Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Sorry

"Tell me what you want from me," Sherlock demanded, finger resting calmly on the trigger. "Tell me!"

"He left it at your flat," he growled through his teeth, as if it was a struggle to say it.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

"What?" They all started to get to their feet, the gun still separating them from their so called neighbour.

"The computer key code."

"Of course," Sherlock breathed, realisation hitting him like a gust of wind. He dropped his guard - mind whirling. "He's selling it – the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around."

Suddenly, three gunshots pierced the air. The assassin convulsed, the bullets ripping through his chest and dropped to the ground. Police sirens wailed from a few blocks away. John and Sherlock sprinted in the opposite direction, stopping to catch their breath in a secluded archway.

"It's a game-changer. It's a key – it can break into any system and it's sitting in our flat right now. That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come. 'Get Sherlock.' We need to get back into the flat and search."

"We can't - CID will be camped out there and...Clara. Why plant it on you though?"

"It's another subtle way of smearing my name. Now I'm best pals with all those criminals."

John looked away, and spied a stack of newspapers. He read the front page, brows drawing and the lines in his face deepening. "Yeah, well, have you seen this?" He took one, 'The Sun' logo blaring off the page in red font. "A kiss and tell. Some bloke called Rich Brook."

Sherlock spared it a glance. It was an upcoming exposé and completely irrelevant except for two names: Rich Brook and the author, Kitty Riley.

.

John could sense Sherlock fidgeting, despite the darkness they sat in. The handcuffs joining them shifted ever so slightly as Sherlock tapped his fingers. They'd been sitting on Kitty Riley's lumpy couch for over an hour. John jolted at every squeak of the window panes, paranoid that a swat team would barge through the door at any moment. It was a relief when they finally heard the footsteps of the journalist. She rattle her keys out of her bag but paused, realising the door was ajar. She fumbled for the light and jumped when she saw them sitting on her own sofa, drumming their fingers. "Too late to go on record?" Sherlock drawled. She grumbled something and dumped her bag at the base of the armchair and sat down, crossing her legs. "Got a hair pin?" Sherlock mumbled, rattling the handcuffs.

She rolled her eyes and pulled one from her bun and flicked it over. "Congratulations," he said, jiggling the lock, "The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He uncuffed his wrist, rubbing the red marks. He handed the pin to John. "The scoop that everyone wanted and you got it - bravo!"

"I gave you the opportunity!" Kitty argued, waving her hands. "I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so..."

Sherlock started to pace in front of her, hands clasped behind his back. "And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?"

Kitty shook her head, lips sealed shut.

"Oh, come on, Kitty. No-one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone." Sherlock hardly noticed that John had finally freed himself from the handcuffs. "There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets. What were his credentials?"