High Reason

The Case of the Dishes Before Dinner

The Case of the Dishes Before Dinner

It was one of those rare times Sherlock had been persuaded to eat food. Not just that, but he was actively participating in the preparation thereof. John finished dumping the contents of the pot on the stove on top of the plain noodles, and as if by magic, the familiar sight of spaghetti with red sauce greeted their eyes.

John grabbed each of the plates and took them to the table, pushing aside the various equipment, chemical samples, and papers that were in the way.

"We can eat on this corner, I won't move it all," he explained as Sherlock glared in his direction, and turned back to the sink, switching on the tap, and beginning to run the right side full of soapy water. John looked up at him.

"Sherlock, aren't you going to come and eat? It'll get cold."

"I'm going to wash these dishes."

John, initially overcome by the unusual sight of Sherlock... doing the dishes... momentarily recovered.

"Before dinner? Most people wash them after dinner. We'll still have to wash our plates, you know."

"I don't care. I want to do them now."

"Why?"

"So that we can eat in peace." Sherlock plunked the pot in the left side of the sink and began spraying it out, dropping the various other preparations dishes into the soapy side, and taking up a dishcloth.

John shrugged and took a forkful of the pasta, savoring the rich flavors that flooded his tongue.

"It's good," he tempted, swallowing, and spinning another bite onto the tines.

"Well, don't look at me, you made it."

"You helped."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly."

"Come and eat yours." John pushed back his chair and walked over to the sink, staring at the detective who was absorbed in rinsing the clean dishes and angling them properly onto each other on a clean towel which o'er-spread the counter. "No one washes the dishes before dinner."

"I do. There." Tossing the last spoon onto the pile, Sherlock draped the heap in another towel to get it out of sight, and allowed them to drip as he crossed the room and seated himself at the table. Taking a mouthful of the pasta, he chewed thoughtfully.

"What are you thinking of?" John inquired at length, sitting down across from him.

"Don't end a sentence with a preposition..." Sherlock murmured, before shaking himself and seeming to see John at last. "It is good."

"I told you."

"Better in peace."

"What's this about 'peace'? Would dishes in the sink bother you while you're trying to eat?"

"Of course. Who could digest properly knowing the unpleasant task of cleaning up afterward still looms ahead? Part of the reason I never eat." He took another bite, speaking around it. "Much better if you do them beforehand, so you can enjoy your meal, and then only have a little work afterward."

John shook his head. "Whatever you say."

Sherlock always did it that way from that day on. And John still sometimes ended sentences with prepositions. Together they were a hopeless case.

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