In honour of Robert Burns’ birthday. :)

Mrs. Hudson let herself in the front door and wrinkled her nose, wondering what on earth the detective upstairs was up to, and spared a quick thought for his poor doctor. However, for once, the pungent smell of offal and organ coming from the flat had nothing whatsoever to do with Sherlock, or any of his revolting experiments.

John puttered contentedly about in the kitchen-cum-laboratory, humming to himself as he mixed up the ground heart, liver, and lungs, and the chopped onions, carefully mixing them with cooked oats and lamb fat. The odour was overpowering, and only got more noticeable as John stared at the spice rack for a moment and carefully added in pepper and nutmeg. Sherlock could hear him quietly murmuring something about a “wee timorous beastie” and a “murdering pattle” as John meticulously tucked the disgusting mixture into an empty stomach, of all things.

“You foul, wretched descendant of a filthy Scot.” Sherlock muttered, scrunching up his nose. “I hope you don’t expect me to partake in the consumption of that abomination.”

Smiling and rolling his eyes indulgently, John carefully lowered the dark, dense little ball into the simmering water on the stovetop. “Haggis is absolutely delicious, Sherlock. Trust me, you’ll like it. Besides, it’s a traditional way to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns.”

Read the whole series of drabbles on AO3 or FF.net

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang’s my arm

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’need
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Bethankit hums

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!