My Weakness- Moriarty x Reader Chpt. 19

“(F/n)!” called Mycroft, suspicion clinging to his voice. “I thought I told you that you were prohibited to bake.”

Your eyes widened as you pulled the triple chocolate fudge mudcake out of the oven that occupied a large area of Mycroft’s extravagant kitchen, almost dropping it on your feet as you hurried to the hide the fact that you were indeed baking. “You did tell me, and I’m honouring that rule, I promise!”  you shout in reply, throwing the cake on a cooling rack and then tossing a towel over the top in an attempt to conceal it.

“If that is the case, why do I detect traces of cake in the air?”

“You don’t!” you lie, your voice strained by the amount of effort you were putting into scraping off cake batter which had set like concrete on the marble countertop. “Perhaps you’re just craving it and your brain is perceiving the regular scent of the air to be cake. Maybe you should go for a walk… or do something that isn’t inside as it seems to be messing with your mind.”

When no reply followed, you frowned at the countertop, halting your erratic cleaning so you could think clearly. Had the thought of cake really allowed him to believe the nonsense you had shouted at him? You let out a little huff, absorbing yourself once again in cleaning once again. So absorbed were you in tidying, you didn’t notice Mycroft slip into the kitchen, the slightest of smug smile’s on his face as he inched closer to your back. Remaining oblivious to his presence, you scooped up the bag of flour that you had used and tried to put it back in its rightful place, which was right on top of a cupboard and you had to stretch on the tips of your toes to even have a chance of reaching it. And as you stretch up to place it, Mycroft reached out from behind you and shook your shoulder violently, a rumbling growl escaping his lips. You screeched in fear, your hold on the bag of flour loosening and the contents spilled all over you, turn you completely white, dusty and angry. You spun around to face Mycroft, who was chuckling uncontrollably, clearly pleased with what he had done. Coughing out a large white cloud and wiping the flour from your eyes, you choked, “Why the hell did you do that?”

He took in a few rapid breaths in an attempt to regain his composure before managing, “Revenge, dear sister. Do you not recall the time you frightened back at the flat?”

“Oh…” you muttered, jumping up and down and shaking to try and remove the obscene amount of flour that now clung to your body, but to no avail. “Aren’t there better things you could be doing with your time, other than scaring the crap out of me?”

“I was about to ask you the same question, minus the scaring and adding the baking. Especially the baking as I banned you from doing it.”

“You banned me? You don’t ban be from anything, Mycroft Holmes. Let me tell you – “ you began, stopping as you realised that earlier events had made you testier than usual. “Never mind… I’m sorry Mycroft.”

You had been staying at Mycroft’s estate for a solid week now, following your fight with Sherlock. Neither of you had contacted each other during this time, as both of you were too stubborn to do so.  And Sherlock wasn’t the only person who you hadn’t had contact with during the week. You hadn’t spoken to Jim at all, the only communication you had had was a single text from Jim explaining that whatever he was doing for his job was going to take longer than he previously thought. The text had been riddled with apologies, and the promise of him returning before Christmas which was something to look forward to at least. The only other person that you had spoken to besides Mycroft was John, who called you every day to update you on the case, or complain about how annoying Sherlock was being. Not that you particularly cared about either of the two, but it was nice to hear from him, even if it did make you rather homesick.

Mycroft frowned at you as you wandered around in your thoughts, the lack of your usual fire concerning him greatly. “Well, instead of adding to my waistline, why don’t you play the grand? You have not even thrown a glance its way, and I think playing your favourite Rachmaninoff prelude will do you some good.”

“But Mycroft~!” you whine as he began to push you out of the kitchen. “I need to ice my cake before the icing turns rock-solid in the bowl~!”

“No you don’t. Away with you to the piano,” he commanded, shoving you gently out of the kitchen and standing in the doorway, folding his arms against his chest.

Sighing in defeat, you shuffled away to the music room that Mycroft had built especially for you, a trail of flour following in your wake. It took you a while to remember where exactly the music room was, as Mycroft’s estate was vast and all the goddamn corridors looked the same, but you eventually made it, being greeted by the magnificent Steinway & Sons grand piano sitting in the dead centre of the exquisite room, demanding your attention. Offering it a small smile, you walked happily over to it, sitting on the piano stool and sighing with content as you rested you fingers on the keys. It truly was the most beautiful grand you had ever had the pleasure of playing. It was double the size of a standard grand, and the tone that resonated from it was the essence of music. There had only been eight of these beauties ever crafted, and Mycroft being Mycroft had procured one for you immediately when he had found out, regardless of the cost and difficulty. You closed your eyes and lifted your fingers to play, when your phone blared loudly, disrupting your musical train of thought. Grumbling underneath your breath, you pulled your phone out of your flour-covered pocket and read the message, which simply stated;

“Knock, knock- JH”

You frowned at it, about to call him when the doorbell rang, it’s shrill tone bouncing off the panelled walls. Standing automatically at the sound, you hurried to the front door, your face screwed up in confusion. ‘How did he get here?’ you thought as you reached the door, your hand hovering hesitantly over the doorknob as you thought. ‘He doesn’t know the way, hardly anyone does. And he’s not exactly talking with Sherlock, other than to argue with him.’ Deciding it was better to find out for yourself than sit there pondering, you opened the door slowly. Regarding you with a guilty expression stood John, murmuring profuse apologies and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he moved aside to allow another figure to come into view. Sherlock shoved past him, his expression completely blank until he saw you, the faintest of frowns touching his features. He raised a conversational finger, but before he could open his mouth you slammed the door in his face, refusing to listen to a single word he had to say.