lights a cigarette and stares into the computer screen* I have been noted to possess a cynical nature, even a slightly sadistic one (only because I laughed during a funeral once, but seriously who has not done that?) with small crumbs of softer, more female nature thrown in, though those crumbs only float up (like, pardon me, shit in a canal) when I write slash. And yet, when one is somewhat drunk and writes a six-line poem and then re-reads it in the morning and realises what's it about....*shivers, and considers admitting self to asylum*. It is all very metaphorical, but the basic plot is that there is a murderer who's killed God knows how many people and despite a slight feeling of remorse he will go one doing just that. What gets me is the sense that I am standing on the sidelines and cheering him on. *eyes the empty bottle of port and slaps on a sticky paper with the words 'Satan's drink' printed in a somewhat shaky hand*.  So, yes, I have proven to  myself that I am evil and therefore all's right with the world for a Russian who is not considered evil by other nations has dishonoured the motherland. XD XD XD

Food Series 7

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'.

(no subject)

 When the cigarette smoke started smelling like roast lamb a moment ago, I didn't even say wtf, because I've been expecting it. XD Let me expain.

 Living alone is perhaps one of the most wonderful things that ever happened to me. But! (of course there's a but) since I have no one to cook for or to share food with, I kinda forgot the last time I turned the stove on. Subsisting on take away once every three days, alcohol and more importantly nicotine is of course worthy of an eteranal geek and student, especially when I get so much intellectual 'food', and yet it's starting slowly to bug me. I'm starting to dream of food: steaks, salads, hell, even potatoes that smile seductively to me dangling a key from 'food' Heaven in front of my nose, like an unhinged St. Peter.
 If I was an abstitent, ascetic sort of person I might not mind so much, but I love food, you should see my shelf with culinary books. My stomach is threatening to crawl out through my throat and beat me until I feed it.  My brain conjures up names of exotic dishes whenever I read scientific terminology in a textbook.  So, yes, I believe it's time to go out there and cook, before my own body inflicts grave injuries on me.
 The problem is of course, is that something died in my fridge and I suspect foul play.

UPD: Hmmm, top three things I but in my corner shop (realised on the way back from it):
1. Cigarettes x 2 packs
2. Cider x 2 bottles
3. Toilet paper x 4 rolls.

I'm such a lady. XD