Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Molly

"Sherlock," Clara barked, running after him. "You nearly gave her a heart attack, hey! You listen to-"

Sherlock whirled around so fast that Clara had to skid to a stop on the gravel. "You kept me in jail for eight hours," he growled, teeth bared.

"Some kids just got kidnapped - you really want to do this now?"

"Aren't you meant to be comforting someone?" He snapped. Then blinked, as if in surprise. His eyes narrowed. "What did he do?"

Clara frowned. "What?"

"You've talked to Mycroft."
Clara gritted her teeth. Stupid detective making stupid deductions. "So?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, seething. "Your hands," he allowed. Clara looked at her hands, turning them over. "You've been biting your nails more than usual, recently too - clearly somebody has been agitating you...oh." Sherlock stopped talking. He motioned to Lestrade, who stalked over. "Get her out of here, back to Baker Street."

"What?" Clara yelled, eyes flashing.

"You said no to the deal."

"Obviously," Clara replied. "I'm not leaving - we've been over this."

"I can't have you involved,' Sherlock said. He'd told her so many times, couldn't she just get the message? "I don't know when or where Moriarty will strike."

"Okay kids!" Lestrade shouted, silencing them. "I am not having anymore of this bollocks. Can we please just get these children back to their father, yeah?" Clara and Sherlock glared at each other. They muttered something in reply. "Sorry?" Lestrade said, his voice laced with annoyance. "Yes," they told him, somewhat reluctantly.

"Good, now let's get on with it."

Lestrade led them to the dormitories, an uncomfortable silence surrounding them. Clara kept on trying to look at Sherlock, see what was curling behind his eyes but he always flicked his head away at the last second. They went to the girls' dormitory first. It was nice, but any six-grand-a-term boarding house would be. Sherlock was already dropping to his knees and peering underneath the bed.

"The intruder must have been hidden inside some place," Lestrade said, turning around, surveying the room.

"Where's John?" Clara asked, realising he wasn't there.

"Lunch date," Sherlock said, sniffing reproachfully. He didn't look at her as he answered. Clara opened the wooden trunk at the edge of the bed and rifled through the stuffed animals and sporting gear. There was a massive brown envelope stamped shut with a beautiful red wax seal. It was already broken, so Clara let the hard covered book slide out into her hands. It was 'Grimm's Fairy Tales'. She silently handed the envelope and book to Sherlock for inspection. He flicked through the pages and handed it back without a word.

"Show me where the brother slept," Sherlock murmured.

The next dorm was smaller, with only a few beds. Clara opened the cupboard, looking over the school uniforms and rumpled jumpers gravely. Sherlock went to the head of the bed, pointing at the frosted glass in the door. "The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

"Okay, so..." Lestrade prodded.

"So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." Sherlock pushed the door aside and stood on the outside. He raised his hand as if it were a gun. It was plausible. "What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" He walked around the bed, noting all the boy's possessions with his sharp eyes. "This little boy; this particular little boy..." He pointed at the bedside table which was overflowing with books. "Who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"