Fifteen
Recipes

So I did what Mycroft Holmes had told me to – I stayed with Sherlock. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, but then again things never turned out how you expected them to when you were around Sherlock.

Most of the time, I was able to forget that anything out of the ordinary was even happening. Whatever it was wasn't changing the habits of the detective at all, and those strange texts seemed to be coming slightly less frequently now. I might have actually been allowed to believe that this was all blowing over – that maybe this was never anything anyway – if it hadn't been for that little chat with the elder Holmes.

Mycroft had assured me that this was not nothing.

That, more than the abrupt disruptions to my life, more than the terrifying introduction, was reason enough for me not to like that man. How on earth could he tell me something like that and then simply expect me to carry on like nothing was wrong? Ignorance truly is bliss, and Mycroft had stolen that bliss from out of my hands.

But I would follow his instructions, regardless of my dislike. I no doubt would have followed them if the most foul and disgusting person in the world had given them. It didn't really matter what Sherlock was feeling or thinking; I'd be there with him despite the consequences of my foolishness.

I'd stay with him until he told me to go.

I rubbed some of the sleep from my eyes and turned the corner, planning to dose myself with a large cup of tea before venturing into the world of the fully awake and dressed, but paused as the sight of the kitchen reached my tired eyes.

"Morning." I said sleepily.

The man at the table didn't look up from the microscope before him as he answered with a question. "Is it?"

I blinked and massaged my right eyelid, sure I must be making this up in my lethargy. Surprisingly, the situation didn't change. "I have to say, I never took you to be someone who'd get into the Halloween spirit."

"What?" Sherlock asked, still not paying me a significant amount of attention.

"You know, with all this chocolate and pumpkin." I told him, gesturing at the cluttered table and worktops covered in orange and brown. There didn't appear to be a square inch of the surfaces free. Everywhere I looked the little kitchen was crammed full of hollowed out pumpkins, bowls of pumpkin mush, chocolate wrappers, wooden spoons, and an unusually large amount of scientific equipment.

"Halloween?" Sherlock drawled half-heartedly. "That's a thing, isn't it?"

My face dropped.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's a thing." I told him austerely. "It's a day – today in fact. You're telling me you don't know what Halloween is?"

Sherlock leaned back from the microscope, turned to the notepad beside him, and jotted something down. "Not important."

And here I was thinking that after over seven months, I surely couldn't be surprised by any more of Sherlock Holmes' eccentricities.

"But-" I started in disbelief, before promptly changing my mind and deciding to voice an entirely different, but no less confusing, question. "Hang on, what are you doing with all this chocolate if it isn't for Trick or Treaters?"

Sherlock actually looked up at me at this, a frown covering his forehead. "What or whaters?"

"Trick or Treaters." I repeated, shaking my head in an attempt to dislodge some of this astonishment from inside my skull. "So you've just been walking past the garish window displays in shops for the past two months and thinking nothing more than 'oh, orange must be in this season'? And you do this every year? Of your entire life?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal sideward nod before repositioning the petri dish under the microscope and peering down through the eyepiece once more. "I must have deleted it."

My amazement was going nowhere. "You've never wondered why on one night of the year half the country dress up in scary costumes?"

"Do they?"

Oh, dear God. I knew better by now than to make a fuss of it, though. Sherlock's inability to remember the basic facts of the world would never be improved; even if it did mean he let annual holidays pass him by. Oh, wow, I hoped he knew about Christmas.

I sighed, rolled my eyes, and moved around the cluttered table to the kettle.

"Frankly," I said matter-of-factly, "I'm surprised you haven't dealt with Halloween on a case before. I would have thought that a fancy-dress party would be the perfect place to kill someone."

I stopped, my hand frozen on the box of teabags.

"God," I muttered, "I did not just say that."

"Who's killing whom?" I heard Sherlock ask vaguely from over my shoulder.

I gazed at him, a knowing acceptance swirling in my eyes. "And you've already deleted this conversation from your database, haven't you?"

The only response I received was an ambiguous murmur, which Sherlock kindly used to prove my point precisely.

I dumped the teabag into a mug and poured the hot water on top of it, clutching the cup in my hands and walking around the table again. I glanced over Sherlock's shoulder curiously. "What are you doing with melted chocolate?"

Sherlock adjusted the focus in concentration. "Comprising a record of splash marks made by various percentages of cocoa as well as several other experiments I've been meaning to perform. And stop that. I'm far too busy with this to try anything of the sort."

I frowned, taken aback by the sudden conversation change. "Anything of what sort?"

"The sort involving melted chocolate," he said with a sigh, "and my bare skin."

My mouth flapped open and shut for a few seconds before I could make out, "I wasn't thinking-"

"Yes, you were." Sherlock interrupted. "You still are, even if you don't think you're thinking it. Stop it."

I immediately felt extremely defensive. "Sherlock, despite what you may think of me, I am not constantly thinking about sex, even subconsciously. For your information, I'm just hungry and a girl will always- Jesus Christ, what went wrong?"

I leapt back from the table in alarm. The beaker sitting atop the metal tripod placed over the flaring Bunsen burner had just jumped into life. The mucky brown sludge inside it had started boiling, the liquid bubbling wildly. The foam it produced rose, spilling uncontrollably over the rim of the glass beaker and onto the table below, staining the pieces of cream fabric laid out a disgusting filth colour. The most worrying thing, however, was that the foam didn't show any signs of receding, swiftly advancing until it had coated around half the kitchen table in under ten seconds.

To my shock, Sherlock simply let out a burst of mirthful laughter.

"Nothing!" He replied happily, springing to his feet, "This is what I expected to happen."

