Holiday Post #6: Sherlock Holmes (2009) + Thanksgiving dinner

[ifeelbetter]

Title: It Takes A Tough Man To Make A Tender Chicken
Author: ifeelbetter
Disclaimer: I own nothing of value.
Summary: Watson's Thanksgivingt plans go awry and Holmes saves the day. Sort of.
Notes: For niftywithan's prompt: Hm... how about 2009 Sherlock Holmes, awkward/adorable Thanksgiving dinner featuring Sherlock, Watson, and Mary. And Gladstone. So. Don't ask me why they're celebrating Thanksgiving in Britain. They just are.



"I can get you a new hen," Holmes said innocently, holding his hands up as if Watson was pointing something far more dangerous than a wooden spoon at him. "It was only a hen."

"It was dinner and it was going to be delicious until you threw it at ninja," Watson pointed out. "And it was basting for twelve hours. You can't just get another hen."

"Can I just say one thing?"

"Only if you're going to tell me that wasn't my hen you just threw at that ninja."

"Are you open to negotiation on that point?"

Holmes slid across the table to land heavily on the ninja as he tried to get up again. That seemed to do the trick--that and, of course, the 5-kilogram hen that had landed on his head. Gladstone rolled gently on his side, putting his mouth directly in line with the chicken as it rolled up and butted him in the nose.

Watson threw the spoon at Holmes's head.

"It's like you wanted me to let the ninja stab you in the neck," Holmes groused.

"I wanted for there not to be a ninja in the kitchen," Watson said. Gladstone munched on the side of the chicken in something like enthusiasm. Very sedate enthusiasm.

"I can fix this," Holmes decided.

Watson raised an eyebrow.

* * *

"Is this a potato?" Mary asked. She was trying not to make the question sound like an accusation.

Holmes's hat was tipped over his eyes. He pushed it up with one finger, just enough so that he could see the thing Mary was holding delicately up with her fork.

"It's a turnip," he said haughtily and dropped the hat back in place.

"It looks like a potato," Watson said.

Holmes rolled his eyes behind his hat brim. He could just hear Watson swelling with misplaced masculine over-protectiveness.

"Turnips do tend to," he said. Not his fault if she made stupid smalltalk.

"It doesn't smell like a turnip," Mary said conversationally. She seemed resolved to be polite.

"It doesn't smell like a potato either," Holmes said.

"...it's not a turnip, is it?" Watson said.

Holmes tipped his hat back entirely and grinned. "Not technically, no."

* * *

"You see, you don't actually want to truss the bird. You don't need to do anything besides slip a bit of butter under each breast--"

"Holmes!" Watson said, scandalized.

"Surely you don't object to butter."

"There is a lady present."

Holmes rolled his eyes again. "Fine." He turned to Mary, still gesticulating wildly with the knife. "Why does the lady object to the butter?"

"The lady doesn't," Mary said, giving Watson a look across the table. "The lady doesn't even object to the mention of certain anatomical parts of the hen."

"Oh," said Holmes. He actually sounded surprised. "Oh. You objected to the breasts."

"Holmes."

"Watson."

"John," said Mary. "I'm aware of the existence of breasts."

"Oh god," said Watson, rubbing at his eye.

"As I was saying," Holmes continued, suddenly liking Mary a great deal more, "you put a good slab of butter under each breast--"

* * *

"You're charming," Holmes told Mary--much later, after many drinks. "You can have some of this." He held out the flask he'd been drinking from.

"Don't drink that," Watson warned. His moustache was sticking up in the corner, caked in the stuff that had definitely not been made of cranberry.

"Why can't I drink it?" Mary asked. "He's--he's being nice and offering it to me." She hiccuped.

"It's--it's the stuff they put in the horse's eye," Watson said, punctuating himself with the occasional belch, "before surgery."

"Just like mother's milk to me," Mary said gamely. She took a swig and only choked a little bit.

"She's charming," Holmes cackled. He clapped her on the back. "Fine. It's decided. You and Watson shall both move back into 221B Baker Street."

"Cheers," Mary said and they clinked their respective beverages--his flask and her brandy snifter--as if sealing the bargain.

"I would rather--" Watson started to say, probably beginning his usual tirade of hyperbolic (and completely unconvincing) protests, but he stopped with a sigh. "I had rather hoped you'd never like each other."

"Don't be silly," Holmes said. He had his violin tucked under his chin and poked Watson with the bow. "I have nothing but the greatest of respect for a woman who can hold her liquor."

Mary hiccuped again loudly. "I can hold my horse anesthetic, you mean," she said.

"Exactly!"

* * *

"Mary, what on Earth are you feeding Gladstone?" Watson asked, horrified.

"Sherlock thought--"

"You're on first name basis now?"

"--it might change his tongue blue." She grinned. Holmes mirrored the expression.

Only Gladstone seemed as queasy at the prospect of the burgeoning friendship as Watson felt.