Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Check Mate

"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." Clara stormed into the Diogenes Club, a newspaper crumpled in her fist. Mycroft looked up from his perfectly polished shoes, slightly surprised to find Clara sneering at him.

He swallowed, stewing on her words and quietly shut the door with a click. He knew not even the infamous Doctor would be able to smother the oncoming volcano.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Three names: yours, mine and John's, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me or John."

"John and I," Mycroft corrected in a whisper. Clara glared at him, beyond ruffled.

"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now

and then, eh, you and Jim?" Clara basically snarled, shaking the newspaper at him. Mycroft calmly sat in one of two lavish armchairs, crossing one leg over the other. He went to open his mouth but Clara beat him to it, anger curling out of her throat. "Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

"I never inten... I never dreamt..." Mycroft covered his face with his hand, frowning deeply. Of course Clara was smart enough to connect the dots. He should have prepared for something like this.

"So this was why you hired me, hey?" Clara flicked through the creased pages, her shoulders jutting up and down with each livid breath. "Watch his back because I've made a mistake." Clara shook her head, slapping the paper down on the ground and perched on the opposite leather chair, crossing her arms. Her usually warm brown eyes were sharper than daggers. She regarded Mycroft with a chilling calmness that was eerily like Sherlock's demeanor. "How did you meet him?"

Mycroft sighed. "People like him...we know about them; we watch them. But James Moriarty...the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen and in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

"So you abducted him to try and find the keycode."

It wasn't a question, a plain fact. Mycroft wasn't surprised, it was the only plausible explanation. A five-year-old could have figured it out. "We interrogated him for weeks."

"And?" She raised an eyebrow, mouth pressed into a hard line.

"The only thing that made him open up..." Mycroft looked away, memories flooding his eyes. "I could get him to talk. Just a little, but..."

"In return, you tell him Sherlock's whole life story," Clara finished grimly. "So one big lie – Sherlock's a fraud – but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." She leaned forward in her chair, nails digging into the upholstery. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

Clara stood up, rage rippling off her body. "Clara..." Mycroft started, watching as she stalked towards the door. She looked back, hurt plain as day on her face. "I'm sorry," he uttered, eyes flickering.

"Oh, please," Clara replied tightly. She turned the doorknob, throwing it open.

"Tell him, would you?"

.

John strode into St Barts Lab, the distinct bounce of a squash ball greeting him before Sherlock did. Not that Sherlock was usually one for cheery 'good mornings'. "Got your text," John told him, looking around for Molly. Must be on her lunch break.

Sherlock was on the floor, back flush against the bench and tossing the small rubber ball to the opposite cupboard and catching it with agile hands. He caught it, ceasing the endless slap on the lino. "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it – beat Moriarty at his own game."