Title: Come Dine With Sherlock and John
Summary: Based on a prompt to have John as a contestant on the Channel 4 show Come Dine With Me. Chaos ensues.
Warnings: Crack (but plot-filled crack).
Parings: Hinted Sherlock/John. But you can ignore it if you want.
Disclaimer: I own neither show.
A/N: Thanks for the fab reviews! You may want to go and re-read the first chapter because, unknown to me, the format got screwed in uploading and so I've altered it to make the scene breaks clearer. You may also be pleased to know that this fic is already complete, so it will definitely be finished.
And so it was that John woke up at the ungodly hour of four in the morning on the first day of the week. His head had been crammed full of cookery tips from Angelo and personality tips from Sherlock (as though he needed personality tips from *Sherlock* of all people.)
He dressed and came down to breakfast to find that Sherlock had cooked (at least, left cereal and milk out which was as close as he ever came to cooking.) He was even more surprised to see both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson standing in the kitchen involved in what could only be described as a squabble.
"Absolutely not!"
"Oh Sherlock please... I've told my sister already."
"You cannot answer the door to the guests Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.
"Why can't she?" yawned John as he leaned against the counter and dug his spoon into his cereal.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. "Do you really want your guests' first impression of you to be that you're the sort of poncy idiot who employs someone to open the door?"
John winced. "Good point...tell you what though Mrs. Hudson, I'll pretend to break a whisk and get you to bring me a replacement."
Mrs. Hudson hugged him. "Oh you are a good boy! Now eat up! They'll be here soon."
She hurried out leaving John gaping after her. "It's not even six yet!"
"Yes but they've got to brief you, and follow you about for the day, and get you to do the bit where you talk about yourself in an upmarket coffee shop and/or local beauty spot, then you've got to buy ingredients, and then cook..."
John groaned. The day stretched out in front of him horrendously. And not just today; the next five days.
"There has got to be easier ways of making a thousand pounds."
"Oh this isn't about the money." Sherlock waved his spoon as he chewed his cornflakes, "This is about me proving I can make you win. Incidentally – change into something smarter before the crew arrives. There's casual and then there's *casual*."
The crew, when it arrived at 6.30, consisted of five people. Two cameramen brushed past first and begun setting up lighting and arranging wires for the dinner party that night. A sound man followed them looking equally surly.
The final two were women, Petra the director, and Morgan the producer. Both smiled at him, Petra with a fixed 'I've done this a million times before smile' and Morgan with the bright bubbles of a Redcoat and the sort of grin that suggested everything she said had a verbal equivalent of '!1!' after it.
"Excited?" she beamed. "You're going to have such fun!"
He nodded mutely and led them upstairs to the flat (which Morgan said was "gorgeous!1!")
He invited them to sit down and tried to ignore the men moving efficiently about the flat unplugging sockets to make room for their leads. He only thanked god Sherlock had got Mrs. Hudson to tidy the place up and they'd removed the more revolting experiments.
They began going over schedules, and rules, and legalities with him. Or at least Petra did. Morgan seemed to be in charge of finding out about his personality (or at least, forcing him into the stereotype the show wanted to portray him as). He answered questions as Sherlock had briefed him to and otherwise let his mind wander.
Petra was horsey faced, and bore a passing resemblance to Sarah-Jessica Parker. Her curly hair was cut in an odd way that gave her head a triangular shape. John was no Sherlock Holmes, but even he could read a stalled media career in her resigned face.
Morgan had thick blonde hair that she flipped as though demonstrating for a shampoo advert and she was dressed as he would have imagined a more fashion-conscious film student to look. She was, he thought, very pretty and he gave her a smile.
As if sensing this act of heterosexuality, Sherlock strode into the room and gave a start that, if John hadn't laid the responsibility for this whole nightmare at Sherlock's feet, would have led him to believe that he had stumbled across a film crew in his flat by complete accident.
"Hiii!" he said, with a surprised smile. "You're the film crew right? How exciting!"
Oh god, he was doing his 'non-stereotypical-but-clearly-a-screaming-queen' act. Personally John felt he sounded like a camp version of Robert Webb.
"Hi," said Petra warily. Clearly she was used to family interrupting her briefs. "Uh, you are...?"
