Visions of Layer Cake Danced In His Head
The night was quiet. The snow was thick and fresh on the ground outside. The air was still and cold.
Mycroft Holmes sat at his kitchen table, contemplating the solitary slice of cake on his plate.
It was beautiful, as cakes went. Dark red filling separated two golden layers, and pale frosting glistened in the dim light of the single bulb that glowed in the dark room. He liked to consider himself something of a connoisseur in matters regarding baked goods and their merits, if only in his most private thoughts.
Despite its beauty, there was nothing special about this particular cake, in his estimation, other than the fact that it had sat in front of him for the better part of 15 minutes, uneaten.
Mycroft sighed, and balanced his heavy fork on the thickest part of the dessert with one finger. It was ridiculous, he knew, to do this to himself every year. He was a grown man, capable of making decisions and accepting consequences on a global scale through his work with various governments. So why was he sat here in his pajamas, frozen from indecision and the draft coming through his kitchen windows, with a dessert slowly returning to room temperature before him?
He knew he'd already indulged far too much this season. Sumptuous family dinners and catered Holiday soirees were all too frequent in December, and he could already feel the excess calories taking a toll on the button of his bespoke trousers every morning.
After entering the glossy world of politics, he'd worked very hard to shed the puppy fat that had plagued him as a teenager, and had continued to battle with every pound in adulthood, much to Sherlock's delight. It was only through stubbornness that he had succeeded, for the most part, in keeping himself relatively trim and healthy, despite his sedentary lifestyle.
It was an accomplishment he was rather proud of, and it was that pride that kept him attending fencing lessons, and prevented his sweet tooth from getting the better of him.
(Usually. After the Coventry debacle, only Anthea's interference had prevented him from eating his weight in expensive French pastries.)
But what could it hurt? After today's rich luncheon with the dignitaries from Sweden, what did a few more sugar-laden bites really matter in the long run? And it was Christmas, after all. It was a time for celebration and relaxation, and didn't he deserve a few treats after the year he'd had?
You'll hate yourself after, whispered the voice of reason that had kept him from taking the first bite a quarter of an hour ago. It might feel good at the time, but what about when you get up in the morning and have to look in the mirror?
Mycroft's fork dragged a line through the generous icing and broke off a piece of the moist sponge. His mouth watered at the wafting smell of spiced vanilla and sweet raspberry. Mummy had known it was his favourite when she'd sent it along with him two days ago, claiming it would only be wasted with on her. Since then, the lone, thick wedge had been resting in his refrigerator, calling out to him almost tangibly, despite the air-tight container he'd kept it in.
He probably would hate himself in a few hours, if he did indulge. Hell, he already hated himself a bit now, agonizing over a silly piece of cake like a teenaged girl on a fad diet.
But, wasn't he allowed a few pleasures in life? Didn't he work hard enough all year to enjoy a few(hundred) extra calories, every once in a while? He did, he knew it, even if the fencing club would be closed for weeks after the New Year, and he'd have very little spare time, once January started, and he really should be cutting back now, rather than later…
The cycles of dubious logic continued, loud and exhausting in his brain, until they bled into one poisonous stream. Fat. Just a fat, lazy git. Why not eat it, it'll make no difference to a blob like you. You'll do it eventually, you always do, disgusting man. What's the point in not eating it, you lazy, fat—
"Hey."
Mycroft's head snapped up at the voice, and flew to the wide kitchen doorframe where Gregory leaned.
"Hello." He set down the fork he hadn't realized had been biting into his palm onto the edge of the plate. While he adjusted the angle just so on the delicate china, he saw Greg push away from the door and sit heavily in the chair beside him.
"What are you doing?" It was obvious, really, but Greg was humouring him.
"Attempting to find the meaning of life in a piece of confectionary." He subtly pushed the place a few centimeters across the table.
"And how's that going?"
"About as well as you'd expect."
Mycroft avoided Greg's eyes, knowing what he'd find there: Amusement, sympathy, and perhaps just the barest amount of pity. The thought of that pity in Greg's warm eyes made his throat a little tighter, so he looked anywhere but his much-loved face: The table, wall behind him, the voluminous burgundy fabric of his bathrobe…
He blinked "Are you wearing my robe?"
"Yeah, do you mind? Mine's in the wash, and I was freezing, but even my pants are getting tight these days." He leaned back with heavy sigh. "God, I've been to so many Yard Christmas parties this month, I must have put on 10 pounds."
Mycroft's lips twitched. "I'm sure that's an exaggeration."
Greg slouched some more, and rubbed his stomach like he was soothing a savage beast. "Not at all. I swear, it gets harder every year to get back on the wagon in January. I don't know how you do it, you lanky git."
At this, Greg poked a broad finger into the softening flesh of Mycroft's belly, and laughed when Mycroft slapped him away with a scowl.
"I've told you before, Gregory, it's merely an equation." He absently rubbed the place on his side where Greg's fingermark still tingled. "Calories consumed plus energy expended. Quite simply, really."
"Oh, yeah? Tell that to my Starbucks addiction." He sighed wistfully. "It's hard to think about the calories in those peppermint Christmas drinks when they're so damned good. You're a stronger man than me, if you can resist them."
Mycroft's smirk grew into a full-blown smile. "Very well, I'll concede it might be a bit more complicated than that."
"I'll say." Greg scoffed.
It was all an act, he knew. Greg was astonishingly comfortable in his own skin, especially when compared to Mycroft's constant evaluation of his own flaws. But it was a good act, one designed to remind him of how far he'd come. Greg hadn't known Mycroft in the years when Mummy's indulgence and his own lack of discipline had made him the object of ridicule at school. But he'd seen the old pictures, and the contemptuous glances at the bathroom scale in the morning. (This was before Greg had gotten rid of the scale entirely. He never quite figured out where he'd put it, but he had a theory about the crematorium at the morgue. Greg did love to be dramatic.)
Silence settled between the two of them as they watched the snow fall outside with growing speed. The wind was picking up too, and one particularly strong gust made one of the trees outside clatter against the house. Beside him, Greg shivered.
"It's freezing down here. You going to eat that?" Greg leaned out of seat to press cool lips to his. "Or are you going to come upstairs with me so I can warm you up?"
Mycroft glanced down at the cake sitting innocently on the table.
"Do you know, I think you satisfy my sweet tooth just fine." He pushed away from the table and pulled Greg up from his chair, while his lover groaned theatrically and chuckled.
"That was a terrible line, even for you." He bemoaned.
Mycroft pulled him close for another kiss. "It was, rather. Allow me to make it up to you?"
"You'd better." The mischievous glint in Greg's eye gave him only a moment's warning before cold hands were thrust up the back of his pajamas. He let out an undignified yelp, and rushed to catch up to Greg as he ran, laughing up the stairs to the toasty bedroom and thick duvet.
The cake sat forgotten in the frigid kitchen until morning.