Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

The Americans

The door burst open and Clara was ushered through behind John. Neilson, the ringleader, pointed a gun at Sherlock. "Hands behind your head," he directed, and then looked at Irene Adler. The other woman pouted. "On the floor. Keep it still."

"Sorry, Sherlock," John sighed as they were all pushed to the floor. A man kicked out Clara's legs from underneath her so she crumpled onto the lavish carpet. She glared at Sherlock. Do something smart, Cheekbones. His eyelashes fluttered. Why wouldn't I? Clara huffed to herself. The thing she had learnt about Sherlock is that what he thinks is smart isn't always the right move. However, what was right and what was wrong didn't matter at the moment because there were Americans pointing guns at them.

Wedged between Irene and John, Clara swallowed as Sherlock raised his hands further. "Don't you want me on the floor too?" he asked, politely.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe," Neilson told him.

Sherlock tilted his head in thought. "American," he hummed. "Interesting. Why would you care?" His eyes flicked to Irene curiously.

"Sir, the safe, now, please," Neilson prodded, the gun never wavering.

"I don't know the code."

"We've been listening. She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't."

"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr Holmes."

"For God's sake!" John abruptly exclaimed. His hands gripped tighter behind his head. "She's the one who knows the code. Ask her!"

"Yes sir," Neilson continued in his loud, blaring voice. "She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets of the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

Irene straightened beside Clara. "Mr Holmes doesn't-"

"Shut up!" Neilson shouted. His face contorted briefly then back to a commanding mask. "One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of you head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." Clara's brows drew together. What on earth was Irene Adler doing getting tangled up with these men, and what past encounters made Neilson so descriptive in his threats? "Mr Archer. On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson."

"WHAT?" Clara and John both shouted. Someone prodded Clara painfully in the kidneys so she winced.

Sherlock glared like an animal. "I don't have the code," he said calmly.

John cowered, panting, as one of Neilson's minions pressed the muzzle of his Glock into the back of his head. Archer cocked the pistol with a frightening click.

"One..."

"I don't know the code," Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth.

"Two..."

"She didn't tell me." Sherlock looked like he wanted to spin round and punch something. His fingers gripped at his hair. "I don't know it!"

"Three..."

"No, stop!"

Clara closed her eyes. She only just realised she had been holding her breath. Sherlock swung round to the safe, delving into his mind. Slowly, he tapped the buttons, hesitating between each one. A smiled curled over Irene's red lips as the safe unlocked with a click.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," Neilson said. "Open it please."

Sherlock twisted the knob; he briefly glanced at Irene, who ducked her head. He looked back at the safe. Clara turned her head curiously. "Vatican Cameos," Sherlock muttered urgently.