A Collection of Shorts

The Blind Bakers

"How much grease and flour do we need?" Sherlock asked, as we had washed our hands and had all the ingredients sprawled across the kitchen table. Already, Sherlock had spilt the flour, twice, and his trousers were nearly covered with the white powder.

I turned to the cookbook.

"It doesn't say." I informed him. "We'll have to guess."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're a female, Enola, how do you not know how to bake!"

"You're a genius, Sherlock, how do you not know how to bake?" I shot back, imitating his baritone voice.

"I do know how to bake a cake. It's just like an experiment." Sherlock answered, snatching the pan from me. I hoped what he did was right. Then again, in all honesty, I never did get round to learning how to bake a cake.

At last, our cake was in the oven to bake. The instant the cake was put in the oven, Sherlock sighed with relief and collapsed into a chair.

"Baking is intolerable." Sherlock complained. And Sherlock continued to complain for several more minutes, while I, exhausted, sat down in another chair.

Once Sherlock had finally drained his irritation, he was clearly in much better spirits, and he presented to me the other surprises he had prepared for his doctor. The presents Sherlock had prepared included a beautiful violin piece, and a small notebook in which Sherlock had hand-written a record of every case they had solved together.

One thing that was very apparent was Sherlock's adoration towards his doctor.

And then, as I had expected, disaster struck. It started with Sherlock suddenly freezing, sniffing cautiously, then charging into the kitchen. As hateful as it is to admit, I was behind my brother in noticing the smell of something burnt.

Entering the kitchen, we were faced with the cake overflowing from the pans, burning on the edges, and undercooked in the middle. The horrid smell was everywhere, and a thin smoke was rising. Sherlock panicked and tried to salvage our cake, but I knew it was useless. Instead, I helped him clean up the mess.

"What have I done?" Sherlock looked very disappointed with himself. I wanted to say something of comfort, but I didn't know what to say. And so, I remained silent, helping him into a chair, where he saw with his face buried in his hands. I said nothing as Sherlock seemed near tears while I continued to clear the kitchen of our failure.

Once the remains of the mess had gone into the waste, I returned to Sherlock, draping my hands gently around his neck.

Suddenly, I felt my brother tense. He lifted his head, his gaze piercing, his hands steepled beneath his chin.

"Where did it go wrong?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

"We must've made a mistake somewhere along the way." I replied.

"Excellent deduction." Sherlock said sourly, closing his eyes deep with thought.

"Maybe we greased the pan wrong." I suggested.

"No! I did research on that, couldn't have gotten it wrong."

"Maybe we missed an ingredient."

"Impossible."

As the word left Sherlock's mouth, I saw him leap to his feet and flip hurriedly through the pages of the cookbook. He then threw his hand to his forehead.

"I've been blind!" He exclaimed. I leaned over and Sherlock pointed at a line in the cookbook. Add three quarters of a cup of cocoa powder. I had no memory of even seeing the cocoa powder at all.

"How could I have done something so foolish?" Sherlock tossed the cookbook across the room, narrowly missing my head. He bit his lips in frustration, his fingers pressed on his temples, and his eyes closed.

"Cocoa powder? Why would it make such a difference?" I wondered aloud. Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at me. He took a deep breath, then sat down in his chair, and lit his pipe. Puffing great rings of smoke seemed to calm my brother greatly.

"Well, cocoa powder is not just for flavor," he explained, "it also effects the texture and structure of the cake. It absorbs moisture and helps the cake rise evenly. Without it, the cake becomes too wet and dense, and it overflows and collapses."

"I see." I answered, batting away the smoke.

"It also explains why our cake looked like a burnt puddle of mud." Sherlock decided.

"And why it smells like burnt sugar and eggs." I added.

"And why it is best we left baking to the professionals." Sherlock said, getting to his feet again, "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be pleased to help. I suppose I should thank you for coming over, and I apologize for wasting your time."

"Wasting my time?" I interrupted. Although we hadn't succeeded in baking anything, my time was certainly not wasted. I enjoyed spending time with my brother, and I was proud of him for making connections with his flat-mate, and I was happy that he was trying something new for a change.

"I made a mistake, causing us to fail. How is that not a waste of your time?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused.

I merely chuckled, "Now that, is a mystery for the great Sherlock Holmes to solve."

I got to my feet and straightened my dress, dusting it off for good measure, and made my way to the door.

"Enola." Sherlock called softly. I turned around. In my brother's hand was a white envelope.

"You've saved him once, he wouldn't mind," Sherlock continued, sliding the clean envelope into my hands. I stared at him. He had invited me to John Watson's birthday party.

"Mycroft won't be coming." Sherlock added, smiling. "Don't be late."

"As long as I don't get kidnapped." I answered, then hurried out of 221b, with the envelope clutched between my fingers.

I couldn't help but smile as I waved for a cab.

THE END!!!!!!!!!!