Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Sorry

"Stupid, stupid bloody detectives and their stupid-AHH!" Clara rounded a corner and smacked straight into Sherlock and John.

"Jesus, Clara, what are you doing?" John exclaimed.

Clara snagged on Sherlock's coat to stop herself from falling. "Finding you two idiots," she answered, blowing her hair out of her face.

"We're being chased by the police!" he argued.

"Which is why we need to get out of sight!" Sherlock hissed and dragged them deeper into the alley.

Clara had her back flattened to the wall, her shoulder flush against Sherlock's. Flashing blue and red lights reflected off of the graffiti for a brief second. Clara turned to find him waving his gun around like it wasn't a weapon that could fire at any second. "Clara, go home or to Mycroft or to - look, just get out of here."

"No, no way Cheekbones," Clara answered. She grabbed the gun by the barrel and shoved it out of her face. "I don't really want to be shot in the face, thanks."

Sherlock sighed, the frustration plain in the lines of his face. "Back when we were investigating Moriarty for the first time - the snog box day, the-"

"What?!" John said, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

"The fake painting and the Golem...? What did you make me promise?" He asked, his like intense pools of ice. "I remember it very well because you slapped me very hard."

"Oh, right," Clara said, a red blush creeping up her neck. "Um, I dunno..."

"I promised to not let another innocent person die for the sake of the game."

Clara swallowed, searching his face. What was he going on about? "Yes, I remember but-"

He cut her off by snapping a pair of handcuffs around her wrist and the adjoining cuff around a rusted pipe. "Sherlock!" she screeched, rattling her hand against the restraint. Did he keep a pair on him at all times?

"I'm sorry," he murmured. He leant forward, dragging John's arm with him and pressed his lips against her hair. She was too stunned to move, to say anything. "I'm so sorry, Clara."

He walked away, dragging John with him. John spared her a pitiful glance and a shake of his head - he couldn't do anything to help.

"Sherlock?" Clara called, her brain finally connecting with her mouth. "Sh-shit..." The cuff clanked against the pipe, making her skin bark in pain.

.

"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock muttered, his face blank of emotions.

"You can't just leave her there!" John protested.

"She's probably texted half of Scotland Yard by now."

"We don't know that!" Sherlock kept on walking, ignoring John's bitter sideways glances. They stuck close to the wall as the familiar lights of another police car flashed past. John looked backwards, spying a figure hiding in the shadows. "We're being followed. I knew we couldn't outrun the police."

"That's not the police. It's one of my new neighbours from Baker Street. Let's see if he can give us some answers."

"Where the heck are we even going?"

Sherlock smirked. "We're going to jump in front of that bus."

"What?!"

Sherlock started sprinting, the handcuffs snapping taut between them. The red double decker's driver slammed on the horn, the brakes squealing as Sherlock and John halted in front. Yet they were going to be splattered across the highway regardless. A man charged on the road, tackling the two to the curb. Sherlock grunted, his head hitting the damp pavement. He could already feel the rough graze on his shoulder bleeding into his dress shirt. He scrambled up, snatching the man's pistol from his jacket and pointing it at him. The assassin was balding, with heavy stubble gracing his jaw and looked very surprised to have his own weapon threatening him.