Chapter Text
“You know very well why I won’t give you the money,” Mycroft says, carefully letting the last drop of tea drip off his spoon before setting it down on the saucer. He reaches for another one of the miniscule, bite-sized scones - still warm - and dips it in the strawberry jam - homemade. “This is excellent, by the way.”
“I’m not asking you to give me any money, I’m asking you to lend me the money, that is a significant difference,” Sherlock points out, subtly pushing the plate with the scones even closer to Mycroft. “Try them with the raspberry-currant jam.”
Mycroft reaches for the jar Sherlock indicated and spreads a generous amount of the bright red jam on his scone. “Excellent,” he says with the air of a true connoisseur. “Lemon zest?”
Sherlock nods lazily. “Obviously.”
“As delicious as this is, Sherlock, it will not magically open my checkbook. The difference between lending and giving depends entirely on my confidence that you will be able to return this money to me, and I’m afraid, given your history, I have none,” Mycroft says, delicately wiping the edges of his mouth with the silk napkin.
“I’m serious about this, Mycroft. I know I’ve been... “
“Flighty? Capricious? Unable to focus your considerable talents on anything other than where to get your next hit?” Mycroft suggests.
Sherlock concedes all of the above with a slight grimace. “I’ve been clean for some time now, brother mine. And it’s not like I started this yesterday. I’ve been rather successful so far.”
“I would hardly term a moderately popular YouTube channel a success.” Mycroft puts the napkin down and finishes his tea with an air of finality. “I have no interest in supporting this frivolous hobby. Come to me with a serious business proposition, and I will reconsider.”
“This is a serious business proposition,” Sherlock points out, gesturing at the printed out Excel sheets and floor plans.
“Opening a bakery in central London is more akin to buying a lottery ticket. And I have no desire to invest in something you will sooner or later tire off, discard and walk away from, like you have done with everything else so far. School, University, any job you have ever had. You always get bored. Why should this be different?”
Sherlock looks down at the carefully put together business plan and wonders why he does this to himself, again and again. Why he gives Mycroft the chance to show him, again and again, that he will never be anything other than the screw up little brother, the second, the lesser.
Never again. He will never again give Mycroft the opportunity. He was going to ask Mycroft to at least co-sign a loan, if he wasn’t going to lend Sherlock the money himself. He was going to point out that it’s deeply unfair that Mycroft is sitting on Sherlock’s trust fund and only doling out amounts Mycroft thinks are appropriate for Sherlock to live off. He knows Mycroft will say no to the first and will point out that if Sherlock had access to the entirety of his trust fund, he would have blown it all on drugs by now, which is - unfortunately - entirely true. It’s also pointless to argue that the 150,000 pounds he needs is small change for Mycroft, because Mycroft will only point out that he has worked hard for his money and been careful with his investments, and if Sherlock deigned to do either, he would enjoy the same financial security as Mycroft. Another good point. A year in financial services would give Sherlock all the capital he needs. It would also drive Sherlock into a relapse, but Mycroft was always good at ignoring facts that don’t suit his narrative.
So he says nothing, and watches in silence as Mycroft rises, takes his umbrella, smoothes the crumbs from his trousers.
“Phone Mummy, she worries,” Mycroft says in lieu of goodbye, and walks out of Sherlock’s flat.
Sherlock waits until he hears the street door close, then he gets up and slams the door to his flat closed. Hard.
It’s an empty gesture, but oddly satisfying.
*-*
The email comes on a rainy Wednesday. Sherlock is making raspberry jam, and he’s experimenting with how much of the sugar he can replace with honey. He’s got three batches going, and he’s just measuring out the honey for batch three, spooning out the beautiful, golden syrup into the measuring glass. He adds it to the raspberries and sets the timer for the jam to simmer.
Then he checks his emails. Notifications of comments on his latest YouTube video on the properties of different types of sugar, melting points, reactions, colour and taste. Six more Instagram followers. No interaction on his blog. A bit disappointing, but not unusual. People find it easier to follow a video or like a picture than seriously exercising what little wit they have to really understand the chemistry behind baking. An email from Irene Adler.
He opens the email, wondering what she could possibly want. They met about a year ago in a tedious seminar about monetising social media accounts and both left an hour in, bored out of their minds. They went for coffee and had a somewhat decent conversation. That was their only face-to-face interaction, but he’s kept up with her on social media and she’s done the same with him. They’ve even exchanged the occasional comment, but that’s as far as their relationship extends.
What he finds is preposterous. Irene has forwarded him a call for contestants in a new reality show called ‘The Great British Bake Off’.
He hits reply and types This is ridiculous - SH.
Then he goes back to his raspberry jam.
*-*
Irene calls him just as he’s about to start his jam tasting.
“What?” Sherlock asks as he picks up.
“Charming as usual, darling.”
“Get to the point, I don’t have time to play your games.”
“Fine. Do the show. It’ll be more fun if I’m not the only moderately competent baker.”
“Why on earth would I want to go on television with ten idiot home bakers who are probably overwhelmed by a simple yeast dough?”
“Attention, Sherlock,” Irene says, and he can hear her predatory grin in her voice. “Instagram followers. YouTube followers. Sponsorship deals.”
The last brings him up short. The show offers no cash prize, and he now sees his own idiocy of not having thought about the indirect profitability of the show. “I’ll think about it,” he says and hangs up.
Then he starts the test.
*-*
That night he can’t sleep. That in and of itself is not an unusual occurrence, he was always a bad sleeper, and he has somewhat cultivated bad sleep habits by leading an unscheduled life and having had a severe drug problem.
By 2 am, he gives it up as a lost cause and wanders down the rickety, narrow back stairs into his kitchen/studio/workroom. The tiles are cold under his bare feet, but he pays it no mind and switches on the oven to preheat.
He opens the ancient refrigerator and takes quick stock of ingredients. Eggs, butter. No milk.
Bread?
No. Needs too much time proofing.
Scones?
No milk.
The blackberries are going off. Fruit pie it is.
He takes out the butter and places it into the freezer to get it nice and cold.
Measure out the flour. Pinch of salt. Sugar, just a bit. Cut the butter into the flour, careful not to overwork.
Rest the dough in the refrigerator. Slice pears, some peaches, butter into the pan, add the fruit. Cinnamon stick. Muscovado sugar to get a nice caramel.
The room smells of cinnamon and softening pears, and Sherlock is no longer cold. While the fruit cooks, he opens the door to the cafe area of the property, and looks out at the dusty tables, the peeling paint, the dilapidated chairs, the ancient bar with the cracked glass. He thinks of what this place could be, with a bit of care, with a bit of work, with a bit of money.
Then he picks up his phone and sends off a single text. I’ll do it. - SH
*-*
“Screen test John Watson, British Bake Off, Take 1. So, John, tell us a bit about yourself.”
“Um… do I have to?”
“Sort of, yes.”
“Well, okay, I suppose I have to. I’m a doctor, I’m from London, and I love baking?”
“You were with the Royal Army Medical Corps in Afghanistan, weren’t you?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Nothing. Just. You should mention that. People love veterans, you know.”
“I’d really rather not talk about it.”
*-*
“So, Sherlock, tell us a bit about yourself.”
“Why?”
“Well, because our viewers want to get to know you.”
“And again I ask, why? I’m here to bake, anything else should be entirely irrelevant.”
“It never is, though. You want the judges and the audience to like you, makes things easier. So, Sherlock. Where are you from?”
“Sussex.”
“Um… anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Married, kids, profession?”
“All right. No, no, and no.”
“Glen? What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Leave him alone. People love his YouTube channel. He’ll be gold on the actual show.”
“If you say so…”