The last cake was no better than the first two. He had chosen the best two of the six cakes he had made, plopped one on top of the other, and got a certain perverse satisfaction out of decorating it anyway.
It was a stealth weapon at least, resembling a perfectly suitable cake, so long as no one looked too closely, or attempted to cut it. Or noticed the dripping jam because he was too frustrated and impatient to let it cool off properly. And the whipped cream hadn't exactly whipped. Well, the first batch had, and he was so pleased it was actually working that he kept at it a bit too long and now it was well into the butter stage. The second batch was under-whipped and slowly melting into the not-quite-cooled cake. Who was he kidding, it was a horrible cake by any criteria.
Sherlock was past the point of caring, and collapsed on the sofa with a dramatic sigh. John would be home any minute. He'd let him down. Empty-headed people all over the country could do this simple task. He could measure, he could follow directions, but... he glared at the offending confection. It was almost as if it was mocking him. Insufferable amuse-bouche. Sanctimonious cupcake. "Oh, do shut up, you magniloquent pile of leaven."