"Sherlock, so nice to meet you. I'm John's partner." He squeezed John's shoulder and leaned down to murmur into John's ear, clearly wanting to be overheard; "I've just tidied up our bedroom 'kay? Don't want those nosy guests stumbling across all our secrets."
John flushed at the feeling of hot breath across his neck and the playful tone of voice.
"Yes, well..." said Petra in a dismissive tone. "We have rather a lot to be getting on with."
"Oh sorry!" he trilled. He actually goddamn trilled. "I'll get out of your hair..." he flicked a dismissive glance over Petra's odd haircut.
Then with a kiss to John's cheek and a squeeze of his thigh that John would have found indecent from anyone- of any sex- in polite company, Sherlock turned to be on his way.
"I'll be back at six, yah?" he called to John as he left.
"Six?" asked Morgan questioningly.
"Oh yah," he said, "didn't John tell you? I'm the entertainment tonight – a mentalist act."
Seven hours later John was praying for a crime spree. Not just any crime spree, but one so baffling, so plain *nuts*, that Sherlock's mind would be unable to resist and he would call off this charade in favour of putting their lives in mortal danger.
Anything would do, he thought as he attempted to whisk eggs with a camera up in his face. Murders in which the victims were all dressed as clowns. A ballerina found dead in the fountains in Trafalgar square. The entire cast of Hairspray going missing.
*Anything*.
"So where did you get the recipe?" chirped Morgan from the stool she was perched on behind camera.
"Ah, a friend of my partner passed the recipe on to me," John recited Sherlock's line from memory. He saw a frown cross Morgan's face at his lack of chirpy banter.
It turned out that Morgan's job basically entailed what she called 'making sure your personality comes across on camera'. John translated that to mean 'making sure you look like a complete idiot on camera so Dave Lamb can make amusing comments later on.'
So far he'd resisted making any stupid mistakes while cooking – besides rather theatrically losing his whisk and needing to call for a replacement from his landlady. Who turned up with newly styled hair and wearing what looked like every piece of costume jewellery in London.
But mostly he was dreading this evening when he would have to socialise with four complete strangers in front of a camera crew and the cameras which made John feel like he was standing near a black hole.
And to make matters worse, Sherlock was going to be there.
After the obligatory freshen-up and change John was told to wait while the camera crew prepared for the first arrival. After what seemed forever Petra nodded for him to go and welcome the first guest.
"Hi..." he said cautiously as he opened the front door.
"Oh hello!"
There was a young woman on the doorstep and for a few seconds he was too busy taking her coat and graciously accepting the obscenely large bunch of flowers he'd been presented with to pay much attention to her.
"I'm John," he said.
"Sarah," she replied with a friendly smile. She had an educated voice and a manner that put John firmly in mind of the sort of housewife who bought organic food, cooked on an Aga, and drove a range-rover. She had bushy brown hair barely restrained in a simple clip. Though she couldn't have been more than twenty-four, she was wearing the severe dress and pearls of a woman twenty years older, and the arrogant expression of someone several places up the social ladder from him.
He led her upstairs, poured her drink, and attempted to make polite conversation. This was halted when the next person arrived and he left to greet guest number two.
This time a man was on the doorstep. He was in his late twenties, wore a leather jacket, and had floppy, sensitive hair that deserved its own Sunday night drama role.
"I'm Danny," he said, giving John a firm handshake and thrusting a mid-priced bottle of white at him.
Upstairs the three chatted for a few moments, long enough to find out that Sarah was a vet and Danny a physical therapist. He (as instructed) brushed off inquiries into his own career and was again forced to leave to go back downstairs to open the door.
"Hi!" said the next man on being invited inside. He was presented with a bottle of red and a second handshake. This man was of Asian descent and had primped to within an inch of his life. His glossy black hair was in a long high ponytail and his teeth sparkled unnaturally white. He wore a skin tight white vest-top with a low neck that showed off the tattoos on his chest.
"I'm Jordan," he said, half to the camera and half to John. "Like the glamour model – only better looking!"
John attempted to laugh, and had barely got Jordan his drink when he was sent to greet the final member of the group.
"Hi!" said the final guest. "Wait a minute? John?"
John's smile froze. "Lolli?"
Please let me know how you're finding this. More will be up tomorrow.