Work Text:
The cake itself was entirely innocent of all the chaos it caused. As was Mrs Hudson, its maker, who had thought the occupants of 221B deserved something to cheer them up. Stanley Hopkins was sufficiently recovered from his injuries to be allowed out of bed, but was prevented from leaving the flat. The weather, despite being summer, was wet and miserable. And John Watson was tired, having worked additional shifts, on top of caring for his unexpected additional patient. Sherlock, having arranged for Stanley to stay with them, was out a significant amount of the time following up enquiries relating to the case which caused Stanley’s injuries, and when he was in the flat was engrossed with his laptop. The only one who seemed happy with the arrangement was Tilly, Stanley’s kitten, who relished the opportunity for extra attention.
Mrs Hudson had dropped the cake up earlier in the afternoon, on her way to her tea dance with Mrs Turner. When Mycroft turned up about an hour later John had cut the cake and passed it round, leaving Sherlock’s on the table, for when he deigned to join them.
Suddenly Sherlock shot out of the kitchen shouting, “Don’t touch the cake!”
John and Stanley instantly dropped their slices. Tilly, seeing her chance, made a beeline for one of the pieces and Stanley yelled, “No! Bad cat!” Tilly, frightened, trampled across the cake to run to hide in a corner of the room, trailing jammy paw prints as she did.
Mycroft paused, but retained hold of his cake. “Is there a problem with the cake, brother mine?”
“You’re on a diet, Mycroft, you know you shouldn’t be eating cake.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the cake?” Stanley asked.
“You mean you haven’t poisoned it?” John added.
“No, why ever would you think that?” Sherlock looked around confused. “Why is there so much cake on the floor?”
John glared at Sherlock, then turned his anger on Stanley who was pushing himself off the sofa. “Stay where you are! You know you need help to get up.”
“I need to find Tilly. I think she’s under the sideboard.”
“I’ll look for her. If you start crawling under the furniture you’ll open the wound on your back.”
John found the kitten hiding in the far corner. He put his hand under to grab her, but she, still frightened, scratched his fingers. John swore and pulled his hand back out.
Meanwhile, Mycroft had found some string, which he pulled across the floor in front of the sideboard. “Give her a minute or two and her curiosity will bring her out. It always used to work with Sherlock when he was a small boy.”
John grunted and went to wash the blood off his fingers. As he stood up he realised his trouser leg felt sticky and looking down saw he had knelt in some of the cake. He left the room muttering to himself.
Mycroft was right. It wasn’t long before Tilly re-emerged from under the sideboard. Mycroft picked her up and gave her to Stanley, who stroked the kitten and then fed her with some of the crumbs from the fallen cake. After which she licked her paws clean of the remaining jam, curled up and went to sleep.
Mycroft concluded his business with his brother, and with one final lingering look at the cake, left the flat.
It was only later John realised Sherlock had eaten not only his own piece of cake but Mycroft’s as well.