|All for a Flan
Author: Tristan-the-Dreamer PM
Flans are a lovely dessert, eagerly looked forward to...usually.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Humor/Friendship - Words: 453 - Reviews: 11 - Follows: 1 - Published: 12-20-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4729198
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: After many hours of delighting yet wearing research for Chemical Analysis, I felt the need to write this bit of silliness. Please enjoy! I think you just may like it. :3 P.s., thank you KCS for catching the monograph bit. ^^
"Well, well!" I rubbed my hands together in delight, coming into the sitting room. "Holmes, you'll never guess what Mrs. Hudson is making for afters!"
"Hopefully not a lemon flan."
"Oh no…" His voice trailed off in a groan and he threw down his pen, ignoring the spatters that bloomed on the tabletop. "Bless the woman, but…now I'm at the end of my wits!"
"And why's that?"
"Because, Watson," he expounded wearily, searching for his clay pipe, "I am scheduled to discuss a monograph this evening on the differing strengths of lenses and the various uses thereof. I've been planning on it for a week now, arranged it with Lestrade you see…"
"And what does a lemon flan have to do with this?"
"My hair, Watson, my hair!" He shouted, pointing to his head, and I noticed it did rather want a washing. "I was going to wash my hair today, and I made a careful inventory of the larder last night--I was too busy with last-minute touches to the monograph to bathe then, you see. Well there were only two eggs and one lemon, they're gone now in the delicious yet unfortunately scheduled flan, and Mrs. Hudson does not have time to shop this day--she's leaving early to take that weekend in the country."
"In short, you have nothing to wash your hair with and no easy way to obtain it."
"Quite so." He groaned and began stuffing tobacco into the pipe; bits scattered over the table and some stuck to the ink spots. It was turning into an interesting piece of art. "I just know every scrappy little Yarder is going to be dressed to the nines, and I will not be made a laughing stock." He paused in filling the pipe bowl, gaze drifting to the window. "Well, there's nothing for it; I'll have to go to the market myself." He struck a match against the side of the table with the tempered drama of a much-tried soul. "Care to come with?"
"Holmes, you know I'd never turn down the chance," I said, plucking my coat off the stand with great flamboyance, and tossing his hat with the same attitude.
"You have a way of making near anything tolerable," he chuckled, neatly catching the hat. "Let's go, then, and perhaps the flan will be ready for us when we return."