B is for Bake Off - @thegreatbakerstreetbakeoff
(This is a sort of follow up to a chapter in A-Z where the gang do a bake off team building event, tentative sherlolly, written on my phone, to be posted in offcuts)
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It was markedly different this time around. As with many things post-Tom, she found herself with mixed feelings, some nostalgia, some sadness and a swathe of guilty relief. In the context of their current activity, however, the latter amused her greatly as it meant she was in with a chance of winning this time.
The Great Baker Street Bake Off, was a pop up that had started on Baker Street itself and soon spread to all corners of the UK and abroad. It was loosely modelled on the tv show, three rounds taking place over the course of a 2 day experience, usually a weekend. Different packages offered different judging options, which varied from each other to the head chef of the hotel, depending on what the group were looking for. Money no object, Mycroft had paid for them to be judged by the head chef, keen to build on his win from last time and prove his superiority. Molly wasn't going to make it easy for him.
They had selected 3 rounds from 3 different weeks, to level the playing field for those whose culinary talents were limited by little fingers these days (and for those who were frankly, just rubbish). A signature from biscuits week, a technical from bread week, and a show stopper from cake week. Nothing too outlandish, and Molly snorted as she pictured them doing one of the charity celebrity specials.
They arrived for breakfast, a selection of viennoiserie, with fruit and hot drinks. The atmosphere was strange, ghosts lingering at the table as tongues hesitated in their reminiscence. It was supposed to be a fun weekend 'away' not an emotionally charged trip down memory lane, which had the potential to dig up everyone's demons.
Thankfully Lestrade was as astute as ever, clearing the air by wondering loudly, and very wrongly, about how to make the croissants they were eating. The group settled into the day a little easier, bickering over terminology and European culture as the dark clouds passed over head.
Soon enough they were shown to their 'tent', a replica of the iconic space on the fifth floor that was flanked by the rooms they would have overnight. The space was set for 6, who this time would be Sherlock, Mycroft, Molly, John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. The older lady had agreed to 'make up the numbers', but was fooling no one, she was there to compete. She was also late (yoga), barreling in as only she could moments before the first set of ingredients were distributed.
They were to bake 3D biscuits for their first bake. The room smelled incredible, chocolate, orange, cardamom, cinnamon, pungent and mouthwatering as the 6 baked the morning away.
Mycroft may have had the most innovative tasting biscuits, but Molly impressed equally with her Jurassic park theme. Mrs Hudson baked the best shortbread the chef had ever eaten, and John's homage to Rosie seemed to have won him brownie points. It was close going into the technical. Before the blind challenge, however, they would indulge in a spot of lunch.
Bellies pleasantly full, they made their way back into the 'tent', no one feeling confident in their yeast whispering.
Hot cross buns. A classic with no where to hide that Sherlock knew both Molly and Mrs Hudson baked every year. He was quietly confident, however, that he could distract the pair of them into making errors. The only problem with his plan was that it increased Mycroft's chance of winning. A tough call that ultimately ended up with Lestrade of all people winning the technical. Molly would be finding raisins in her hair for days, and was not impressed with such underhand tactics, although in hindsight she should have expected it.
The evening was certainly calmer, and quieter than last time. Mrs Hudson had retired from the communal lounge to watch her soaps, Mycroft was dozing lightly in an armchair, and Greg and John were in a heated debate about cricket. Molly and Sherlock were sat by the window, a bottle of red wine helping them through a somewhat unusual game of scrabble.
Molly had capitalised on what she knew to be gaping holes in Sherlock's general knowledge and had managed to put down several words that were entirely made up because although he knew her to be lying, he didn't know enough about what she was saying to disprove it. Thus the game had devolved into who could make up the most convincing words. After the second bottle of wine the game took a decidedly silly turn, and every round introduced a new rule, one of which declared that the letter 'i' now counted as the imaginary number i, and would be used as a multiplier.
Greg and John watched the pair by the window, all teasing smiles and sniggered in-jokes. One divorced and the other widowed, they exchanged bittersweet expressions and soon made their excuses and headed off to bed. As hopeful as they were the two would make a go of something, it dragged up painful memories both recent and well past.
In the end it was Mycroft's soft snoring that brought Molly and Sherlock out of their cocoon, each with a look of concern for the older man. Whereas Sherlock looked younger when he slept, more carefree, Mycroft looked older. His worry lines were more pronounced, and the pained expression he wore soon gave way into twitches that both recognised as the beginning of a nightmare. Before they could do anything, however, he woke up. Wide-eyed, with frantic breaths that sounded too loud in the quiet room, grateful he hadn't screamed this time. Sherlock helped his brother out of his chair, and wordlessly the two left the room, nothing needing to be said.
