Notes: Hi everyone! It's my first shot at writing fanfic, so I appreciate all constructive feedback! :) In this story, Sherlock has a neurological phenomenon known as auditory-gustatory synesthesia that enabled him to associate tastes to sounds/words. I'm not afflicted with this phenomenon nor do I know anyone who is, but I did do a bit of research. If there are any errors, please point them out to me and I will correct right away! Also, this story is not beta-ed, all errors are mine.
"Sherlock!"
Cake batter.
"Sherlock!"
Broccoli. Yuck.
"Sherlock! This is enough, brother-mine. Please come out!"
Cake batter. Coffee. Lavender scented soap. Cherries. Hmm... not bad.
"Get your arse down here. Now!"
Dust. Pumpkin. Rotten eggs. Absolutely disgusting.
Sherlock pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his skinny arms around them. No one would be able to find him here; this is the perfect hiding place - obviously. The voices keep calling out for him. Closing his eyes, Sherlock lets the words roll onto his tongue. Apples, chocolate biscuits, cotton candy, cucumber sandwiches, fresh tomatoes, roasted beef. The tastes are faint at first. As the voices come nearer, the tastes start to be overpowering, especially the unpleasant ones. Brick dust, mucus, vomit.
Pressing his hands over his ears, Sherlock wishes he could be permanently deaf. He had tried to cut off all the noises via different methods, deliberately injuring his ears was one of them. Unsuccessfully, of course. Otherwise, he would not have to resort to this pedestrian tactic - hiding. Though this is bound to be a failure too.
A few moments of complete silence. Bliss.
Silence eases the tastes, allowing Sherlock to escape to his mind palace where it is blessedly bland.
"Sherlock!"
Broccoli. Again, yuck.
They are getting closer. God damn it. (Cabbage, lime, whiskey)
Should stop cursing. The tastes combination is extremely unpleasant.
"Here you are!"
A pair of strong hands are reaching toward Sherlock, intending to pull the boy out from under the desk.
"I expected a more obvious hiding place," the voice says amusingly. Lettuce, quince, bacon.
"Let go of me, Mycroft," Sherlock spits the words out with as much spite as he can gather.
Mycroft. Strong black tea.
"Now, now, be nice. Mummy and Father want you downstairs," Mycroft stands up to his full height, towering over his little brother. "You cannot be absent. It is the Christmas dinner, after all."
Sherlock scowls.
Mummy. Candied carrots.
Father. Burnt toast.
The food is appallingly bad.
Though some words could taste much worse. "Sorry", for instance, has an overwhelming lemon rinds flavor.
The thought doesn't help at all. Sherlock pushes his plate aside.
Cocaine. Roasted chestnuts.
What he would give for a pinch of it.
It has been a month since Sherlock was forced into rehab by the ever caring brother Mycroft. Mummy had passed away two months previous. Father had left to god knows where with his mistress. Mummy's dying wish was for Sherlock to be healthy again. He was forever her little boy with big blue eyes that are sprinkled with golden specks every time the light hit them, innocent and precious. Those eyes used to be filled with wonder, curiosity, determination, and definitely a hint of arrogance.
"Why do some words taste disgusting, mummy? I don't want to talk to her; her name tastes like ashes! Kindergarten is so annoying; they are all so stupid and many of them have yucky names. Life is boring, mummy, 'boring' tastes of bitter grapefruits, so I want to be a pirate. 'Pirate' tastes like apple pies, and I like apple pies," the two-year-old Sherlock had confined in his mother.
Mycroft has promised mummy that he would help Sherlock detox. It was easier said than done.
The worst of it has passed. Thanks heavens. A few more months and Sherlock would be cleaned. Whether he would stayed clean is another problem.
"Would you like some desserts, Mr. Holmes? Maybe some coffee?" The nurse kindly asks Sherlock.
"Coffee. Black, two sugars," Sherlock says without looking up at his nurse. "Thank you, Nancy." A rare moment of civility. He lets the name swirls around in his mouth.
Nancy. Mint with a touch of vanilla. Not bad for a name.
And "thank you" tastes foreign to him, having rarely ever said it (nor heard it from anyone). Apricot flavored... jelly beans?
"Who are you?" A man calls out.
Crackers and canned peas. The accent is tolerable. Good.
"You are wrong," Sherlock says, waving his hand up in the air in what he intends to be a greeting gesture. Still crouching over the body, he continues matter-of-factly, "This is not a suicide. It is a murder. A serial murder."
"How the hell did you get in here? And who are you to say that?" The man, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, approaches Sherlock from behind; his worn-out shoes grind against the wet gravel noisily. It is well past midnight, and he is exhausted. He doesn't need any unnecessary comments from some nosy bystander who can't seem to stay behind the police's line.
