Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Children

Sherlock gave her a strange look. "Yes...."

"Geez, catch up Cheekbones," she scolded. Sherlock was slightly mystified.

John cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, my money is on the latter. We're here," Sherlock finally composed himself with a shake of his dark curls.

"Where?" John asked. His brows were drawn together in confusion. Sherlock bounded up the steps up the side of a brick building. He rummaged in his pocket outside of a flat marked 21A. "Sherlock!" John shouted in an angry whispery voice. "What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock stated calmly. With a flick of his wrist, he picked the lock with a slender tool from his coat pocket.

John rubbed his chin as he watched his flat mate. "Jesus," he whispered. "Clara, what are you...this is breaking and entering..." John muttered as Clara strode straight in after the detective, John followed too. "You had to bring the blasted cat..." he mumbled. Oscar seemed to hear him and meowed indignantly.

"Where are we?" Clara peered up at the short flight of stairs Sherlock had trotted up, into a living room.

"Oh, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat." Sherlock turned to John. "The cat will be very useful, I think."

John just gave him a confused look. "Joe...?"

Sherlock ripped the curtains from the one window and grinned at the sigh outside. "Brother of West's fiancé." Outside the murky glass was an extension that could be easily climbed down on from the window. It spread all the way to a wall. On the other side was a railway. "He stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law."

"The end," Clara muttered morbidly.

"Then why'd he do it?" John looked at the detective expectantly.

Sherlock smiled at the sound of a door being unlocked. "Let's ask him. Clara, give me the cat."

"What?" She exclaimed.

"Give it to me now!" he whispered furiously. Clara handed over the cage. Sherlock opened the door and heaved the gigantic black mass that was somehow called a domestic feline.

Clara watched John reach round the back of his jeans and walk quietly to the door. Joe Harrison was wearing a courier's uniform and has carrying his bicycle. He saw John and picked up the bike to throw it. John raised his right hand which clasped a pistol. "Don't," John advised. Joe looked like he was going to keep on coming. "Don't," John said again firmly. Joe dropped the bike in frustration.

Joe was directed to the sofa, where three people and one humongous cat stared at him. Sherlock was holding the animal. He looked at Oscar right in the eye. "If he runs, you can eat him," Sherlock told the animal, and then placed him on the carpet. Oscar headed this comment and prowled sinisterly in front of the sofa. He hissed wickedly. Joe drew his knees together. "Look, it wasn't meant to..." Joe started in distress. Sherlock flicked his eyes away in a dramatic fashion. "God...." He rubbed his face. "What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus." He sunk into the sofa in denial. Clara felt a twinge of sorrow for him.

"Why did you kill him?" John's voice was calm and commanding.

"It was an accident." Sherlock snorted loudly. Clara slapped his upper arm. "I swear it was!"

Sherlock looked ready to nail the poor man into the ground so Clara stepped forward. She smiled sadly. Her eyes were warm. "But stealing the plans for the missile defence programme wasn't an accident, was it?" She was so kind and open that Joe immediately told her.

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right?" He swallowed stiffly. Clara smiled encouragingly. "I dunno – I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands – serious people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about this job." Joe rubbed the back of his neck as he started remembering it all. "I mean, usually he's so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile places – beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me! You hear these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune." He looked at Clara regretfully. "It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew." Joe looked guiltily at all of them. Oscar hissed warningly.

"What happened?" Clara asked softly. Joe told them about how Westie had fallen down the stairs.

"I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock finished in a clipped tone. "Carry Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"And points," John added.

"Exactly."

"D'you still have it, then? The memory stick?" Joe nodded.

Sherlock gestured with his head. "Fetch it for me – if you wouldn't mind." Joe sighed unhappily but did as he was told. He disappeared into another room with Oscar following close behind. Sherlock walked towards the other two. "Distraction over, the game continues."

"Well, maybe that's over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John? It's a countdown. We've only had four."

"It sounds like we're playing battleship," Clara yawned. A sinister game, indeed.