A/N: Some corporation (I can't mention over fears of copyright issues) made a crossover between a tv contest format and a fictional tv series. At least I think they did. I didn't actually watch it.
But I took the idea and ran for the hills. -csf
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Eager to start.
'Filmed for a game show on the telly, John? What a preposterous idea!' The well groomed detective adjust his snug fitting shirt in front of the mirror on the fireplace breast, inspecting minute creases with those insecurity bred attention and megalomaniac need to persistently excel of his.
I blink. 'Don't look at me, I didn't come up with this, you did! Said your clients—
'—our clients—' he corrects, naturally.
'—didn't see you as a person anymore, and you wanted to show them you're human.'
'Much unlike your heroic descriptions of me in your published material. See? You made me do this to us, with your unbounded adulation, John... Learnt to spell "tier" from "tear" yet?' he asks with a glance and a quirk of the brow.
I glare at the posh detective, all fantastically bouncy curls and not a wrinkle on his clothes.
I'm a soldier. I live by my sword. My word is my sword... don't push me.
No. I still get some spellings mixed up once in a while, that's true.
Shaking my head I recognise in awe: 'Don't know how you roped me into this one, mate. I really don't.'
Sherlock's green eyes are scrutinizing me one second and mercurially distant the next – how does he do it with only the flickering reflected light from the fire lit in the hearth? – before he tells me:
'Had to. Mycroft practically begged me. Can you image the commercial viability of a show with just us two competing? It'd be prime time drama.'
Or a hell of a comedy.
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The make-up room.
'Sherlock...'
The detective lazing on a make-up chair hums, just to tell me he's vaguely paying attention.
'The lovely make-up artist here has finished on you in, what? Twelve seconds?' I ask, sarcastic.
He hums, agreeing. 'The light likes my face, apparently.'
'Well, she's currently applying a fifth fresh coat of paint to my face, Sherlock.'
'Bags under your eyes, John. There's only so much highlighter contour she can use before you look like a lemur in front of the camera.'
'How I look is part of who I am!'
'Nonsense, John. We all know why you've got dark bags under your eyes.'
Nightmares and sleepless nights... I asked you to keep that in confidence, remember?
'Tea, John. You drink excessive amounts of caffeinated tea. It doesn't take a world renowned detective to tell you the lingering effects of caffeine by the gallon.'
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The contestants.
'Okay, there's three of us. You, me and Mycroft (who owes us his soul now; by the way, we need that in writing). Is there going to be anyone else?'
We are being ushered to the filming section. On a raised stage there are several cooking sections arranged as identical branches. Ovens, batter bowls, balances, stove and sink. This is a baking competition after all. The type that could attract the devious mind of Mycroft Holmes.
'Presumably so.'
He's referring to the six benches altogether.
Unnerved, I look over my shoulder. No one's behind the movable cameras yet, but there are extra cameras, set on view points from the corners of the room, next to the ceiling.
Steady on, soldier. You've got Mrs H's world famous Lemon Drizzle cake recipe, she's kindly lent you. So maybe you're not a Holmes, maybe you're not even into baking, but you can win this. Or, in the least, don't look like a complete idiot whilst trying to survive this.
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The competition.
Lights on, film metaphorically rolling, the director is whispering instructions on camera angles, the atmosphere in the room is starting to tense up. I take a first moment to analyse my competition. Sherlock is at my right side, measuring some milk with deadly precision.
Not contented with the nice kitchenware, as soon as the mark was set he's whisked measuring cylinders, syringes and a graduated pipette from his coat's inner pockets. Deep pockets, yeah, he's done a few modifications to his beloved coat over the years.
Sherlock Holmes sheds his bulky coat as soon as his laboratory stash is out.
'The chemistry reactions and changes of state involved in baking are incredibly elementary, John. Precision and proportion, however, are the key, much like elements in a stable compound or the equal sides to a reversible equation.'
I nod, a bit bewildered, particularly as I lay my eyes on his notebook (I'm quite sure that's the new notebook of mine that went missing last week) fully scribbled with jolted down chemical reactions, organic stereochemistry of flavonoids and studies on the degradation of double bonds in fat molecules at different cooking temperatures.
