Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Biscuits (Part 3)

Riccardo Y/N towards the farthest, most intimate corner of the room, a red velvet booth curved snugly around an immaculately set circular table.

It's lit frown above by a dim, low-hanging lamp which Sherlock has to duck underneath as their host excitedly pushes him into his seat by the shoulders.

"See, this is nice, no?" He asks with a suggestive, twinkling smile. He doesn't push Y/N into her side of the booth; he invites her to take a seat with a bow, the booth plush as a fine sofa. With a whip-like flap, he unfolds her napkin like a bullfighter and drapes it elegantly across her lap. "You see this, ragazzo?" he addresses Sherlock now, his tone firm like a father, "You watch what I am doing. You must treat your woman like the fine, beautiful lady she is."

Y/N can't help smiling at the theatre of it all, her cheeks flushing at the attention. Glancing at Sherlock, she finds that, despite their years of friendship, he still doesn't seem to be used to the chef's flamboyant personality.

He gives a wobbly smile. "Thank you, Riccardo; for the beautiful table—and the advice."

Riccardo taps his shiny pink nose, giving Y/N a wink that suggests he was quite the Casanova back in his day. "Trust Riccardo; he knows about these things."

A green wine bottle stands by the salt and pepper, a red candle wedged tight into its neck, and the chef lights it, the match taking with a crackle. The wax looks like it has been steadily dribbling for ten or so years, the bottle and the tablecloth now very much one and the same.

A waiter glides by, placing a basket of bread down on the table—

—but Riccardo snatches it up before the wicker so much as kisses the table.

"This bread is not for you!" He sneers at the plump little rolls as if they've offended him. "I get you the special bread. You wait, you don't move!"

Before Sherlock and Y/N can insist—in the classical British way they were raised—that the available bread will be absolutely fine and please don't go to any trouble, Riccardo has whisked away, the kitchen doors swinging frantically once more.

When he emerges, he holds a different basket, this one trailing steam through the air as he waltzes toward them. He places it down reverently, even tweaking its angle as if positioning it for a photoshoot.

"There you are! The best bread in the house for my best customer." Finally satisfied now that his guests are settled in, he turns to Sherlock, giving him a suggestive smile. "So, you bring your lady on a uh...a date, tonight, yes? You bring your beautiful woman to Riccardo's because you want to show her the best!" Proudly, he gestures to his restaurant, both of his short arms stretched wide as if he wants to bundle up the wallpapered walls and the shiny wooden floors and the paintings of the old country and hug them.

Once again hoping for flustered Sherlock to make an appearance, Y/N peeks at him over her menu—

—but is ultimately disappointed as he dodges the question with an easy shrug.

"Where else would we go, Riccardo? Francesco's Pizzeria?"

They both laugh in a way that makes Y/N assume that whoever Francesco is, he does not make good pizza.

Eventually, Riccardo takes their drinks order and gives them a surprisingly deep bow considering his age and physique, and gestures to the basket of golden bread with a "Mangia! Mangia!".

Moments after he's bustled back to the kitchen, Y/N hears him shout "No, no no! Stir the sauce with feeling! Look at this spaghetti! It has the depression like the sad donkey from the Winnie And The Pooh!"