Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

No Exceptions

"You, look over there. Look everywhere. Okay, spread out, please." Donovan shouted, gesturing to the officers to scout the warehouse. "Spread out!"

Clara jogged through the shelves, her flashlight swinging wildly from side to side. Sherlock had found them, well, thought he had found the children. John said it was something about chocolate and then he proceeded to rant that he wasn't going to do this anymore - he wasn't going to carry their conversations. Clara creeped between the shelves, wondering if the children had somehow crawled into the stacks of pallets. She turned around the corner and let out a squeal. "Shit, Lestrade!" She gasped, clutching her chest.

"Christ, sorry," Lestrade whispered, shining his flashlight into her face.

Clara turned around, locking eyes with Sherlock who was half crouched over a pile of rubbish. They locked eyes for a half second until they both flushed and looked away. At Dartmoor Sherlock had stopped her slipping in the mud of the moors and steadied her after a fright from one of the lab specimens. It was practically second nature. He had had to shove that instinct down, beat it into submission. It took every ounce of grim determination he possessed to not leap up there and...Sherlock shook his head. What was he going to do? Punch Lestrade? Stupid.

"This was alight moment ago," he said, looking up from the ashes he was crouched over. The information took over his brain, coming to conclusions. "They're still here!"

Clara raced off again. She stopped, picking up the sweet wrappers that littered the ground of the warehouse.

"Mercury," someone whispered. Clara turned around, looking at Sherlock who had briefly held the wrapper to his mouth.

"What?"

"The papers - they're painted with mercury." Clara covered her mouth. "Lethal...murder by remote control."

"Sherlock, It's killing them like in Hansel and Gretel, Sherlock..." Clara shook her head. No. She would not let these children die.

Clara gripped her torch tighter and kept on moving. She had to find them. Moriarty had done this, she was sure of it. No one would be as cruel as that man. A few frightened heart beats later, she found them lying on the cement. "Hey, hey, hey, I'm not going to hurt you - you're safe now," she said, trying to sound soothing. The little girl looked up at her with tearful eyes, her brother's head in her lap. His eyes were closed and his breathing looked shallow. "My name's Clara," she whispered, swallowing her panic. She stood up, shouting, "Over here!"

.

Clara exited the room, slightly rattled. She had comforted many children, usually aliens, but it was different when they were being interrogated. Claudette had just wanted to see her father and forget about the mess that had landed her brother in hospital. She was seven years old with two police officers wanting to know about the most traumatic experience she would probably ever endure. Sherlock marched forward to the door but Clara stopped him, her palm pressing into his chest. It made her heart rate spike. "She's in shock, remember, and just seven years old," Clara warned him. "So anything you can do to..."

"Not be myself," Sherlock finished. His words were cold and harsh - the complete opposite to his warm chest.

Clara stepped aside, her eyes lowered. He barely made it through the door when Claudette started screaming. Her sharp young voice filled the room with terror. "No-no, I know it's been hard for you..." Sherlock started, "Claudette, listen to me..."

"Lestrade!" Clara cried, helplessly.

"Out. Get out!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and shoved him out of the room.