Sherlock - Cookie dough

Sherlock had fallen silent for the past few days, and I know I should be familiarised by this standard attribute of my friend, but this was nagging at me in a most unusual way.

I watched him from across the room as he constantly repositioned himself on the sofa, apparently unsatisfied by its design, or his own attempts at getting into a comfortable position. He gave up with a mundane sigh of exhaustion and flapped his hand in a general gesture of annoyance as he pulled himself up.

A side of his dressing gown slipped off his shoulder and he shrugged it back into position by rolling his shoulders backwards; lifting his chin up he let his eyes wander over the mess of the apartment and finally fall on me. I noted a brief flicker inside them, and a momentary feeling of hope, that he might finally break his silent spell and speak, filled me, only for it to vaporise as he let his posture slacken again; I watched his dressing gown sleeve fall off his shoulder again as he dragged himself to his armchair.

He glanced at the clock repeatedly, and this small habit in itself piqued my concern and overall curiosity. Was there some particular detail that had induced this silence that I had overlooked? I tried to think back over the past couple of days before this current state had consumed him but nothing stood out. Of course, if the situation was reversed, I was sure he would have noticed the detail instantly and realised what was wrong with me.

I was pulled from my thoughts as he began fidgeting on the armchair. I looked up to find him upside down in his armchair, his dark curls a few centimetres away from the floor as he closed his eyes, and his legs dangled over the back, absently kicking the air in minor but rhythmic movements. I wondered if he was playing a tune in his head, but then quickly dismissed this thought; yes, he was partial to some classical music but nothing would stick or be classed as anything but leisure or trivial to be worthy enough to occupy his brilliant mind. Maybe it was simply an act of boredom or irritation, or perhaps impatience.

I marvelled at how my deduction skills had increased since my time with him. He had, in a sense, opened my eyes a little wider, but I was still a long way from even a quarter of the ability he possessed. But it was, indeed, contagious, and I found myself actually searching for the normally unseen; trying to place it and draw out facts as he did with so much ease automatically, it was second-nature to him.

I licked my lips debating whether to play my Jack and attempt conversation. That could either enrage him, irritate him, drive him further away from the simple capability of socialising, or on the rare occasion, instantly transform him back to his usual self, the latter never happening with me as such before, but Mycroft has told me of times when as children, he discovered a few words or simple starter sentences that enticed Sherlock back to his former, still not fully sociable self.

"I'll make us some tea" The words were out there before I registered saying them, nothing demanding response as I had been debating, so I expected no less than the brief glance from the upside-down Sherlock, and I decided it was a good thing getting some tea, for it would force him to sit up correctly to drink it, and staying in that position for too long surely couldn't be a good thing.

I made some tea, though how I got past the totally un-methodical mess of his experiments and chemicals and general there-was-no-where-else-for-it I don't know. But I managed to find the tea-bags, and there was, surprisingly, some milk in the fridge and he hadn't used the kettle for an experiment recently so it was usable.

I glanced back into the living area as I stirred the tea-bags into the hot water, and saw Sherlock had already straightened himself and was writing intently. I raised an eye-brow curiously as I wondered what had pulled him fleetingly from his unresponsive cocoon and persuade him to write; unless, that was, it was the very thing which had arisen this state in the first place.

I watched his eye-brows furrow as he tried to think, I could see it was difficult, whatever he was doing. Carrying the mugs through the divider to the living room, I placed his down on a precarious stack of reading material, after giving up my temporary search for the pack of coasters I was sure I had bought after having them catch my eye in the supermarket for their factual knowledge of the arrangement of the planets as a design for their surface, which I thought would be teasing and useful for my companion as he showed nil knowledge in that area.

I sat myself back down with the intent on inquiring what it was that had suddenly gained Sherlock's interest when he abruptly stood up and paraded out of the room onto the landing and I heard his foot-falls as he marched up the stairs and then the squeaks of the floorboards above as he wandered into his room. I took a long sip of my tea as I listened to him definitely rummaging around for something.

I turned my attention back to what he had been working on before his departure, and I shifted to the edge of my armchair so I could reach over and read it. Sherlock marched back into the room and I quickly snapped my hand back down into my lap. He stared at me for a while before he continued his rummaging around down here. He seemed very awkward whilst doing this and then with a sigh he sat back down placing his head in his hands and ran his hands through his hair roughly.

"Can I help?" I asked gently, he ignored me. I leant back and took another sip from my tea, he did the same. Then he focused on me, and I saw his eyes darting over me.

"Actually John, do you have some wrapping paper?"

I froze for a second, I could feel my temple throbbing and I rubbed it with my hand as I adjusted to this new, speaking Sherlock.

"Wrapping paper?" I queried.

"That formidable paper that people wrap up gifts with." He replied incredulously.

"I know what it is, I jus..." I started; Sherlock sighed and slumped back in his chair, returning his hands to his hair as he ruffled it irritably. "Are you in possession of any then? Or do you need to go and buy some from the shops?" He asked.
I hesitated and stared at him for a few seconds, how quickly he can change. Not for the first time, I wondered if maybe he suffered from minor schizophrenia. I stood up and went upstairs, rummaging in a few cardboard boxes on top of my wardrobe before I found the paper. It was blue with white polka-dots. Saving me a second trip I grabbed the sticky tape from the landing floor where Sherlock had discarded it last after sticking pieces of paper with our names onto each of our doors, because Mrs Hudson had a habit of getting them mixed up, leaving us with wardrobes full of the others clothes, and also for his own benefit when he had applied one to many nicotine patches and accidently stumbled into my room muttering about skulls and kittens and fingerprints.