Right. I'm not entirely sure about how it will taste, but I can anticipate Sherlock's cake to win the Nobel prize for chemistry soon.
Making a mental note that this is war, and I shall not be intimidated, I look on over to the sorcerer's apprentice, positioned right behind her mentor. Molly has borrowed some tools from work too. She's got a white lab coat and a determined look behind the face shield, as she slices some juicy oranges. She doesn't even blink as the juice splatters on her face shield.
I don't know what to say. Maybe she's allergic to oranges all of a sudden.
Lestrade, I notice, has his sleeves rolled up and grins confidently back at me – "we've got this, mate!" – and Mrs Hudson is fussing over a nice cameraman to get her a set decor teapot and cups from a high shelf, determined she will make everyone a nice cuppa before she even starts on her own bake. She's got so many bakes under her belt she doesn't seem worried at all.
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The case.
There's a sixth contestant. Sherlock would call him the control test. He's unknown to us and got brought in to represent the ordinary guy, we presume. Or for comedic purposes, for he keeps dropping the metallic mixing bowl on the floor, where it spins and thunders before a halt. It's making me nervous, as it happens just behind my back, where I can't see or anticipate it – a bit like mortar shells on distant wars.
Great! Now I've distracted myself. Have I added the sugar yet?
'Sherlock... Sherlock!' I hiss.
'What is it, John?'
'Have I added the sugar yet?'
'How should I know?'
'You always know everything! How can you not know?' I accuse him of holding back on me in my hour of need.
'There's a way to find out, John.'
I squint. 'What way?'
Very theatrical, very deliberate, that's how he lick his own cake bowl, slurping on his finger.
'You didn't just—! We're on national television!'
He shrugs. Behind us, Mycroft, in his three piece suit, shudders.
Damn, Sherlock's always playing an audience.
I look down on my cake batter, wishing I could x-ray it or something. My fingers drum intermittent patterns on the worktop surface, just barely on the limits of my consciousness. I decide to risk it. Add sugar. No one likes a bitter cake anyway, right?
The metal mixing bowl of doom clatters on the floor again, making me jump. A second bowl joins the first, mine being ceramic and shattering to bits.
Damn it!
I look up to the poor man, who looks back at me as if he's having a minor stroke.
In the end we're awarded an extra ten minutes by the production team. That's how long we've been at it so far. All we get beforehand is two minutes off whilst a cleaning crew mops the floor.
I start over as soon as I get to my station, determined not to forget the sugar this time.
Behind me the ordinary man let's out frustrated sounds; he can't find his mixing bowls. He even suggests someone took them, namely me, which is preposterous as I was within his sight at all times. He knows that too. We almost had a fight by the bins.
That his four mixing bowls have all disappeared is a locked room mystery as far as I see it.
I just hope no sharp eyed spectator at home notices the extra bowl in each of the other four contestant stations.
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock doesn't always expose the criminal, he's more into the actual solving the crime. But he's great at Morse code, as well as a great illusionist. I'll try to see how he's done it once the footing is broadcasted on national television.
The ordinary guy representative forfeits in a belligerent manner, unsuited for great bakers anyway, and is escorted off site.
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The bakes.
'Sherlock, that is fantastic!' I'm not too proud to admit when the other contestants have done marvellous bakes. The consulting detective has baked a surprise centre, five layered, tempered chocolate covered masterpiece, shinny and beautiful. How in the world did he get the time remains a mystery to me, and I wouldn't put it past the competitive genius to have store bought it and sneaked it in for his creation from another modified pocket on his bulky coat. But I can keep a secret. It's what mates do.
Molly has a nice two layered bake with girly colours and sprinkles. A nice sugary treat done to perfection. I won't mention her use of equipment from the morgue (after properly sanitised, of course).
Mrs Hudson has a perfect Lemon Drizzle cake and that's hardly fair. Her humble creation is the staple of generation upon generation of landladies. Her Lemon Drizzle cake is the sheer foundation of London's rebuild after the Great Fire of 1666. Her Lemon Drizzle cake could win wars, or spark them... I glance over my shoulder to my bench and calculate the shortest distance between my cake and the nearest bin.