Molly watched them go, after everything life had thrown at them she was glad to see them dropping their pretences around each other. Very few people could empathise with a Holmes, even fewer were allowed to. She found herself wandering up and down the corridor, unsure whether to interfere, her relationship with the brothers was more than a little complicated, and although they were going forwards, they still had a way to go to get back to where they were. Sherlock emerged sooner than she had anticipated, walking straight into her and making them both jump.
They laughed softly, for two people whose jobs relied on observation, they could be blind sometimes. Molly rested her hand on his arm, her unspoken question answered with a shake of Sherlock's head, he didn't wish to talk about that tonight. He took her hand, and gave it a squeeze, nothing serious, the gesture said.
Molly nodded, and removed her hand, lingering a fraction too long would put pressure on the moment, and they were still fragile. He was still fragile. She could see it in the dark circles around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the slight twitch in his fingers.
"Thank you," he whispered, catching her off guard. His manners were better these days, but the soft sincerity in his voice was still unnerving, mostly because she was sure he thought he was undeserving.
"Any time," she replied, just as soft, just as honest.
A tired smile crossed his face as he bid her goodnight, leaving them both to their dreams.
She woke the next morning to find him on her floor by the door, a not wholly unexpected scenario. In his pyjamas and partly covered by his coat, he looked as ridiculous as ever, putting a fond smile on her face as she covered him with a spare blanket. They weren't due down for breakfast for another hour and a half so she left him to sleep while she showered and dressed for the day, before treading over him carefully to check on Mycroft.
The older Holmes was up, dressed unsurprised to see her. He thanked her for looking out for them, Sherlock especially,
"He's trying his best," Mycroft said by way of an apology laced with regret.
"I know." Molly replied, they all were. Several life changing traumas had happened to them before Eurus had had her way with them. It would take years to heal, if they ever did, she still had nightmares about Moriarty.
"That doesn't mean we should let him win, however," Mycroft added for brevity, a wan smile crossing his face.
Molly laughed, agreed, and was about to make her way back to her room when Sherlock burst through the door still in his pyjamas. He gave a sigh of relief, turned on his heel and promptly disappeared again.
"I know." Molly repeated, sounding calmer than she felt.
It had become a habit of his of late. He needed to know where she was, and became increasingly agitated if he couldn't get hold of her. She woke up once to find him checking her breathing in the middle of the night. It was as intrusive as it was endearing, and after so many years of friendship that had seen them go through everything from the sublime to the ridiculous it wasn't all that different. Or it shouldn't have been.
He was trying, but to what end she couldn't quite work out, and she wasn't convinced he knew himself. She was his partner in many things (crime mostly, ironically), and they had continued to go about their lives as they always had. Once she'd found out her life had been threatened she hadn't needed futher explanations, and wouldn't allow them. The sordid details were not something for her to deal with yet, not until Sherlock had dealt with them himself.
She'd always known he had loved her in his way, it was in the small things like feeding her cat, and in unwitting things like his meticulous planning of Molly's day. They were happy together, enjoyed their weird hobbies and moved around each other with ease. The only difference now was the pressure of having said those three little words out loud and the expectations that came with them.
She was brought out of her musing by Greg knocking on Mycroft's door to chivvy them down to breakfast. The three walked slowly, Greg trying to eek out as many baking tips as possible ahead of the showstopper round.
They were to bake cakes for a children's birthday party, and Lestrade had taken the brief a little too seriously and was baking for his teenage daughter. She wanted a cake in the shape of a shoe, and short of covering a real shoe in icing, he was struggling with a plan.
Naturally Molly took pity on him, partly because it was entertaining to watch Mycroft recalculate his probability of winning as she did.
She almost regretted it. Her Lego cake just pipped Greg's shoe and Sherlock's volcano to the top prize, earning her that exclusive star baker apron. John's looked like Rosie had made it, which made them all smile, and secured him the wooden spoon. Mycroft was a gracious loser, mostly because the cake was chocolate orange and Molly had agreed he could take it home. Mrs Hudson was suspiciously nonplussed until they saw her leave with the chef, a greater prize seemingly won.
A weekend well spent they left feeling satisfied, and well fed. Sherlock and Molly were the last to leave, stood on the pavement each with a box of volcano cake waiting for a cab.
"I think I'd like to do that again," Sherlock said after a while,
"They're fully booked until next year," Molly replied, wondering if they could make an annual outing of it.
"Make a children's birthday cake, I mean," he blurted, staring at the box in his hands
"Rosie's birthday isn't too far away, she'd love for you to make her one. I'll help if you like," Molly encouraged, the subtle implications going over her head.
Sherlock smiled, he would like that very much indeed.
