Mycroft Holmes was having a bad day. To be fair, all of his days were awful lately. The last two months were living hell. The publicity surrounding his brother's death caused his superiors to lose their trust in him. All of the whispers and gossip made him retreat to the Diogenes Club more often. The mere sound of a violin made him sick. Though he never mentioned it out loud, Mycroft missed his little brother.
He'd told himself that it wasn't his fault that Sherlock died, but that regret and self-loathing clouded his thoughts. Mycroft couldn't let it go. His nights were haunted by the faces of Sherlock and Moriarty. John hadn't spoken to him since the funeral. In his life filled with solitude, he had never felt more alone.
Mycroft was in his office, sorting paperwork when Anthea knocked on the door. "Sir," she said, handing him a white box, "this for you." Mycroft opened the box, nearly dropping it when he looked inside. The chocolate cake itself was normal enough. It was what was frosted on top that alarmed him.
Frosted in cool blue letters were three words:
'Forget the diet.'