Hey, Wunder-Katze, here! Well, this story...this story just cracks me up. My best friend, Abby, and I authored this together during a sleepover a year ago. I think the world may now be ready to witness the combination of our creative powers. XD
If you are looking for a serious Sherlock Holmes story, this is NOT it. This is all about the BBC Sherlock fandom's inside joke about Mycroft and Cake. Abby and I, with our creative genius, have entitled it,
MYCAKE
(bon appetite.)
Mycroft awoke to his alarm clock (which played a song about umbrellas) and was in a surprisingly good mood. He stretched, and reached for his phone. It seemed the British Government was still in order and Parliament had avoided yet another bomb threat. His day continued to get better as he stepped onto his scale. The numbers pleased him. His diet was finally starting to take effect. Mycroft would have smiled if he could remember how. He strolled through his house, humming (very out of tune).
He was headed toward the treadmill (he skipped breakfast on his diet) when his phone vibrated from the depths of his pocket. It was a generic text tone, the one he had selected for his mother's texts. Boring, like her.
He whipped out his phone and scrolled to the text.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIKE! HUGS AND KISSES AND MORE KISSES. LOVE, MUM.
Mycroft's initial reaction was disgust at the use of his nickname, and revolt at the hugs and kisses. He nearly threw his phone down in repulsion when he himself reeled back in the utmost horror. Today way his birthday!
His thoughts immediately drifted to…cake. Not just any cake. Oh, no. Mycroft would not waste thoughts on mere chocolate or vanilla cake. There was but one cake…One Cake to Rule Them All. One Cake to Find Him. One Cake to Bring Them All and in the Calories Bind Him.
Its name?
The Pound Cake.
The pound cake was four pounds of glory. The most angelic thing this side of Heaven. One pound flour, one pound eggs, one pound butter, and one pound sugar. Mycroft's mouth was watering.
"No, Mycroft. Stay on your diet!" he said to himself, hopping onto the treadmill. He would lock himself inside for the day. He would not go out until his birthday had passed. Then he would again be safe from the Pound Cake's enticing invitation.
Mycroft, in his exercise outfit, was enjoying a (not so) pleasant jog. He was listening to his ipod. He had it on shuffle. He began to sing along with his favorite song.
"I baked a cake just for you, look at it! I baked a cake…" he stopped.
Was he being haunted by cake? In shock from the song he tripped and slid off the treadmill. In perfect time to his slamming against the wall, the doorbell rang. Rubbing his head, Mycroft went to see who it was. He peered through the peephole. It appeared to be a delivery man of sorts.
Had someone (besides his mum) actually cared enough to remember his birthday? Did he have a friend?
"No," said Mycroft. "I don't have friends. I only have cake. I mean…I don't have that either!"
Needless to say the delivery man was a little confused, for Mycroft had been saying all this as he opened the door.
"Ummm…" said the delivery man.
"Well, what? Are you drunk, an idiot, or both? Spit it out!" Mycroft demanded.
"Delivery for Mr. Holmes?" the delivery man asked uncertainly.
"That would be me," said Mycroft, adjusting the sweat band that wrapped around his head.
The delivery man handed him the box, collected his payment, and skedaddled.
Mycroft looked at the box and recognized it immediately. It was from the bakery. His ipod began playing the theme from Jaws. It continued to play as, with trembling hands, Mycroft reached for the lid. Sweat slid down his brow, but not from the work out. Opening this box was like tinkering with a grenade. Mycroft bit his lip and looked away from the box.
In a sudden burst of energy the lid was ripped away from the box and a delicious Pound Cake sat staring up at Mycroft.
"Don't look at me like that!" said Mycroft to the cake. The cake sat there. Mycroft shouted abuse at it. "I will not eat you. You look terrible. Your frosting has no rainbow sprinkles…no sprinkles at all! I cannot eat such a disappointing cake…I…" Mycroft tried to say. It was all lies. And he knew it.
Could he throw it out the window? No…that would be murder…wouldn't it? The cake still sat there, looking as irresistible as ever.
"I shall go about my chores as usual and ignore you," said Mycroft.
Mycroft did the dishes (and ate some cake). He did the laundry (and ate some cake). He watered the ferns (and ate some cake). He dusted the house (and ate more cake). The thing of it was, Mycroft did not even realize he was eating it. Just as he walked by he would absent mindedly grab a hunk and stuff it into his mouth. It was like the good old days…good old Pound Cake.
He remembered his first Pound Cake. He was at boarding school where no toys and no fun was allowed. His mum had sent his a Pound Cake for his birthday. Being but a lonely child, Mycroft had named the cake Fluffy and pretended it was his best friend. Until one day he became very hungry. He discovered the only thing better than having a best friend was eating them.
Mycroft was about to take out the trash when he reached for another piece of cake, but his hand only grabbed air. THERE WAS NO MORE! Instead, his hand felt a note at the bottom of the box. He picked it up and read it.
ENJOY THE CAKE, MYCROFT?
-SH
How had Sherlock even remembered his birthday? (After all, Sherlock had probably deleted Mycroft's birthday from his mind palace.) Only his parents even sent him a birthday text. Perhaps his mother had demanded Sherlock say happy birthday, and Sherlock sent him a cake instead since he knew Mycroft was dieting. Mycroft would get to the bottom of this! He text his baby brother.
SHERLOCK HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT TODAY WAS MY BIRTHDAY?
A few minutes later his brother texted him back.
IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?
The end.