Ficlet: A Study in Potato Pancakes
This is a pinch-hit for exchangelock, for @ladymac111, who asked for Sherlock's take on Hannukah. Â The format is a Three-Flat Problem (tm @pangodillo): a 221a, a 221b and a 221c, one for each of the flats in 221 Baker St. I hope you like it, ladymac!
At first, John assumed it was for a case - a bit of evidence, perhaps, or maybe an unusual sort of gift from a grateful client. But then he saw the candles, and realized Sherlock actually meant the menorah to be used.
"Hannukiah, actually," Sherlock called from the table, where he was sedulously grating potatoes. "Common mistake. Menorahs have room for seven candles, not nine."
"No idea," Sherlock replied, still grating. "Some ritual significance, no doubt, although the nine candles in the Hannukiah signify the...."
"No, no, Sherlock, why all...." John flung out his hands to encompass the peel-draped kitchen, the ...Hannukkiah, the bowl of chocolate coins.
Sherlock did not turn, but appeared to have heard the gesture. "First night of Hannukah, John! Weâre having a party, obviously. Also, Lestrade's new girlfriend is Jewish. They're coming, by the way. In seven - no, six hours.â
John shut his mouth. He hadn't even realized Greg was dating again; he tried to remember when theyâd last met for a pint. He also had no idea when Sherlock had started looking for excuses to have parties instead of excuses to avoid them, but that bothered him less at the moment.
"How can I help?" he asked finally.
Sherlock jerked his head at the bag of apples on the counter. "Applesauce."
Five hours later, the potatoes had all been shredded and the flat was fragrant with stewing apples.
John had negotiated a complete exemption from further preparations in exchange for applesauce duty. Â He had showered, which had soothed his shoulder after all the chopping. Â He had changed for the party, and changed again when Sherlock had declared his holiday jumper unsuitable for the occasion.
Pleased to be quit of the kitchen, John settled in his chair with a mug of tea. Â He wondered where he had put his book.
Something shattered in the kitchen.
âFine,â Sherlock called.
âYou sure?â John returned.
Sherlock ignored this, so either he really was fine or he was unconscious. Probably fine.
John finished his tea in slow sips, and drummed his fingers on the armrest. Â âSure you donât need any help?â
Sherlock leaned out of the kitchen, sweat sheening his face. Â âSâfine. But Iâve got to get back. Â The optimal frying window is tiny.â Â He disappeared again.
John trailed after him and leaned on the doorpost. Â âIt is okay if you burn a few.â
âHardly.â Sherlock began transferring pancakes to a towel-lined plate. Â âTheyâre the most important part.â
John frowned. Â âWhyâs that?â
"You like fried potatoes," Sherlock mumbled. And though the haze of oil made it hard to tell, John was fairly sure he saw Sherlock blush.
Sherlock preferred sweet wine, when he drank, and had clearly underestimated the potency of the Manischewitz. Â He had retired early, on the fumes of a rambling disquisition about variations in molecular structure across different potato varietals.
Molly excused herself once Sherlock was gone, and Mrs. Hudson begged off soon after. Â Then it was just the three of them, so John had a good hour to catch up with Lestrade, and size up the girlfriend, before they left.
âTell him thanks for us, John,â said Deborah, pressing his hand warmly. Â âThe latkes were great. Itâs been years since Iâve had any from scratch.â
âCome back if you like. Heâs trying a different recipe every night until the holidayâs done.â
Deborah, who was still getting used to Sherlock, looked surprised. Â Lestrade, who knew better, nodded solemnly. Â âExperiment?â
âSeems like it.â John rubbed his neck. Â âHeâs got obsessed with working out the perfect way to fry potatoes, God only knows why. Â Anyhow, Iâm a good guinea pig.â
âYouâre a patient one,â Deborah said, laughing.
âWell, he is feeding me. It makes a nice change.â
Deborah smiled at Lestrade. Â âYouâre right, they are adorable.â
John choked. Â Lestrade blanched.
So, um.â John flailed.  âPotatoes. More tomorrow, weâŚ.â
Lestrade cut him off with a handshake. âCall if you get tired of latkes. Â Weâll go for a curry.â