Lestrade has baked a lopsided but sturdy Steak and Ale pie. It's definitely what you'd expect from the detective – unless he'd go down the route of the clichéd police force donuts – but is savoury even within the rules? It smells lovely, though. Hope he plans on sharing with the guys later.
Mycroft's creation is unique, talented, intricate and overthought, as expected. A mastermind six tiers bake of immaculate design, complete with frilly sugar flowers (proper, identifiable by a botanist sugar flowers, separated by continents of origin; hence the Antarctic and Artic tiers have snowflake icicles designs instead). I bet it tastes exquisite too. Mycroft has had plenty of time to think this creation through. I'd say he's been working on it since he was seven years old.
One bench remains empty, kept included for the sake of symmetry, I gather. It reminds me of the late Jim Moriarty. He would have loved this exposure to the world. It's actually quite a lack of foresight that the biggest master criminal the world has ever seen, a fluid con artist and imaginative wonder of evil, did not turn politician or game show host. I guess he didn't like to be tied down. Jim would have made some Devil's cake, with a surprise explosive core. He did like his semtex. And the chance to broadcast it all on national television?
'John?' Sherlock calls me from my abstractions towards what he can only see as an empty workstation.
I return the look after a shiver has successfully run down my spine.
'Are the judges still out?' I ask.
'Presumably Mycroft is still trying to bribe them.'
'Mycroft is right there', I point behind us.
'Oh, he doesn't like to have his hands dirty... Mycroft, stop licking the icing off your cake!'
'It's been judged already!' is the muffled retort.
I turn abruptly. The elder Holmes just about fesses up:
'All this wait is making me highly indisposed. I've pondered less when advising the Prime Minister on a dictatorial regime's use of the secret nuclear weapons it had access to.'
I scrunch my face. They're mad, the Holmes brothers. I hope those cameras have been turned off by now.
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The winner.
Mycroft's cake wins joint-first it in the end. Although for the final shots of the winning creation they have to hide the bit with the icing missing. No one at home will be the wiser. Mycroft will make sure of that, just as I'm sure he'll gloat forever on this win.
Sherlock dismisses his brother easily: 'I've arranged it so, brother dear, I knew how important this simpleton show was to you.'
Mycroft is not above flicking chunks of icing and sugar flowers on his brother's dark curls. Sherlock fights back in kind.
Joint-first winner Mrs Hudson is more humble for the role, as she shakes her head and deems all creations just so beautiful. 'Everyone deserved to win. If you just look at Molly's colourful design, and the inspector's fine dinner, and John's... a nice doctor and all—'
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After the show.
'Ever thought of doing a quiz show, brother of mine?' Mycroft insinuates himself as we all gather at the pub. When I say Mycroft, I actually mean a walking trophy slides into our line of sight before we see the actual man holding it.
As for his idea, I don't want to be a part of that, thank you very much.
Put the Holmes brothers and John Watson on a quiz show. The sibling pair competing for all the answers before the presenter finishes asking the questions and I, dozing off in my seat. I mean, I know I'm clever but the presenter would be going:
"In literature, what was the year—"
Mycroft would interrupt: "1984."
"That's correct, Mr Holmes!"
Sherlock would scoff "You would know this one, of course".
The younger brother rolls his eyes. 'Why not a reality show, while we're at it?'
They both shudder in unison.
A reality show type of several contestants living 24/7 in a house could seem like a fun idea but, seriously, no tv corporation would accept the liability of Sherlock's little experiments onsite... And both Sherlock and I are already too used to that with Mycroft's spy cameras anyway. After all the censorship the higher moral values of a nation would demand to keep the network from shutting down, Mycroft would have a huge clean up to do so we wouldn't be accused of seventeen different legal offenses and anti-social behaviours (all with just cause; okay, some of them), there would be so very little clean footage to broadcast.
I sigh and roll my pint glass on my hand, pensive. 'I guess I just don't belong on the telly.'
Sherlock smirks. 'Just drop it, John. You're too gullible anyway. Did you really believe Mrs Hudson gave you the correct Lemon Drizzle cake recipe?' he chuckles.
I knew it didn't look right! I glare over my shoulder at the landlady, having a good time with Molly and Lestrade in the next table, and give up, in an amused chuckle.
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