Prompt from Domina Temporis: Christmas pudding
Slender fingers discoloured from years of chemical experiments carefully measured 350 grams of South African stoned raisins and added them to the steaming cauldron. The taste of tangy spice radiated around Holmes' head. Three ounces of rum, half an orange, 4 eggs, a teaspoon of cinnamon… the chemist, turned detective, now cook, focused on the task with the same intensity he'd used for measuring sulphuric acid. While he stirred he consulted Mary Kettilby's A Collection of above Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick and Surgery: for the use of all good wives, tender mothers, and careful nurses. With a final satisfied sigh, he wrapped the concoction in a cloth and set it to finish steaming.
Watson arrived home late. His nose detected the festive odours long before entering. "I smell Christmas." He sniffed appreciatory as the sweet tendrils of citrus, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves tickled his olfactory senses.
Holmes lay sprawled in a languid heap on the sofa. A flick of his eyelashes acknowledged Watson's arrival.
"Difficult case?"
"Decidedly so."
The biographer sat down and looked over at his exhausted friend.
Holmes waved a hand weakly. I was merely conducting research on the plausible explosive properties of pastries. Apparently Mrs Hudson had prior arrangements for her pudding and pies. He sighed and rubbed his temples. "A lengthy discussion ensued when she discovered my research had resulted in the demise of her cooking creations."
Watson gave his weary friend an empathetic nod.
"We at last came to a satisfactory agreement. In return for keeping my chemical equipment in the flat, I would replace her Christmas pudding and garner a basket of apples." He glanced over at the steaming basin. I was able to procure a suitable number of apples with the help of Wiggins. Regrettably there were no Christmas puddings available that met Mrs Hudson's standards. Instead, she supplied me with her receipt book. I have spent the rest of the day, with the help of the Irregulars, tracking down the ingredients, measuring, mixing, and cooking."
A tendril of sweet spice drifted past Watson from the steaming pudding.
"Your cooking appears to be settling nicely."
Holmes curled deeper into his dressing gown. A fleeting ghost of a smile skittered across his face. "A remarkable day, Watson. But one I hope never to repeat."
The good doctor smiled as the languid heap on the sofa melted into a resting rhythm of deep breathing.
A/N: While doing research for this piece, I ran into photographs of Mrs Kettilby's Receipt book. I just had to include the full title. It made me smile.