Although the CakeCroft jokes can be humorous, I thought about the fact that Mycroft really has nobody. I realized that the CakeCroft jokes are actually pretty mocking and harsh. So I wrote this.
"Damn Sherlock and his bloody friend!" I shout at a wall, kicking at it in frustration. Tears stream down my imperfect face, reminding me of the burningly painful question; "How come he gets friend when I can't even get a damn assistant who cares about me?" I shout, hating Anthea and her dull personality.
When WILL anybody care?
I think to myself, walking down the street in a rainy, midnight London, searching for a cab,
Who needs power and money when you can have friends?
Suddenly, I find myself, peering through the glass window of a bakery, marvelling at all the pastries.
And damn my diet, too.
After finally attracting the attention of something, a cab, I am home. In my mega-mansion, with its many rooms and beds and doors, I am not happy. My outstanding intellect is telling me that love is for the weak minded fools who think it's important, while my heart reminds I'm still a human, one with feelings so buried by my work.
Now I'm in one of the many kitchens. I'm wandering around the walk-in pantry, staring lustfully at the many foods and ingredients. I want to swallow it all, along with all my moods and emotions.
I'm now back in the kitchen, at a counter filled with flour, sugar, and a couple of other ingredients. I rudely dismiss every chef, maid, or butler offering to help.
After sifting, pouring, beating, and mixing, I am sitting in front of an oven, watching through the small glass window as the liquidy substance bubbles, rises, then hardens in to a soft, brown pillow. I open the door to the hot, firy machine and retrieve the result, setting it on to a counter, and decorating it with white, sugary frosting and blood-red strawberries.
I stare down at the creation. Instead of grabbing at it and forcing it down my throat, I look at it harder. I look at the sheer pixels of the object, I look at how long it's lived its life, and how short that life will be.
No. It won't be short.
I curl up in a ball on the floor, refusing to consume the thing. Suddenly, the desire is gone. The craving dies, and so does my recent burst of misery. I quickly shoot up in to a standing position and find the pastry is no longer on the plate on the counter.
It is behind me.
I turn around and find a brown, humanoid figure with a squirt of whipped cream and a strawberry on its head.
"Mycroft," it says, in a deep, rich female voice. My eyes widen. My hearts skips a beat only to double its speed. I'm in love.
"Cake." I say.
Cake.
I approach the creature, my arms find themselves around the warm, mushy body. I am no longer in a kitchen. I am in a meadow, with a sky bluer than any sky I'd ever seen, a cloudless sky with a warm, shining sun. Flocks of birds slowly making their way through the air. The cool breeze of spring afternoon tickles me while the sun's rays hug my skin.
Cake.
She is next to me, her hand wrapped around mine, her chocolate eyes staring happily in to mine while her cocoa lips twist in to a warm smile, then a grin.
We're running through the meadow, skipping like little kids, merrier than schoolboys. We both trip, laughing, and we find ourselves laying in the evergreen, uncut grass staring up at the burnt orange sky, while the sun gradually lowers, fluffing its pillow, tucking itself in.
"I love you." I say to her, holding her hand, never letting go.
"I love you, too, Mycroft." She giggles. She tickles me, digging at my ribcage, just to see me go pink with laughter. We both sit up just as the sun makes its final disappearance, every minute we note how much we love eachother, and comparing our love of the other to the biggest things in the universe, to a million, to infinity, playfully arguing who loves the other more.
Cake.
Suddenly, we find our faces inches apart, our smiles still present, our hands still connected. I stare in to her beautiful truffle-brown eyes, and press my nose to her, closing my eyes, finally happy and comfortable. Our lips meet, and I'm overcome by the delicious taste of her chocolate mouth.
Cake.
I open my eyes, but not to her or a meadow. To an empty plate on a counter in a cold, empty kitchen.
Cake.