Title: Making the Connection
Story Summary: A non-chronological collection of short chapters based on one word prompts, includes (pre-)slash for Johnlock & Mystrade
Chapter Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures, so Sherlock gets in touch with an old acquaintance of his. Prompt: Gourmet
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss & SACD.
A/N: This prompt came from oneword(dot)com, if you'd like to prompt me you can do so in a review or a PM.
From the looks of his kitchen one would never have been able to tell that Sherlock Holmes was as much an appreciator of good food as he was a mad scientist. It was – of course –due to his mother. Every time they had gotten an A in school the boys had the choice: they either got a new book or a nice dinner out. Sherlock had of course always chosen the book, thus owning over five hundred volumes by the time he entered eight grade. Mycroft, however, had almost always chosen the dinner – he could buy books from his generous pocket money or read the ones his brother wished for.
Their mother had never taken them to a fish and chips place, but rather to chefs who had trained in France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Russia or Japan. They got to know hearty German cuisine as well as the healthier Mediterranean alternatives and a skilled Japanese master showed them how to correctly prepare Fugu so it wasn't poisonous anymore. Sherlock had his first scoop of caviar when he was seven years old; by the time he was nine he could tell which exact region the fish had lived in before involuntarily giving up its eggs.
After Mycroft finished uni the only occasion to which the three of them would go out for dinner was their mother's birthday. Sherlock's food consumption had gone down quite a bit after he had moved out of his mother's house with its maids and well trained cooks. He had never learned to prepare a meal for himself properly, so everything he tried - apart from a very basic assortment of breakfast dishes - simply tasted inadequate.
But a homespun rice pudding with some fruit or a few scrambled eggs with bacon wouldn't suffice now. The internet – as it turned out – was utterly useless. He could taste each variant as he read through the ingredients and there was something missing in every single one of them. He had no choice but to make a call.
After one ring the phone was picked up. "Holmes' residence, you've reached the kitchens, Frieda speaking. How may I help you?"
"Frieda, it's Sherlock. I need your help." She had never minded his forthrightness, not once in all the thirty-five years she had worked for his family. She was a professional cook; she had no time for somebody to beat around the bush.
"That's a phrase I never heard you utter before. So spit it out, what can old Frieda do for her little gourmet?" It was a term of endearment that she used since he had refused to eat his porridge without a pinch of cinnamon in it when he was three years old.
"Do you remember the broth you used to make when Mycroft or I were ill?"
"You mean 'Frieda's-Cure-it-All-Magic-Broth'?" He could hear the knowing smile in her voice.
"Yes, exactly. Can you teach me how to do it over the phone?"
"Of course I can, but why don't you just order a chicken soup from that posh restaurant that your Mum took you to when Mycroft got his A for the German A-Level? You told me their broth was almost as good as mine. It would save you six hours of preparation and cooking."She knew the Holmes boys far too well. Whenever Sherlock felt under the weather Anthea would turn up on his doorstep with a pot full of broth from said restaurant.
"It's for someone special. Their broth won't do." He was clearing away his last experiments from the kitchen table. Soon he would need all the space he could get for peeling and chopping. That much he remembered.
"Oh, is it for your lovely housekeeper then? Of course she would taste the difference." He could hear the clutter of kitchen appliances in the background.
"No, it's for... a doctor. He knows too much than to get better by eating a common broth." Sherlock went into his bedroom and looked at the miserable looking man lying in his bed. The fever had weakened him so much he couldn't even have walked up the stairs to his own bedroom.
"I've cured many doctors with my broth over the years, so don't you worry. He'll feel better by tomorrow, but only if we get to work immediately. So let's go shopping, shall we?"