Birthday Cake - A Sherlock Holmes One-Shot
My thanks to BallyK for the latest prompt: [Spoiler (click to open)]"For a happy prompt... it's Mycroft's birthday and he's under the weather rather badly in mind and body so they bake him a cake and visit him."
Holmes had been out since the early hours of the morning and as a consequence I had been occupying myself with one of my novels before our sitting room fire in an effort to keep myself from wondering where my companion might be.
It was after five PM when I heard the front door slam downstairs and then my friend's voice shouted for Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper.
With a sigh I vacated my chair, being careful not to lose the page of my novel, and stepped onto the landing. "Mrs. Hudson has gone away Holmes. Surely you remember?"
He snorted as he shrugged off his coat and threw it down with such aggression that I heard it hit the tiled hall floor with a loud slap from where I stood.
"Damned woman!" he growled. "It is deucedly selfish of her to leave us like this; I have need of her!"
I shook my head and retreated to the fireside once more, knowing better than to even contemplate making conversation with my companion while he was in such a temper.
Holmes did not join me in the living room and so I assumed that he had gone out again; either to walk off his temper or to find his way around what ever it was that he needed our absent housekeeper for. Later, he proved me to be wrong.
"Ha ha!" he crowed as he burst into the sitting room in a cloud of fine white dust. "I have done it Watson!"
I frowned at him. He was covered from head to foot with what would appear to be flour. "What the deuce have you been doing Holmes?"
He coughed and waved a hand, which only caused more of the fine dust to be unleashed, and sneezed. "Baking of course."
I felt a thrill of fear and horror that only Holmes' culinary efforts can instill in me. "Why?" I asked weakly, already feeling sure that I would not like the answer.
He frowned at me for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. "Come Watson; the cake should be cool enough to be transported now. Go and hail a cab, if you would be so good."
I told him that he should clean himself up if he truly intended to go visiting and then did as I was instructed.
During the cab ride, Holmes explained that he had called at the Diogenes Club, with the intention of seeing his brother, on his way home only to find that he had not been at his club all day.
"Mycroft is a man of habit," my friend remarked. "For him to break those habits, he must be ill indeed."
"Oh Holmes," I retorted in the hope of soothing the worry that had dimmed his usually bright grey eyes and caused him to twist his nervous hands in his lap. "He might merely be busy."
He snorted and shook his head. "If it was work important and trying enough to keep him from his club he would involve me. He has not done so. Ergo, he is unwell; dreadfully so."
I touched his wrist in a gesture of support and said no more. I hoped that my companion was wrong for once.
We arrived at Mycroft's home. My friend quickly snatched up the cake tin from off the seat opposite ours and hastened to the front door of the house to ring the bell, leaving me to pay the cabby.
Mycroft was most certainly far from well, but I saw immediately that he was not as ill as my companion's fretting had caused me to fear. This was just as well, for the fellow had not requested that I bring my bag with me when we left the house.
"Sherlock," the elder of the Holmes brothers greeted us tiredly from beneath a pile of rugs. "And Doctor Watson. Do both of you come in and forgive me if I do not get up."
My companion gave him the ghost of a smile. "I knew that you had to be indisposed when you were not at your club; I trust that it is nothing serious?"
He shook his head and forced a smile to his lips. "No, no; I shall be all right."
"Your timing could certainly have been better," the detective remarked. "Falling ill on your birthday, of all days."
"It is not as if we usually acknowledge such things at any rate," his elder brother muttered wearily. "We have neither of us celebrated birthdays since we were children."
Their expressions suggested that even then, they would have preferred not to.
"Anyway," Holmes said airily as he shook himself. "I have brought something to cheer you up."
His brother took the cake tin from him and opened it gingerly. "Thank you Sherlock. Did you bake this yourself?"
"Naturally," he replied with a bright smile. "I know precisely what you like; it has all of your favourite ingredients in it."
Mycroft seemed to pale even further and set down the cake, which seemed to wobble in an almost jelly-like fashion when it was moved.
"Thank you," he said quietly, in a manner that was rather more diplomatic than grateful.
If my companion noticed his brother's reaction he did not let it show. Instead, he smiled cheerfully at his brother and replaced the lid on the cake tin. "You are very welcome. I hope that it does you some good."
We stayed with the elder Holmes until it became clear that he was fighting sleep and then made our farewells.
Once we were in a cab bound for Baker Street, I asked my companion which cake recipe he had used.
"What is a recipe?" he asked of me with a flick of his hand. "Why, it is a mere pinch of this and handful of that! I simply used the usual cake mix and then added melted chocolate, grated ginger, a squeeze or two of lemon, along with lemon zest, ground coffee, caramel, ground and whole nuts and a dash of vanilla. I had to add extra butter and such to make it bind, but aside from that it seemed to work rather well."
Poor Mycroft! It is no wonder he had appeared to sicken further when my friend had informed him that he had used all of his favourite ingredients. While I have no doubt that some of the items would taste wonderful if combined, I would not like to try all of them in one single cake. Truly, Sherlock Holmes is skilled in many fields; unfortunately baking and cooking are not among them.
