Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Miss Irene Adler

"Oh, It's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" She was all sharp angles and tiny waist and long, long, long, long legs. Her smooth hips swaggered towards them and she stopped in front of Sherlock, shoulders back and posing with as many curves on show as possible. She was naked. Starkers, nude, de-clothed, whatever. It didn't matter, it didn't matter just how impossibly confident, radiant, stunning and naked Clara thought she was, no, it didn't matter because Sherlock was staring at her.

Clara wasn't very good at judging people. Sure, she could have a chat to anyone, but to tell what they were really thinking, especially someone like Sherlock, was a concept that went over her head. Travelling with the Doctor showed her people, aliens and planets she would never forget. This didn't mean she had answers to everything. No, she hadn't an idea of what Sherlock was thinking as he gazed up at Irene Adler. Sometimes she could see his sadness swirling around in his eyes or his glee sparkling in his irises when a difficult case came. She couldn't see anything, but he wouldn't or couldn't look at her.

Irene snatched the white card from his collar with shiny red nails. "There," she smiled, "Now we're both defrocked." The suave curl of her lips widened around her pearly white teeth. "...Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Miss Adler, I presume," Sherlock replied smoothly, in his normal voice. Clara wondered if she was actually invisible.

Her sharp eyes gazed down at him, calculating. "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" She suddenly snapped her teeth round the dog collar.

Clara felt a rush of rage. It was strange, she shouldn't feel protective. But no, Irene had commented on his cheekbones. That was Sherlock and her thing. It suddenly didn't feel as sacred, as beautiful as it used to be. Cheekbones and Soufflé Girl. Soufflé Girl and Cheekbones. Something close to resentment clawed at Clara's ribcage, angry, scratching, boiling and blubbering. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Clara was about to clear her throat but John wandered in, carrying a bowl of water and a napkin. He stopped, staring awkwardly. "I've missed something, haven't I?" He looked questionably at Clara. She looked at her tiny heeled boots.

Irene dragged the collar from her teeth. "Please," she watched John with glittering eyes. "Sit down." She turned away from Sherlock, who started to fidget. Clara couldn't bear to look at him, but she could feel his eyes sliding across to her. "Oh, if you'd like some tea I could call the maid," she offered.

"We had some at the palace," Sherlock told her.

"I know," Irene grinned. She folded herself up on an armchair. Her arms and legs placed purposefully to obscure her private parts.

"Clearly," Sherlock countered.

"I had tea too, at the palace, if anyone is wondering," John butted in. Clara wanted to smack him. Men.

Sherlock was still watching Irene. Clara could tell he was trying to make deductions. The small twitch in his lips and the narrowing of his eyes told her as much. He looked bewildered, she saw him turn and glance John up and down. Then he turned to Clara. She watched his eyes scrape over her dress, gloves and boots. They rested briefly on her face. She raised an eyebrow. Seriously? His eyes twitched. What? She sucked on the inside of her cheek. Okay Holmes, naked woman clearly pining for your attention. His eyes flickered angrily. Okay Oswald, naked woman clearly not pining for your attention. Two furious pink blotches appeared high on her cheeks. She looked away.

"D'you know what the big problem with a disguise is?" She interrupted. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her. "It's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"