Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Labrats

The next day, they were left with the repercussions of the night before. John had tried to slyly interview Henry's pretty therapist and failed miserably, U.M.Q.R.A, the morse code he had picked up on the hound hunting evening had also led to a dead end. Clara hadn't gone up to her bedroom to cry her eyes out, she'd rung the Doctor - asking difficult questions.

"Are the humans treating you nicely?" The Doctor had asked as soon as she had said hello.

Clara sighed into the receiver. "I can look after myself, Doctor - anyway, have you ever encountered a massive dog before?"

"A what?"

"A massive hound with red eyes and ashen fur?" She could hear the TARDIS whirring in the background as the Doctor pushed some buttons. "Ring any bells?"

"The bells are not ringing - unless you count Oods, but they're more tentically than woolly."

Clara shook her head, no idea what the Doctor was on about. "Thanks!" She told him brightly, before hanging up.

Sherlock was at Henry's house, probably being an insensitive detective. Henry was fragile, his childhood trauma had left him a troubled man. It was impossible not to pity him. Clara found herself at the cemetery. Dartmoor was a lovely place, rolling hills and dewy grass. The quaint little village was a curious town with lots of yapping jack russells and little old ladies on walkers. The cemetery was neat and tidy, accompanying the equally small church. Clara trailed a hand along the lichen ridden walls and trenched over the bright moss.

"Did John get anywhere with the morse code?"

Clara didn't turn around, she knew Sherlock's voice when she heard it. "I don't know," Clara told him with false incredulous, "Why don't you ask him yourself?" She stepped down from the ledge of the war memorial and starting walking down the uneven steps to the entrance gate.

"What about the therapist - Louise Mortimer? Anything come of that?"

Clara didn't answer and struggled with the silly bolted lock on the wrought iron gate. Sherlock caught up with her quickly, his deft feet making Clara's stumbling footsteps down the steps look ridiculous. "Clara," he sighed. She fixed her eyes on the gate, knowing without looking that he was rolling his eyes.

"I'm fine," she hissed, jiggling the lock. "Go badger someone else."

"No, wait. What happened last night...Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before..."

"Fear is nothing to be ashamed of," Clara protested, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

"It wasn't just that..." He swallowed. Clara watched as he gently removed her rigid hands from the rusted lock. He shook it and manage to shunt the bolt along the barrel, clicking the gate open. "I felt doubt, for the first time. I've always been able to trust my own senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

Clara frowned and twisted on her feet, stalking down the path, her skirt flapping in the breeze. "Listen, Clara, what I said last night..." She didn't look back and his feet slapped on the pavement behind her.

"Clara," he grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "I don't have friends." Clara jammed her jaw shut and refused to look at him. "I've just got one."

Clara stared at him, tilting her head and swallowing disappointment. "Yes, I know. John's you're best friend. You pal." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the word. "So what does that make me? Just your supervisor."

"Do you want to have dinner?" Sherlock asked abruptly. Her mouth fell open like a cod fish.

"Now?" Clara narrowed his eyes at him. "It's eleven o'clock in the morning."