I arrived back downstairs and handed over the wrapping paper and sticky tape. He waved thanks as he jumped up to continue rummaging around. He finally grabbed a cook book that Sarah had leant me, obviously she had been trying to imply something, and he waved it in my face.

"Do people like cooking? Can I borrow it?" He asked hurriedly with a few consecutive glances at the clock.

"I suppose, use whatever you need, but be careful because that's Sara…."  He gestured me away and I went back into the kitchen to wash my mug.

He had already wrapped the present when I sat back down in my chair and observed that he had done so in the most absurd way possible; with the sticky-tape wound around several times. I watched him as he leant back to admire his work. I wondered where he had found his gift; it had probably been under the sofa, that's where most of his lost things are. He picked up the thing he had been writing on, which was now evidently a card and he slipped it inside an envelope which he in turn stuck, (with even more ridiculous amounts of sticky tape) to the formed present.

Just as he was done there was the sound of the doorbell, of Mrs Hudson shuffling to answer, of a quick exchange of words and then the sound of someone coming up the stairs and finally a few light raps on the door.

"Come in" Sherlock called idly as he stood to greet Mycroft as he entered the room. Mycroft beamed, and patted Sherlock on the back several times as he met my eyes and smiled.

"Good day, Sherlock, John" He nodded curtly in my direction and I smiled by means of greeting. We all fell into silence for a few moments, perhaps a few minuets, Mycroft beaming in his little way, his nose wrinkled with the force of the smile and his eyes shining with a billion questions. Sherlock swayed on the balls of his feet, and then he scooped up the present and handed it over to his brother.

Mycroft exhaled with a happy smile, his eyes warm and gentle. They shone with a new appreciation and he chuckled softly as he saw his brother almost repelled now away from him.

Sherlock placed his hands in his pockets, "Happy birthday Mycroft" he whispered, as he tallered himself purposefully and turned his attention out the window onto the street below.

"Oh. I see." Mycroft finally sighed after another short pause. "Yes, you are out of your debt now. You finally felt the human emotion of guilt? Having had me and your family buy you gifts every birthday, and you having paid, previously, no attention to ours."  Sherlock snapped his attention back. "There was nothing you ever asked for." He replied quickly. But I could tell Mycroft was right, and for a moment having this partial bit of knowledge from their past seemed to me, significant. I had just witnessed a glimpse into the child Sherlock, a stubborn boy who had much better to do than buy presents for his kin. I smiled, typical Sherlock.

"Well, the gesture, is still appreciated now Sherlock, so thank you" Mycroft turned his attention to the present. "A card as well!" He laughed, "I am honoured you gave time for such a sentimental thing as a card!"  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "I can take it back right now you know?" He said coldly.

Mycroft opened the card, his eyes darting as he read it quickly, he smiled once he had finished and then moved onto the present, with a brief questioning glance at the wrapping technique he tore into it and then he held up Sarah's cook book.

"Wait that's…" I protested but then I realised how futile it would be to argue now, so I just made a mental note to buy a replacement for her.

Mycroft paused, "Well, this is unusual… but I suppose learning how to make…" He turned the book over to read the back, "'Cakes, bakes, and special delights' Will surely keep me entertained" He hesitated, then smiled sincerely at his brother. "Thank you Sherlock" He patted him on the back again, shook my hand and was gone.

"I didn't mean for you to give Sarah's book away as a present Sherlock. You asked to borrow it." I rounded on him.

"Well later, if that book was so important to you, and I can see how devastated you are to now be pulled from your hard-working cooking hobby, I will gladly break into my brother's house and steal it back for you." Sherlock snapped.

"You said borrow!" I argued, "That implied that you will give it back!"

"Well you said people liked cooking!" He shot back.

"I didn't know you were going to give my book away as a birthday present Sherlock!"

He grabbed a newspaper from the arm of the chair and pulled it in front of him. "Oh very mature!" I quipped. He ruffled it purposefully.

We sat broodingly for a few seconds, as I glared at him and he pretended to read, then Mrs Hudson popped her head round the door. "Look at you two; you're like a married couple!" She smiled sweetly, "That brother of yours Sherlock, he is a real darling isn't he?" And then she was gone.

It wasn't until a few days later the tin arrived in the post. I saw Sherlock with it when I came down for breakfast, he having already eaten his. He was suspicious of it of course, so had been waiting for me to arrive before opening it. It was addressed to him, and now we were sat side-by-side on the sofa, he held it on his lap and slowly prised the lid off.

He lifted it up and we were greeted by the smell of baked cookies, and we stared in at the odd-shaped lumps of dough with chocolate chips oozing out.

"Mycroft" He read, and as I watched him, I saw the corners of his lips creep upwards and then they fully formed into a smile and I smiled with him, and I hope, that small gesture, had perhaps bought Sherlock and his brother closer.

But after the following weeks where both of us suffered from severe food poisoning, I am afraid to say, that no, it did not alter their relationship in the slightest.