While the conversation was on the subject of food, I suggested that we purchase our dinner from off of one of the food carts that did the rounds of an evening. I did not want Holmes to feel compelled to take to the kitchen for a second time that day.
Holmes had been out since the early hours of the morning and as a consequence I had been occupying myself with one of my novels before our sitting room fire in an effort to keep myself from wondering where my companion might be.
It was after five PM when I heard the front door slam downstairs and then my friend's voice shouted for Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper.
With a sigh I vacated my chair, being careful not to lose the page of my novel, and stepped onto the landing. "Mrs. Hudson has gone away Holmes. Surely you remember?"
He snorted as he shrugged off his coat and threw it down with such aggression that I heard it hit the tiled hall floor with a loud slap from where I stood.
"Damned woman!" he growled. "It is deucedly selfish of her to leave us like this; I have need of her!"
I shook my head and retreated to the fireside once more, knowing better than to even contemplate making conversation with my companion while he was in such a temper.
Holmes did not join me in the living room and so I assumed that he had gone out again; either to walk off his temper or to find his way around what ever it was that he needed our absent housekeeper for. Later, he proved me to be wrong.
"Ha ha!" he crowed as he burst into the sitting room in a cloud of fine white dust. "I have done it Watson!"
I frowned at him. He was covered from head to foot with what would appear to be flour. "What the deuce have you been doing Holmes?"
He coughed and waved a hand, which only caused more of the fine dust to be unleashed, and sneezed. "Baking of course."
I felt a thrill of fear and horror that only Holmes' culinary efforts can instill in me. "Why?" I asked weakly, already feeling sure that I would not like the answer.
He frowned at me for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. "Come Watson; the cake should be cool enough to be transported now. Go and hail a cab, if you would be so good."
I told him that he should clean himself up if he truly intended to go visiting and then did as I was instructed.
During the cab ride, Holmes explained that he had called at the Diogenes Club, with the intention of seeing his brother, on his way home only to find that he had not been at his club all day.
"Mycroft is a man of habit," my friend remarked. "For him to break those habits, he must be ill indeed."
"Oh Holmes," I retorted in the hope of soothing the worry that had dimmed his usually bright grey eyes and caused him to twist his nervous hands in his lap. "He might merely be busy."
He snorted and shook his head. "If it was work important and trying enough to keep him from his club he would involve me. He has not done so. Ergo, he is unwell; dreadfully so."
I touched his wrist in a gesture of support and said no more. I hoped that my companion was wrong for once.
We arrived at Mycroft's home. My friend quickly snatched up the cake tin from off the seat opposite ours and hastened to the front door of the house to ring the bell, leaving me to pay the cabby.
Mycroft was most certainly far from well, but I saw immediately that he was not as ill as my companion's fretting had caused me to fear. This was just as well, for the fellow had not requested that I bring my bag with me when we left the house.
"Sherlock," the elder of the Holmes brothers greeted us tiredly from beneath a pile of rugs. "And Doctor Watson. Do both of you come in and forgive me if I do not get up."
My companion gave him the ghost of a smile. "I knew that you had to be indisposed when you were not at your club; I trust that it is nothing serious?"
He shook his head and forced a smile to his lips. "No, no; I shall be all right."
"Your timing could certainly have been better," the detective remarked. "Falling ill on your birthday, of all days."
"It is not as if we usually acknowledge such things at any rate," his elder brother muttered wearily. "We have neither of us celebrated birthdays since we were children."
Their expressions suggested that even then, they would have preferred not to.
"Anyway," Holmes said airily as he shook himself. "I have brought something to cheer you up."
His brother took the cake tin from him and opened it gingerly. "Thank you Sherlock. Did you bake this yourself?"
"Naturally," he replied with a bright smile. "I know precisely what you like; it has all of your favourite ingredients in it."
Mycroft seemed to pale even further and set down the cake, which seemed to wobble in an almost jelly-like fashion when it was moved.
"Thank you," he said quietly, in a manner that was rather more diplomatic than grateful.
If my companion noticed his brother's reaction he did not let it show. Instead, he smiled cheerfully at his brother and replaced the lid on the cake tin. "You are very welcome. I hope that it does you some good."
We stayed with the elder Holmes until it became clear that he was fighting sleep and then made our farewells.
Once we were in a cab bound for Baker Street, I asked my companion which cake recipe he had used.
"What is a recipe?" he asked of me with a flick of his hand. "Why, it is a mere pinch of this and handful of that! I simply used the usual cake mix and then added melted chocolate, grated ginger, a squeeze or two of lemon, along with lemon zest, ground coffee, caramel, ground and whole nuts and a dash of vanilla. I had to add extra butter and such to make it bind, but aside from that it seemed to work rather well."
Poor Mycroft! It is no wonder he had appeared to sicken further when my friend had informed him that he had used all of his favourite ingredients. While I have no doubt that some of the items would taste wonderful if combined, I would not like to try all of them in one single cake. Truly, Sherlock Holmes is skilled in many fields; unfortunately baking and cooking are not among them.
While the conversation was on the subject of food, I suggested that we purchase our dinner from off of one of the food carts that did the rounds of an evening. I did not want Holmes to feel compelled to take to the kitchen for a second time that day.