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edge_of_forever2013-04-12 12:40 pm
the_iceman) wrote in edge_of_forever2013-04-12 12:40 pm
Entry tags:
And keep your jokes to yourself
There were only very few people in the world who had seen Mycroft Holmes without a tie. He only took off his jacket in extreme circumstances, but his tie, in a double Windsor knot, was a set feature. Come winter, come summer, in England or Dubai; Mycroft would always wear it.
He had only taken it off now because he didn’t want it covered in flour. It had taken him long enough to get the wardrobe to provide him with one of acceptable quality and he took great care of it.
It took him some time, and great patience, but eventually he managed to gather all the ingredients the recipe mentioned – though he did find himself needing to make some adaptations to the original, as the food replicator only seemed compliant up to a point. But he managed to gather them without swearing and that was saying something.
Now, to business; cake.
It was his brother who was the master of ingredients – be it of a chemical kind – and who, through years and years of practical experience in measuring, compounding and mixing, had perfected the science. Mycroft had never quite bothered to put scientific knowledge to practice – let alone engaging in any attempt at cooking or baking. And though he did understand the basic purpose of a whisk (no genius required there), he had never before held one in his hand.
He felt quite ridiculous – and he was not even wearing an apron – but in quite good spirits. He didn’t feel particularly useful as such, and baking a cake could hardly cure the mental tedium from which he suffered, but it was something.
((Yup. You’re reading it right. It’s not a figment of your imagination, or a door to another dimension. Find him at any point, either gathering ingredients, baking a cake, or somewhere in between, coming to terms with the fact that he’s actually doing something.
He had only taken it off now because he didn’t want it covered in flour. It had taken him long enough to get the wardrobe to provide him with one of acceptable quality and he took great care of it.
It took him some time, and great patience, but eventually he managed to gather all the ingredients the recipe mentioned – though he did find himself needing to make some adaptations to the original, as the food replicator only seemed compliant up to a point. But he managed to gather them without swearing and that was saying something.
Now, to business; cake.
It was his brother who was the master of ingredients – be it of a chemical kind – and who, through years and years of practical experience in measuring, compounding and mixing, had perfected the science. Mycroft had never quite bothered to put scientific knowledge to practice – let alone engaging in any attempt at cooking or baking. And though he did understand the basic purpose of a whisk (no genius required there), he had never before held one in his hand.
He felt quite ridiculous – and he was not even wearing an apron – but in quite good spirits. He didn’t feel particularly useful as such, and baking a cake could hardly cure the mental tedium from which he suffered, but it was something.
((Yup. You’re reading it right. It’s not a figment of your imagination, or a door to another dimension. Find him at any point, either gathering ingredients, baking a cake, or somewhere in between, coming to terms with the fact that he’s actually doing something.
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Sherlock leaned over the bowl and stuck one long finger in to taste the proto-cake. Sweet tooth notwithstanding, he'd done a lot worse purely for the sake of irritating Mycroft.
"Not enough baking powder, either."
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He regarded his brother for a moment, who seemed as intent on bothering him as he had been since he could talk.
“Didn’t you just offer to guard the door?” ‘Leave’, it meant.
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"No one's going to eat a poison cake if it falls flatter than your sense of humour, Mycroft."
Inspired, he grabbed a bowl from a high shelf and helped himself to Mycroft's store of ingredients -there looked to be about enough left for a second attempt-; he'd make a superior cake, proving his brother once again to be the prototype Holmes rather than the model, and then feed it to Donovan and Lestrade before anyone was the wiser.
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He didn't point it out, if Sherlock wanted to prove that he could everything better, then so be it. Mycroft never saw the competition (when one was used to dealing with the Government in the manner Mycroft was used to, one could easily lose interest in petty competition).
"Should I remind you what happened the last time you tried your hand at baking?"
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"That," he growled in barely audible tones, "was not my fault. It all would have turned out just fine if someone hadn't run screaming to Mother."
All he'd needed was a little lye, which even at seven he'd been thoroughly prepared to deal with.
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"The table was a Georgian family piece and you were burning a hole in it."
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As for the table, well, Regency period furniture hardly belonged in any reasonable proximity to the pantry.
"If I were you I'd concentrate on the task at hand. How you intend to foster goodwill with a dreadful cake is a mystery too obscure even for my appreciable skills, though the logic of currying favor through an endorphin inducing cocktail of sugar and fat is fairly straightforward."
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"People appreciate effort. Success is irrelevant," Mycroft explained, since his brother clearly didn't understand.
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"I don't think you have that quite right."
As a member of the British government, Sherlock hoped his brother would know better than to imagine they lived in a world where it was indeed the thought that counted. Only colossal idiots and underachieving small children believed that.
Sherlock opened the oven that Mycroft had carefully preheated and put his own metal bowl of batter inside. It was enough like a proper pan that he didn't give it a second thought.
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“Right or wrong is irrelevant. It’s what most people on this ship would believe. And those are the people whose regard for us should matter, as they are at hand, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued. The world wasn’t kind and Mycroft did not believe it to be, but the people here could be quite gullible (idiotic was not a word Mycroft was prone to use), and therefore here the thought did count. It was advice to his brother, in a way, to help him avoid become the ship’s pariah. Manners and mode of conduct mattered in a confined space such as this.
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"To what end, exactly? Say you succeed in making every man woman and child on this ship literally vomit from sheer adoration of you. What does that accomplish? Not one of them has the resources or knowledge to change your situation, Mycroft. So really, what is the point?"
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He refrained, somewhat miraculously.
"In a focus group full of genetic mutants, aliens, vampires, and cyborgs, exactly what sort of premium to you really imagine is placed on 'normal'?"
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“There always is,” Mycroft argued. It was the reason why he had always been the civil servant in a ‘minor position’ in the British Government as opposed to what he actually had been. There’s no use in people when they are wary of one.
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"All you really need to do is win over the biggest, meanest bastard in the yard. The middle isn't a demographic I can spare any time on."
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"I take it you have met the other Sherlock Holmes?"
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Sherlock wasn't as keen to engage on that particular subject, and instead focused his attention on the cake. The edges seemed to already be undergoing the Maillaird reaction, while the middle sunk like a pudding, quite raw.
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