"It is rather obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock says, still looming over the body with his pocket magnifier in hands.
"Sally!" Lestrade yells out toward the direction of the back door leads into the kitchen. "Before I bring you back to the station, you better start answering my questions," he turns back to Sherlock and says.
"The name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock stands up. With a swirl of his long, black coat, he comes face to face with the furious policeman. "The fact that I was able to sneak into a crime scene so easily speaks of your team's inability to handle the most basic of police work."
"Sir, you call?" The woman, Sally, walks into the backyard. "Who is this?" She notices Sherlock.
Popcorn. Sunflower seeds.
"I should be asking you that question, Sargent," Lestrade grumbles. "Take him back to the station."
"Detective Inspector, you might want to look into the first victim's uncle. Conduct a thorough search of his house," Sherlock says. "And I don't think I can go with you."
"It is not your decision to make, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade gestures to Sally, who approaches Sherlock with a curious look.
A hint of scotch. Peach yogurt.
Sherlock spends the night in Scotland Yard's interrogation room with a very astonished Detective Inspector. Turns out, Sherlock is right (obviously), and the DI is baffled as to how on earth did he manage to solve the crime so quickly. The other officers aren't so impressed, however. Not after Sherlock begins to liberally announcing their love lives to everyone within the vicinity.
"Freak," Sally huffs when Sherlock asks if her knees hurt after scrubbing Anderson's floor the previous night.
Freak. Chocolate croissants.
"Well, it's a bit different from my day," the voice of the newcomer reaches Sherlock from across the lab. It catches his attention immediately: it tastes surprisingly pleasant.
He glances over at the stranger over the microscope. Military. Doctor. Psychosomatic limp. Looking for a flatmate. Oh.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Are the first words Sherlock says to the stranger, who looks at him in astonishment.
Mike Stamford, who has brought the stranger with him to the lab, is looking back and forth between them, clearly amused.
"Afghanistan. But...how? Did you tell him about me?" Apple strudels. Creme brulee.
Mike shakes his enormous, almost bald head in a negative. "He is always like that." Over-brewed coffee. Grass.
Oh, just stopping talking already! Sherlock has never liked Mike's voice, nor does he appreciate his under-average intelligence. Turning to Sherlock, Mike continues, "This is John, John Watson; an old mate of mine." Yes, I know that, now shut up.
"Yes, hello. Dr. John Watson," Watson says and holds out his hand, smiling politely.
Ignoring the introduction, Sherlock puts on his scarf and grabs his coat, "I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometime I do not talk for days on end. Also, I do experiments in the kitchen," he says to a much puzzled John Watson. "I figure if we're to be flatmate, we should know the worst of each other. So come around six tomorrow," with a curt nod, Sherlock heads for the door.
"Wait!" John calls out. "That's it? We don't know each other. I don't even know where we are meeting!"
Jam tarts. Lemonade. Crisps.
"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street," Sherlock replies before swiftly opens the door and walks out, leaving one baffled prospective flatmate behind.
When he steps out onto the pavement in front of St. Barts, Sherlock smiles to himself. Dr. John Watson - the name stays on his tongue and slowly dissolves into the warm, smoky flavors of plum pie with roasted pecans.
His mobile chirps. One new message.
Congratulations on finding a new flatmate, dear brother - MH.
That nosy git.
John Watson finishes unpacking the last box and plunges down onto the neatly made bed. He sighs in contentment.
The flat is nice. A bit messy, but cozy. John especially likes the overstuffed armchair next to the fireplace. There is another one facing it with metal frames, which John speculates to be Sherlock's. It fits him.
Mrs. Hudson is sweet. John likes her. She reminds him of his dead grandmother, especially her biscuits. They are heavenly.
Looking at his watch, John sits up immediately - it's already two in the afternoon. Sherlock has been gone since early morning when John has arrived with his belongings. Just when John is about to get up to go grab some lunch, he hears footsteps running up the stairs and the door swings open violently. John rushes out and is greeted with a sight he sure won't forget for some time: Sherlock is covered from head to toes in blood with a spear in his left hand.
"Well, it was tedious," he says to John, and blinks once. A tiny droplet of blood follows the curve of his eyebrows and rolls down to his cheek.
"I hope that's not human blood," John manages a reply.
Sugar biscuits, papaya. Interesting combination.
"Of course not."
"Good."
Peppermint.
"Hungry?"
"Uhm, yes, actually I was just about to -"
Sweet potato pancakes.
"There's a Chinese place around the corner."
"Good. Yes." Peppermint. Tomato soup. "But, aren't you going to... clean up first?"
Pumpkin pie, sugar.
