Orphan on Baker Street

Fiftieth: Cake

"Mickey," I hear Mrs. Hudson's voice as soon as I close the door behind me. "How was your first day of school?" She emerges from behind the stairs wearing an apron. Nothing's on it, so I guess she hasn't started mixing yet.

"It was a lot better than I expected," I tell her with a smile. We go into the kitchen, and my bag hits the faded white tile with a soft smack.

"I found a new cake recipe while I was cleaning out one of the shelves in there," she gestures blindly towards the sitting room. "How about you take me through your day while we bake?" This is something we used to do when I'd get home from Scotland Yard with Sherlock; if it didn't involve murder, she wanted to know all about it. This only happened a few times, though, and that's why I love it so much.

As we get all of the materials, I start off by telling her about my teachers. They all seem to enjoy their jobs; I feel like the only one I'd end up having an issue with is my Welsh teacher. He seems very strict, with very high expectations of everyone. I don't even know why I'm taking Welsh, actually...

"Did you make any friends?" she asks, cracking an egg. I set the measuring cups on the counter and think.

"Um, I think so. There's this girl that's in the same situation as me in maths. We had a nice conversation about foster homes during the last few minutes of class."

"Is she in one? What's her name?"

"Yeah," I reply, "and I... don't remember." Mrs. Hudson chuckles.

"That's alright. Sometimes I don't remember my friends' names either." I laugh with her.

We make a cake as I tell her about how my sociology teacher has a safe behind his desk with a Post-It note on it that says "Hands That Took a Pencil Without Asking"; there's a lot of gossip going around about Shevaun; and my English teacher has already given us a book to read, review, and answer discussion questions about. She reacts appropriately at all the right times, and I later realized when she laughed at the part about the safe she was actually laughing at the flour on my chin.

"I'd never laugh at something so morbid," she told me before chuckling some more.

"Which school does Rickey go to?" Mrs. Hudson asks as she slides the pan into the oven.

"It starts with an L, I think; it's all boys." I turn the faucet on and put the bowls and cups into the sink. "Lancaster? Lynchwood? London? I dunno. But he's taking this year off so he can save up for a place. He'll go to college next year for psychology and stuff."

The two of us small talk a bit while we clean up. Then Mrs. Hudson mutters something about smelling like vanilla extract for a week and goes off to shower. I waltz across the sitting room and put the aprons on top of the washing machine in the corner - it can't be considered a room, really, but it has sliding doors and four walls.

There's suddenly loud cursing above me. I roll my eyes and stalk off into the foyer. As I get farther up the stairs, I can faintly hear things being thrown about.

"Sherlock," I utter softly, peeking around the doorframe. "Do you want some cake when it's ready?"

"Cake? Why did you make cake?" he frowns over at me. His tall silhouette is draped in a robe which kind of hides silk pajamas. All of it's some shade of blue.

"Mrs. Hudson found a new recipe," I step over some papers as I enter his flat and look around. The floor is littered with maps, pieces of tangled and balled up masking tape, sheet music, books, and I think I spotted a few napkins in the mix. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock mutters before he starts pacing, stepping carelessly over the objects on the ground.

"Is it a case? A person? Music?"