"What?" I cried worriedly, grabbing the Bunsen burner and twisting the collar until it blocked the air port fully and hushed the flame. The liquid didn't stop bubbling. "Sherlock! How do we stop it?"

Sherlock clapped his hands in excitement and started bouncing around the room. "You can't. Oh, yes, this is useful. Very useful."

"But-" I exclaimed, eyeing the mixture warily as it crept over the table towards me. Some of it was already leaking off the edge on the other side. "Shit, it's not dangerous, is it?"

Sherlock paused his happy dance and gave me an unconcerned glance. "It's mainly a mix of cocoa powder, instant coffee granules, sugar and cream – if you're a dog then I'd suggest not drinking it, but otherwise you're fine."

"What do we do with it?" I shouted, letting the subtle insult slide. Sherlock could have probably called me some of the worst names in the world at that point; I'd be too interested in struggling to push the froth back onto the table and away from the precarious edge and the floor below it.

"Relax," Sherlock said with a wave of his hands, "it'll stop in ten minute or so."

I glared at him in disbelief. "And in the meantime we just sit and watch all our stuff get covered in mocha-flavoured gunk?"

That actually succeeded in wiping the smile from the man's face. Clearly, he hadn't thought this far ahead.

I grunted. "Get a mop, would you?"

Sherlock just frowned. "We have a mop?"

I shoved some of the foam backwards, my efforts doing little to slow down the onslaught. I was already having to hop backwards to ensure my bare feet weren't slathered in the slop.

"Yes, go get it!" I yelled, starting to get a little annoyed at Sherlock's failure to act.

It didn't help when the only movement he made in order to comply with my demand was to cry at the top of his voice, "Mrs Hudson!"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock, she's out! Can't you just this once do this tiny piece of housework by yourself?"

"I can do housework by myself just fine; I'm not a chi-"

Sherlock's defence was cut off by the large handful of foam that had landed on his forehead. I lowered my arm, preparing to grab another missile if he didn't get on with helping me here. The look on his face, however, stopped me before I could throw any more of the dangerous weapon at him. It was so shocked, so utterly mortified.

I couldn't keep the sniggers back.

Slowly, Sherlock lifted a hand and wiped any remaining froth from his head, his eyes narrowed so far that if I hadn't known this man I would have been scared that he might murder me right there, turning myself into the victim of his next case to solve.

I threw some more foam at him – this time it landed on his shirt.

The increased level of fury in his expression only made my laughs louder.

I automatically raised a hand to cover my mouth, only to find myself choking on the remnants of bubbles I had inhaled into my nose by accident. I finished my coughing fit and stood up as straight as I could, trying to preserve as much of my dignity as I could. It was my turn to glare as a twitch of Sherlock's lips formed a guilty smile.

I pouted. "That's mean."

I took a step forwards, not caring about landing ankle deep in the strange goo, and let a devilish twinkle enter my eyes. As swiftly as I could, I brought my finger up and wiped a large dollop onto the tip of Sherlock's nose. He recoiled slightly at the sudden attack, his nose trembling in an unflattering motion similar to a rabbit.

I bit back the chortles at the cuteness and tried again.

This time, though, the detective saw it coming.

There was a quiet slap as his hands instantly grabbed at my wrists. He held both of them tightly, clearly not trusting me with any of my mischievous fingers.

"That is really not fair." I told him, trying to remove my arms from his grasp. All I succeeded in doing was causing his clutch to tighten and our bodies to become oddly closer. I glared into his far too confident face. Something seriously needed to knock that smirk away.

He didn't react in time and my tongue landed squarely on his nose, licking up any of the chocolaty mixture that was still hanging on there.

I had expected him to jump backwards in surprise or at least relax his grip slightly. I hadn't been expecting his next movement.

The back of my thighs struck the table ledge with a thud. The shorts started clinging to my backside as the moisture from the foam seeped into the material. Sherlock's form pressed against mine. My eyes widened, staring into the sassy face of my captor.

Little by little, I raised a single eyebrow. "I thought you were too busy for this sort of thing."

I could sense the impish side of the man surface. There was almost no chance of that smirk being wiped away now.

Almost.

He stepped away so quickly at the noise that I was left in deepest confusion for a moment.

Sherlock coughed as he strolled calmly away from me and into the living room. "I am."

"Oh." I let out.

Any disappointment I would have normally felt at the interruption was entirely insignificant this time. Disappointment meant nothing when compared to the other emotions rolling around in my gut.

Jealousy. Anger. Betrayal. Sadness. Rejection.

Hatred.

I watched, contemplating all these feelings that were squirming inside, as Sherlock picked up his coat from the sofa, dug into its pocket, and pulled out his phone.

I bit my bottom lip, stuffing the familiar thoughts back into the box they had crawled out of. It didn't really help when I considered what this meant.

Irene Adler wasn't just an abstract barrier any more – her and her bloody texting was physically getting in the way of me and Sherlock. What was I meant to do?

The realisation that the froth was now halfway up my shins hit me and yanked me back to earth.

"I'll…" I stuttered, pushing away from the table and staring around the now chaotic kitchen, "I'll get a mop."

I hurried from the room, not bothering to check to see whether this time would be the first time that Sherlock would actually reply to the woman's message.

Bit of naughtiness and comedy for you here.

Maybe you won't be getting any more of that from now. Maybe. Mwahaha. Am I going to make you cry or laugh? Or both? Well, you'll just have to wait and see.

This chapter is kind of dedicated to both ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe and especially Dinloth for their amazingly long awesome reviews! Love you guys! I love all of you, obviously, but these two get a special mention because I feel like it. So there.

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