Note: I had previously asked a friend of mine to publish this story while I made myself an account on here. ^^
Mycroft Holmes lived in a "world of goldfish", to put it quite simply. It made everything very difficult. Stepping outside could sometimes prove quite laborious. These little goldfish had filled the world with nonsense and frivolous stupidities the same way one might fill a fish bowl with water. And it suffocated him, filled his lungs and nose and ears and made the outside world of the goldfish unpleasant and unattractive. And walking amongst these people was as straining as walking on the small coloured pebbles found at the bottom of a fish bowl. They just needed so much room. They walked around in cliques, had prams-those absurdly big ones that looked like minivans-and dogs that needed walking. Big dogs. He sometimes had to get off the sidewalk to let those fuzzy horses walk by, trailing their owners behind them. Most unpleasantly of all were the geniuses who rode their bicycles on the sidewalks. And let's not forget the worst goldfish of all. Those who worry about having the prettiest pebbles, the cleanest water, the nicest little plastic scuba diver, the biggest….aquarium.
The number of times these little creatures had ruined his day was shocking to his eyes. In cafes, he couldn't sit comfortably. They sat in large groups, chattered, ate loudly. Worst of all were the young families. The baby would cry. The toddler would walk up to him and just stare at him. And he would stare back. What did this little one want? Often, he just wanted to kick Mycroft in the shins and run away. You couldn't really miss his shins, after all. He was a tall man.
He remembered the one time, in his early 20's, he had needed to take the bus home. The reason had long ago escaped him. It couldn't measure up to the terrible experience. It was raining that day, and the bus was full. Worse than goldfish. It was like sardines. And there was this man. The man had gotten on after him. He had sat down next to him. Firstly, he didn't smell quite nice. Secondly, he had five different papers with him. He held them all awkwardly, as he read them one by one. His reading position made his being take up a lot of Mycroft's personal space. Then the bus stopped suddenly. All the papers fell. On Mycroft. And the man wouldn't let him pick them up. No, after slapping away Mycroft's hands, he dragged his up and down the poor young man, scooping up the papers, making noise, making Mycroft feel uncomfortable, giving them both many paper cuts. After this man had gotten off the bus, a middle-aged woman with a young child in her arms had sat down next to him. Mycroft had gotten off soon after. The child had just eaten. A lot. The way he had learnt that wasn't pleasant.
Of course, goldfish are not all bad. They could be quite interesting. Some good be good companions. He thought about his network. They followed orders quite well. Screw ups were very infrequent, almost totally nonexistent. Maybe he had found a rather large group of people who weren't nothing but goldfish. Maybe he had found some sharks. They could fire guns, drive fast cars, gather information, and eliminate unwanted presences. Yes, he thought, content with himself. He could keep good company. Well, company was a strong word for what these people were, but he could nonetheless be proud in the fact that he had good enough judgment to find them amongst the billions of dull ones that lived around him.
Some could bake cakes. Mycroft found pleasure in these delicious desserts. He was thankful that some people had worked hard to develop recipes and then bake the cakes. He did watch his figure, so he bought small cakes and only ate small pieces at a time. He reasoned, however, that a brain like his, that worked very hard, needed fuel. Brain fuel is sugar. Sugar is in cakes. Cakes are delicious. Yes. Good choice. And a new bakery had opened up near his residence. They had everything from simple lemon pound cake to interesting blueberry and lavender cake with butter cream frosting.
He liked this bakery. It was small and smart-no annoying clients elongating his wait time with their questions. Is this cake gluten-free? Does it have nuts? Do you have anything with alcohol in it? None of that. He could walk in, get his cake, and walk out. But not too quickly…
Maybe it was Sherlock's fault. Sherlock had become strangely sentimental. Maybe it had all rubbed off on him. He had been spending more and more time with brother dearest. It hadn't hit him at first. He had noticed that he had started spending more and more time at the bakery. It had started with conversations with the employee who gave him his cake. Hello. How are you? We have a new flavour, care to try it? Is that a new umbrella? Yes. They became longer. More pleasant. And Mycroft, as time went on, could no longer decide if he wanted to buy cake, or have a conversation. Maybe it was both. It could be both. There was no shame in that, was there? After all, he had admitted it himself: some goldfish could be quite interesting.