Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Might Be Hungry

Sherlock Holmes was a giant, selfish prick. Clara couldn't pin point the exact instance that it happened, but the idea to grapple is that Sherlock was a nuisance. The door, slightly squeaky, was a gateway between 221A and 221B. It was hardly ever closed. Sherlock stalked through like it was merely a convenient extension of his own flat. There were already petri dishes smashed in the sink and a dagger stabbed into the upholstery on the chaise. Sherlock was like a cat, claiming whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Another important idea was that Sherlock didn't comprehend personal space. It was a mystery left unsolved. Clara waltzed to the fridge one fateful day and ended up screaming at the top her lungs. Sherlock rushed in through the connecting door, his hair swishing and his hands braced in the air. "Sherlock!" Clara shrieked angrily, her eyes blazing. She held onto the kitchen bench while she gulped in air. "There is a FOOT IN MY FRIDGE!"

Sherlock deflated. "Seriously?" He uttered. His body slackened and he gave her a disconcerted look. "I thought you'd been attacked or something."

"You can't put limbs in the vegetable drawer!" Clara protested. She pointed at the refrigerator. "Get it out, now."

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "Where will I put it? Mrs Hudson's stuffed our fridge with the new wonder-food. Kale? Is that it? It tastes ghastly."

"Well then throw the kale out, silly!" She rubbed her forehead. "I am not having body parts in my apartment."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "It's science," he retorted, placing his hands on his hips.

Clara fumed from her side of the kitchen. "I don't care, get the foot out of my flat or I'll call Mycroft."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He could never refuse Clara when she was this angry. "Fine."

"Good," Clara snapped. "I don't know how you even got yourself a flatmate," she muttered, as he snatched the plastic bag from beside the tomatoes.

"Neither do I," he agreed, swinging the bag to and fro merrily.

Clara shuddered. "Shoo!"

.

Another female presence graced 221B a few days later. Sherlock stilled at the front door. A scent tickled his nostrils. It wasn't the burnt soufflé smell of Clara's clothes or the lemon hand cream she used. It was a musky, deep rose smell, sticking to the dark paint on the door. Sherlock opened the door and wandered up the stairs. The smell grew stronger by the open window above the kitchen bench. A red slash of nail polish was staining the sill. Sherlock marched to his bedroom, John jumped from his chair and following him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock, with his coat still on, opened the door. Even Clara knew Sherlock never closed his door. Childish mistake. "We have a client," Sherlock explained.

"In your bedroom...?!" John babbled. His jaw dropped when he spotted the figure stretched out like a cat across the sheets. "Oh." Irene Adler, fully clothed and somehow still smirking, was sound asleep.

Sherlock suddenly whirled on John, his coat swirling with him. "Don't tell Clara," he said, deadly serious.

"Why...why...?" John peered up at him.

Sherlock let out an angry sigh, pushing past John. He flounced into his chair. "You wouldn't understand...it's," his mouth cut into a frustrated line, "Women."

"Sherlock, which one of us has had a girlfriend?" John asked, feeling a tad irritated. "You think Clara is going to get jealous or angry or whatever, again and take it out on you? Don't you?" John suddenly let out a whisper of a laugh. "Oh my god," he chuckled.