No text from Sherlock bragging about his cake. This was not a good sign.
John was coming up on his last patient of the day, and was considering a quick stop-off to get one. Probably Sherlock was wrapped up in an experiment and hadn't got around to it. Another "friendly reminder text" would risk a tremendous strop, and he was pushing it as it was. He'd get a back up cake. Just in case. Mrs. H had been so good to them, particularly after his latest spat with Harry, and he couldn't stand the thought of her having nothing from them at all.
After he'd finished up, he stopped by Tesco on the way. No sooner had he walked in the door then a striking, unmistakable figure in a black coat at the self-checkout caught his eye... apparently calculating just how rough one could be with a carton of eggs without breaking them. Just eggs. John turned quickly and headed to the second entrance before he could be seen.
Sherlock was clearly furious. And John knew they had eggs at the flat..nearly a full dozen. He'd had one with breakfast this morning. Which meant... he had gone through them all. So he had been baking. Unsuccessfully. Best to get that back-up cake then, since Sherlock's was likely inedible. And keep it out of sight, just in case he does get it right on this last try? He bought the cake and headed to Criterion for some coffee, and to wait it out a bit.
*** 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.
FILL: 4/? Many Happy Returns To Tesco
John was coming up on his last patient of the day, and was considering a quick stop-off to get one. Probably Sherlock was wrapped up in an experiment and hadn't got around to it. Another "friendly reminder text" would risk a tremendous strop, and he was pushing it as it was. He'd get a back up cake. Just in case. Mrs. H had been so good to them, particularly after his latest spat with Harry, and he couldn't stand the thought of her having nothing from them at all.
After he'd finished up, he stopped by Tesco on the way. No sooner had he walked in the door then a striking, unmistakable figure in a black coat at the self-checkout caught his eye... apparently calculating just how rough one could be with a carton of eggs without breaking them. Just eggs. John turned quickly and headed to the second entrance before he could be seen.
Sherlock was clearly furious. And John knew they had eggs at the flat..nearly a full dozen. He'd had one with breakfast this morning. Which meant... he had gone through them all. So he had been baking. Unsuccessfully. Best to get that back-up cake then, since Sherlock's was likely inedible. And keep it out of sight, just in case he does get it right on this last try? He bought the cake and headed to Criterion for some coffee, and to wait it out a bit.
***
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.