Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Dare Me

The sun was slowly disappearing behind the endless buildings of London by the time Clara and Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street. Clara was grateful for it as the long day running after Sherlock, inspecting dead bodies and generally being awesome was very tiresome. Hopefully Mrs Hudson had a roast on tonight. She jumped out of the taxi and dragged herself through the door of 221b. 'Why do we have to do so much exercise?' She grumbled over her shoulder at the detective.

'There is a bomber on the loose and you're worried about exercise?' Sherlock shot back fiddling with the godforsaken pink phone.

'Oh leave me alone Shirly,' she spat and clunked up the stairs. 'I'm going to make a soufflé.'

'Don't you have your own kitchen?'

'My oven died yesterday. You missed the funeral,' she sniffed reproachfully.

Up in the kitchen and lounge area, Sherlock was brooding near the window while Clara had put on 'Habanera Aria' (music played by Clara in asylum of the daleks by the way) by some orchestra so loud that it blocked out any conversation. It nearly made the still boarded up windows rattle in their frames. Baking a soufflé was Clara's type of therapy. She could remember her mum and calm down from all the challenges of the day. She put on a bright red apron that was hiding under the sink and got to work amongst the microscopes and Petri dishes. Everything was going strangely perfect. The batter was absolutely fluffy and the smell coming court of the oven was to die for. Clara swayed around, looking at the weird things in the kitchen. Sherlock was pacing in front of the fireplace with his brows creased. Sherlock suddenly raced down the stairs after spotting someone out the window just as the oven dinged. Clara forgot about her soufflé and sprinted down the stairs after the detective. When Sherlock ran, you ran too.

Outside, John had just stepped out of a cab. Clara hurried out in her apron to find a homeless girl calling out for spare change with a tin in her hand. Sherlock and John were talking. Something about Alex Woodbridge knowing nothing about art. Sherlock was heading towards the homeless girl. 'Is that it? No habits, no hobbies, personality?' Sherlock asked quickly.

'No, give us a chance. He was an amateur astronomer! Oh hello Clara, you have flour in your hair.' John smiled.

Sherlock stopped dead, listening to his friend. 'Hold that cab,' he ordered at Clara before going over to the homeless girl.

'Hold that cab,' she said nudging John and followed Sherlock.

John grumbled something but did as he was told. 'Spare change, sir?' The bedraggled girl asked.

'Don't mind if I do,' Sherlock said and was handed a piece of folded paper. He opened it and smiled briefly. 'Fortunately I haven't been idle.' They went over to the cab where John was inside. 'Clara, no. You are not coming,' Sherlock suddenly said.

Clara folded her arms. She had never not gone before. 'Excuse me?'

'Too dangerous.' He stepped towards her; his tall lanky figure diminished hers.

'Danger is my middle name,' she snapped.

Sherlock grabbed her shoulders and made her step backwards towards the 221b door. 'No. You are not coming this time.'

'Don't manhandle me!' She growled, now standing inside the doorway. 'I am your supervisor, I have to come.'

'Too dangerous,' he repeated and promptly slammed the door in her face.

By the time Clara had yanked the door open again the boys were halfway down the road. 'Those stupid, utter, ugh SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES!' She screeched. A cab seemed to materialize down the road and Clara waved her arms like windmills to get its attention. 'Follow that cab!' She shouted at the driver brandishing money in his face. 'You are going to wish you never lived Cheekbones...' She muttered murderously.

.

The boys' cab twisted in and out of streets to the murkiest most feral part of London. They got out at a place the cabbie said was called Vauxhall Arches. Clara jumped out of the cab when the boys were just leaving. She made sure the cabs were far away before approaching. Then Sherlock couldn't send her home like she was a five year old. Sherlock gazed up at the sky and said 'beautiful isn't it?'

'I thought you didn't appreciate things like that?' Clara sang from behind them.

'Clara?!' John exclaimed. 'What the hell are you doing?'

'I told you to stay home!' Sherlock scolded.

'Like I'd miss out on this bit of fun.'

'Were going to find the Gollum!' John whispered angrily.

Clara's face turned a shade paler. 'I knew that,' she lied.

'You're scared,' Sherlock taunted in the dark.

'Dare me then. Dare me to find him and I won't be scared.'

'Sherlock, she should be safe at home!' He gave his friend a warning glance.

Sherlock had a dark gleam in his eyes. How he loved to study people. Now he would see what Clara was made of. 'I dare you to find the Gollum.'

Clara shrugged and snatched the torch out if the detective's hand, full of false confidence. She walked off into the darkness with the boys hurrying after her. 'You idiot!' She heard John hiss at his friend. They muttered on about a 'Professor Cairns' for a bit while Clara was swinging her torch on mouldy sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. In the distance, a shadowy figure began to stand up. Clara suctioned herself to the grimy wall. 'Sherlock! John!' She whispered and pointed to the shadow which was over seven feet tall.

'What's he doing sleeping rough?' John asked.

Sherlock peered round the corner. 'He has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag, much.'

John started patting his pockets, looking for something. 'Oh shi...' He swore.

'What?' Clara hissed, keeping her eye in the tall shadow.

'I wish I'd...'

Sherlock pulled a gun out of his pocket making Clara's eyes turn into big brown orbs. This was serious. 'Don't mention it,' Sherlock said handing the gun to John.

Clara gasped as the tall man suddenly made a break for it. The boys sped off with Clara following close at their heels. They turn another corner to see him getting into a black car and racing off. Sherlock punched that air in frustration. 'No. No, no, no, no! It'll take us weeks to find him!'

'Or not,' John said. 'I might have an idea where he is going.'

'What?'

'I told you. Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the phone book. Come on.'

The boys trotted off and Clara followed behind, feeling like she was going to faint from the sheer terror infused excitement of it all.