Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

No Exceptions

Clara ran back into comfort Claudette, her heart racing. The girl was in tears and trembling like a frightened animal. Clara rubbed her arms, pulling the blanket tighter around her thin shoulders. "Everything is going to be okay..." she cooed softly.

Donovan opened the door, ushering in a uniformed police officer. "This is the liaison officer - your job is done. And I need a word. Now."

Clara gave Claudette one last reassuring squeeze before following Donovan down the hall. She hardly spared Sherlock and John a glance when she passed them. Donovan ushered Clara into Lestrade's empty office and shut the door roughly.

"What the..." Donovan pulled at her hair. "What the heck just happened?" Clara's brows drew together and she gave Donovan a sideways look. She had never seen Donovan not utter a whole sentence without insulting her. "Why did that kid scream?" She asked, pointing at the door.

Clara shrugged. "She's in shock - she nearly died and her brother is in hospital!"

"But she didn't scream at Lestrade, or you or me, or even Anderson!" Donovan spun around in anger. "So why did she react to Sherlock?"

Clara frowned deeply. She didn't like where this was going. "You can't really imagine..."

"Yes - that's exactly what I think happened."

Clara laughed, brushing it off but she stopped when she realised Donovan was deadly serious. "No," Clara replied, shaking her head. "He wouldn't."

"You have to admit he found those kids pretty damn easily with one shoe print to go off," Donovan argued, standing her ground.

"He's Sherlock Holmes!" Clara threw her hands up in the air in exasperation.

Donovan took a step towards her. "None of our guys could have done it."

"That's because he's better," Clara countered, teeth bared.

"Is it?" Donovan asked, her voice sharp and determined. "Hasn't he been acting strange - well, stranger - lately?" Clara looked away, refusing to answer. "Yeah," Donovan nodded, "One minute you two never shut up and now he won't even look in your direction."

"He didn't do this to these children," Clara shouted, her words shrill with desperation. "I know Sherlock - he couldn't have done this!"

"I'm sorry Clara, but the evidence just doesn't add up." With that she strode out, leaving Clara defeated and alone in the office.

.

Sherlock stalked into 221B, ripping off his scarf and pulling off his coat with considerable force. He flung them at the hooks on the wall, not caring that they crumpled to the floor. He had gotten into a taxi from Scotland Yard, needing to think. The little screen blaring useless ads had been disrupting his thoughts but the cab driver had refused to turn it off. The screen had flickered, revealing a sinister film of Moriarty retelling a story of Sir Boast-A-Lot and his demise. It was a cruel metaphor and even more shocking when Moriarty had been the driver. He had a sinking feeling that every step he made was just a useless attempt to crawl out of the trap Moriarty had laid around him. Everywhere he turned was another locked door, another pit of death to fall into.

Sherlock had sprinted after the cab after he had stupidly demanded to get out. But a stranger had tackled him to the curb when another car threatened to run him over. Sherlock had shaken his hand innocently and a second later this man had been shot dead. John was there a few seconds later, explaining about the assassins living about their flat.

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn't come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive," Sherlock prattled, sitting at the table and sliding John's laptop towards him. "I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me..."