Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Let's Have Dinner

Sherlock felt strange. Not normal strange, like when the police men whisper about him in shadows. Or when John doesn't understand. Or when he pulls the needle out of his arm and it still doesn't feel like release. He felt like he hadn't slept. No. Sherlock shook his tired curls. He just woke up but it felt like he had already completed today.

Irene still played on his mind like a mournful tune playing in his ears. Red lips whispering, glacier eyes and raven hair fluttering over her forehead. Sherlock picked up his violin and stood by the window. He let the music flow out of him like a melodic waterfall.

.

Clara didn't know where she was going. Probably Mycroft, but who knew. A woman sat in the leather seat behind her, constantly texting. Tap, tap, tap. Clara rested her head on the window. She was so tired. She hadn't put any make-up on and her hair was a flat mess. Clara should've seen it coming when they pulled up at the power complex. It was a dreary grey building made up of cement blocks and rusty pipes. Dead grass littered the gargantuan structure in a dismal ring. Usually John only met Mycroft here, Clara preferred the Diogenes club, even though she nearly got banned from it.

Clara's tiny feet scuffed the rubble and echoed across the cold halls. "I already told you in the text, Mycroft," Clara called. "He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep - corrects the television or Oscar whenever he opens his mouth. I don't think your right about my influence over him. The present sort of helped but...he's heartbroken....and..."

Clara was about to carry on when a slim figure walked into view. "Hello, Clara Oswald," Irene Adler declared with a gilded smile.

Clara stopped in her tracks. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Her brain fired questions around until a thought struck her. "Tell him you're alive," Clara whispered immediately.

"Why? Why does Miss Oswald care so much about her darling Sherlock?" Irene practically twisted her red painted nails into Clara's gut.

"You broke him. He's not the same."

Irene toed the ground with her heel. "You mean - not the same with you?" She gave a lazy smile. "You hate me but you lust over me, don't worry - I do that a lot." She tilted her head, her earrings glinting. "So why do you want dear Sherlock to know I'm alive? If I was in your shoes, I'd want me to stay dead."

"You lack conviction," Clara hissed. "All you do is hide in shadows and whisper strange nothings into stranger's ears." She crossed her arms across her chest. "So prove to me you don't - tell him."

"You're jealous," Irene said, her eyes gleamed like ice. Her canines sparkled. "You're in love with him. But you'd rather make him happy than yourself."

"Tell him or I will," Clara said through painfully gritted teeth. She did love Sherlock. People always said you're supposed to love your job. Well, Clara fit that category.

Irene slunk towards her. She snaked a hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She smiled at the screen. "'Good morning'; 'I like your funny hat' ; 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner'; 'You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch', let's have dinner'."

Clara squirmed. "I don't care if you flirted with him-"

"At him," Irene corrected. "He never replies."

"What?" Clara slipped out. She didn't mean to sound so surprised. "He's Mr. Punchline, he always has to have the last word."

"Does that make me special," Irene sniffed.

Clara almost flinched. "Who cares."

"Huh. You really are jealous."

"We're not like that," Clara snapped. She wiped her hands on her skirt. "It's not-It's not...like that."