"Obviously," Sherlock smiles and runs off into his room, leaving a slightly stunned John Watson in the living room.
Sherlock's mobile chirps.
I would recommend an Italian restaurant a few blocks from Baker Street for your first date - MH.
He's not my date - SH.
Sherlock staggers. His feet ache with every step. His left hand runs along the brick wall of the alleyway, guiding and stopping him from falling. Behind, he can hear shoutings, a few gunshots, and running footsteps. It has started to rain half an hour ago. His coat is beginning to soak through with rain water.
His mobile vibrates.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? - John
He stops, leans back against the wall, and types a reply.
On my way back now. - SH
Are you ok? Why didn't you text Greg back? He's about to send out a team to look for you. I'm sure Mycroft has already sent out a troop of special ops. - John
Sherlock chuckles.
I was busy. I am fine. No sight of Mycroft's army. And who is Greg? - SH
His mobile vibrates almost immediately.
Greg is Lestrade's first name. Can't believe you still don't remember that. - John
Another message arrives seconds later. Just be safe. I'm on my way back from St. Bart's with a new first aid kit. Have a feeling you might need it. - Jonn
Sherlock's smile widens. He pockets the mobile and staggers out of the alleyway, onto the main road.
It takes him almost an hour later and a hefty tip to the cab's driver to get back to Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson lets out a horrified yelp when she opens the door.
"John!" She calls.
Beef stew.
He hears John's footsteps, then, "Gosh, what did you get yourself into this time?" John's voice is warm and kind, with a hint of worry. Also, mustard, roasted sesame seeds, freshly baked bread.
"I'm fine," Sherlock croaks.
"I will take it from here. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John says. He grabs Sherlock's elbow and leads him upstairs. Hazelnut spread, vanilla, crackers.
Mrs. Hudson watches her tenants go with a twinkle in her eyes, "I will bring up some tea and biscuits!"
The next time Sherlock staggers back to Baker Street, John has already left for his date. Mrs. Hudson is also gone to visit her sister in the countryside. Sherlock claims up the stairs one by one, breathing heavily. Lestrade has yelled and almost forced him to go to the hospital, but Sherlock waved it off and left. He has expected John to still be at home.
Home. Their home. The thought startles him.
With a slight shake of his head, Sherlock takes his coat and suit jacket off, throws them haphazardly on the floor, and crashes on the couch. He is aching all over after being beaten up by that vengeful and foul-mouth kidnapper. Sherlock is sure there is at least a handful of cuts and bruises, yet he finds himself not care much.
John is not here. He is very likely to be on a date. With a woman. Sherlock thinks. A bit disappointed. Jealous, even. But he will never admit it.
Sherlock drifts to sleep, letting his mind fills with images of John and his ridiculous jumpers. John's voice echoes in his mind's palace, each word is emphasized with a pleasant flavor.
"Sherlock?" Fresh honey. "Sherlock! Are you alright?"
Sherlock stirs. "John."
"I'm going to get the first-aid kit. Stay still."
Pickled radish, canned tomatoes, smoked salmon.
A few minutes later, John is back with the kit in hand.
"I told you to be careful, didn't I? But you had to provoke that bastard," John mumbles as he swaps the cuts on Sherlock's arm with antiseptic cream.
Ravioli, cinnamon buns, white tea.
"John," Sherlock repeats the name as if he's in a trance.
"Well, that's my name!" John says in fake cheerfulness. "Sherlock, will you please be more careful next time? God forbids if there's a next time."
Pear tarts, honey, rose tea, fried chicken.
"John."
"Greg called me in the middle of my date and said that you got hurt," he huffs out a laugh. " 'I have to take care of my injured flatmate' is never a good excuse to ditch your date." He wraps a bandage around Sherlock's left hand.
Chestnut, salmon, honeydew, baked potatoes, almond thins.
"John."
"But, we aren't getting along well - I meant... Jenny and I. She is a bit too... dull," John says, mostly to himself. "And you are injured, so I have to prioritize."
Greek salad, dried tomatoes, sprouts.
He reaches for Sherlock's chest, feeling for any broken rib.
"I am your number one priority?" Sherlock manages to say a coherent sentence.
John stops. "Well, you do have the tendency to get into troubles-" He hesitates, "Just be safe, yeah?"
Chestnut soup, fish and chips, sweet and sour chicken.
Sherlock can only nod.
John stops going on dates after New Year, after Sherlock chased away his latest girlfriend on Christmas. He was annoyed at that moment, but now, not so much. None of his past relationships has lasted longer than a month. The reason always boiled down to Sherlock. Often than not, John would have to excuse himself in the middle of the date just to come running after his reckless flatmate to make sure he hasn't got himself killed.
"Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man."