(It’s okay - I’ll write it right now. Sorry I haven’t done any of your others - my stupid writer’s block is being stupidly stupid stupidness. /ahem/ I hope you like this!)
Sherlock lay across the sofa, glaring at the many waiters and waitresses that swarmed around the Holmes Mansion living room. His Mother’s birthday had been last week, but since Father was away that day, Mycroft insisted on having another party today while they were all home. Sherlock rolled onto his side, resisting the urge to trip over the butler. A huge table was laid out in the centre of the room, filled with cakes and drinks and sandwiches and every other little nibbly food. Sherlock really didn’t see the point - Mummy was too ill to eat, Father would refuse to consume anything but wine, Mycroft would just purge the food out after the party, and the other guests would only stuff the food into their handbags and pockets to scoff later.
Sherlock lay there for another ten minutes. The staff left the room silently, bursting into gossip as soon as they were out of Sherlock’s earshot. Sherlock sat up. The food was all there - it would all go to waste. He glanced at the clock. One hour and three minutes until the party officially started; one hour and twenty-seven minutes until guests started arriving. Sherlock smiled. He stood up and made his way over to the table.
Sherlock wasn’t that hungry. It was a Sunday, and he’d eaten on Wednesday, so when he grabbed his first bit of cake, he was surprised when his stomach rumbled. He frowned at his abdomen. Shut up!
He glanced around before taking a huge bite of the cake. It was moist, and his teeth sank into it and left his gums tingling with the sickly sweetness. The icing was a bit dry, having been left in the fridge for a few hours, but the sponge was perfect. Sherlock swallowed and instantly consumed the rest of the piece. And another. And a piece of pie. And another bit of the cake. And… he felt sick, but he kept eating, taking bits of that and that and this and that and - wow. Sherlock’s brain was buzzing, his mouth fizzing with the sweetness of the desserts.
He scrambled away from the table and leapt onto the sofa, holding a Bakewell tart in his hand. He jumped up and down on the cushions for a moment before leaping off again and running into the garden, grinning his little face off.
Father and Mycroft were deep in a discussion about politics when they saw Sherlock sprint through the huge garden, yelling at the top of his lungs about bees. The youngest Holmes smacked into the shed, toppling over onto his back and letting go of the tart. Mycroft ran over, his skinny frame trembling with laughter.
“What are you doing?” Mycroft frowned. His mouth betrayed him with a smile.
Sherlock didn’t - couldn’t - answer. He bent double, laughing his head off about something or other. He had actual tears in his eyes; his brain was overdrive with colours and scents and deductions. Mycroft sighed and picked him up, flinging his brother over his shoulder. They walked into the Mansion, still laughing.
“Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled.
“Want some cake?”
Mycroft smiled sadly. “No thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded, the smile slipping slowly off his face.