ClueNumberTwo:Whipped
It had been a bad day. A mystery had been solved, a murderer had been thrown behind bars, and it had been one exceedingly bad day.
Sherlock hadn't meant to demonstrate how Mr. Clayton Rhodes had committed double patricide while his parents were taking a vacation on the coast and he was supposedly at home baby-sitting his little half-sister. At least, Sherlock hadn't meant to demonstrate how Mr. Clayton Rhodes slit his father's throat and suffocated his step-mother while standing three feet away from seven-year-old Madeline Rhodes.
Honestly, John would have scolded Sherlock if certain members of the police force hadn't harshly berated him the second little wailing Madeline was carried safely out of earshot in the consoling arms of one of the Yard's social workers. But Anderson and Donovan didn't see how quickly regret replaced adrenaline in blue-grey eyes, how nimble limbs stiffened underneath a long black trench-coat to the point of pain, or how the tiny smiling lines around Sherlock's mouth vanished as if they never existed. Anderson and Donovan and even Greg were too pained by the child's screams to separate callous disrespect from grave mistake.
Although John didn't quite sympathize with Sherlock's fascination with the perverse, he did understand how Sherlock could get so caught up in the moment. There were times in Afghanistan when he fired his gun in hot blood, his entire body thrumming along with his accelerated heartbeat, his senses hyper-attuned to every shot blast, every shout, every vibration in the ground underneath his boots, that he forgot he was killing. Killing for queen and country, but taking another man's life all the same.
Not sure how to comfort his friend who was surely spiraling into an all too common black fit of depression, but struck by an idea of how to try, John left their flat on Baker Street soon after they returned to purchase a few special groceries. Arriving home thirty minutes later, he left his flatmate slumping despondently in his favorite chair in front of the telly—in exactly the same position he had been in when John left for Tesco, television still turned off—to search the kitchen cabinets for a decent pot large enough to boil spaghetti noodles.
When the noodles were limp and drained, he dumped a jar of marinara sauce into the pot and stirred it up a bit. After spooning a large amount onto plate, he set the plate on a tray accompanied with a napkin, a can of whipped cream, and a glass of apple juice. (Or what John hoped was apple juice. The jug in the refrigerator was unlabeled and he sure as hell wasn't going to taste-test it first). Plopping the tray in front of Sherlock, he shook the can of whipped cream and pressed gently on the nozzle, circling the noodles expertly until the entire plate was covered with fluffy white clouds.
Sherlock had roused himself out of his stupor to glower at the odd concoction practically thrust in his lap, apparently not amused by his doctor's antics. "And what is this?"
"John's Whippy!" At the continued withering glare, John smiled sheepishly. "I used to make it for Harry when we were kids. Mom usually worked late so we got pretty creative when it came to scrounging up dinner."
Sherlock picked up the fork and poked dubiously at a clump of marinara. "Surely in your….childhood…ignorance, you confused whipped cream for whipping cream."
Not quite sure what whipping cream was (although it might explain why so many of his culinary projects went awry), John ignored the comment and put his hand around Sherlock's, guiding the fork to scoop up a few buried noodles. "Just try it—Harry always demanded John's Whippy after a bad day at school. It cheered her up. Not to mention you haven't eaten a bite in the last three days and I'm not going to stop bugging you until you get a substantial amount of food into your abused stomach. Eat!"
Ten minutes later, Sherlock slid back his clean plate and licked a few stray droplets of red-tinged cream from his fingers. "Disgusting. Any chance of seconds?"
