Chapter Text
Tedious. Sherlock just learned this new word, and already knows it fully applies to his summer holidays. But then again, it applies to a lot of other stuff, too.
Afternoons, in particular, seem to drag out endlessly. The sun shines high on the Vernet estate, stilling everything into a motionless daze interrupted only by the intermittent chirping of grasshoppers. Lavender fields extend for… miles?, he guesses. The fragrant stems sway lazily in the breeze, all in the same shade of lilac.
He goes on short adventures with Redbeard, but the dog soon tires out in the summer heat. And they already explored most of the property, anyway.
The shade of the porch gives them some relief. Grand-Mère is sitting there, reading at the rattan table; as always, there’s a pitcher of ice lemonade for him and a tall, dark bottle for herself. She sips from a small tapered glass.
“Have fun, you two?” she asks. Every time she smiles like this, the corner of her eyes wrinkle with fine lines and Sherlock gets the impulse to smooth them out.
“Mpfh,” he shrugs, a dissatisfied pout on his little face.
She puts her book down. “If you want, the Lemaire children are just a five-minute walk away.”
Sherlock barely restrains a “ugh” in the back of his throat.
The Lemaire children screech and run and hit each other. They know only small words. And they openly mock him, as if he couldn’t understand them.
“They are… tedious.”
“Sherlock, mon chou,” she pats her knees. She’s the only one in the family calling him by his middle name. The rolled french “r” makes it sound like the bubbling flow of a stream.
He climbs on her lap and she wraps him into her gentle embrace.
“You see, some people are like… lemonade,” she says, as if struck by a sudden insight. “Ouais , lemonade. They are… simple, je veux dire. While others, like you …”
She moves the bottle closer for him to read.
“What does it say, Sherlock?”
Black elegant letters adorn the label.
“Henri Bardouin,” he spells out, a perfect pronunciation. And under that, “Pastis. Is this not… simple, Mémé?”
“Oh non, pas du tout.”
She brings the glass to his nose.
The pale yellow liquid is sweet and pungent at the same time. The alcohol rises up first, tickling his nose. Then there’s a… complex aroma, indeed. Fresh, like the air coming from the seaside on windy days; powerful as it hits his nostrils, but then, it reveals a pleasant mildness. It seems to change with every sniff; it reminds him of licorice this moment, of caramel the next. Bitter like medicine, yet sugary like candy.
“You understand, now?” Grand-Mère asks, studying his focused expression. “It’s what you call an acquired taste. Not everyone gets it, not everyone likes it. But if you like it, then you really, really do.”