A Collection of Shorts

The Blind Bakers

A/N: Any references on how to bake a cake come from the internet, as I do not know how to bake a cake myself.

:>

Please come to Baker St. Thursday 4pm. S.H. The telegraph read. I frowned at this message, because it was rather strange to me. Since I had finally come to an understanding with my brothers, I had arranged for us to meet (if possible), every Saturday, and to celebrate each other's birthday.

Could it be a case? Unlikely. My brother was too arrogant to come to his younger sister for help, and even if he did require my assistance, he would have come to speak with me personally. It was 2pm now. I got to my feet. Whatever matter was pressing enough for my brother to summon me, I should not keep him waiting. I hastily made my hair bearable, put on a presentable dress, and hailed a cab to Baker Street.

I arrived much earlier. I knocked on the door firmly, and it opened, revealing my brother. I was surprised to find that he was not in his usual gentleman's attire, but rather, some old clothes, with, strangely enough, flour.

"Ah, Enola. Thank you for coming. I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you." Sherlock said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. Odd. His fingers were calloused, and slightly stained, evidently having been writing for long periods of time.

"My dear brother, what have you been doing?" I wondered, as Sherlock allowed me in. The rooms of Baker Street were quite different than how I remembered them to be. The walls with covered with photographs with little strips of paper stuck next to them.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that 221b had become a sort of exhibit of Dr. John Watson's life. Starting by the entrance were several grainy photographs of a small boy, whom, I presumed, to be Watson's childhood years. Moving on, there were some more pictures of the boy in school clothes, and then a fine young man joining the army. Next, were many badges and medals, rewarded to Watson in his soldiering days. At the rest of the room were devoted to the many, many case notes Watson had collected over the years. Looking closely, I saw that Sherlock had hand-written his thoughts beside every single paper.

"This is remarkable!" I exclaimed. Sherlock stood at my side, gazing proudly at his work. In that instant, I realized why Sherlock had invited me over.

"You want me to help you bake a cake?"

"It was quite difficult to ensure that the good doctor would not be around long enough for me to set things up." Sherlock replied instead, with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. I took that as a confirmation of my guess. Now, instead of feeling warm and proud of my brother's work, I felt dread.

As you might know, my mother has taught me many things, including chess, fighting, tennis, and cycling. However, I have never learnt how to cook, much less bake. My food had all been made by my landlady, Mrs. Tupper. I could already smell disaster.

"Come on," Sherlock said, seeing my horrified expression. "I borrowed Mrs. Hudson's cookbook, so all we have to do is to follow the recipe."

I stared at my brother. I had never baked anything in my entire life until then, and I knew for a fact that Sherlock hadn't either.

"It shouldn't be difficult," Sherlock assured, "we're the smartest two people in London, we can manage it."

Hesitantly, I followed my brother into the kitchen, which was unusually clean and empty of the usual body parts laying around.

"I see you've been cleaning." I said aloud, just to say somewhat of a reply. Sherlock stooped to a cupboard, and began filling the table with all sorts of bowls, spoons, butter, sugar, eggs etc. The ingredients you might find listed in a recipe for cakes, I guessed.