The door burst open and Clara was ushered through behind John. Neilson, the ringleader, pointed a gun at Sherlock. "Hands behind your head," he directed, and then looked at Irene Adler. The other woman pouted. "On the floor. Keep it still."
"Sorry, Sherlock," John sighed as they were all pushed to the floor. A man kicked out Clara's legs from underneath her so she crumpled onto the lavish carpet. She glared at Sherlock. Do something smart, Cheekbones. His eyelashes fluttered. Why wouldn't I? Clara huffed to herself. The thing she had learnt about Sherlock is that what he thinks is smart isn't always the right move. However, what was right and what was wrong didn't matter at the moment because there were Americans pointing guns at them.
Wedged between Irene and John, Clara swallowed as Sherlock raised his hands further. "Don't you want me on the floor too?" he asked, politely.
"No, sir, I want you to open the safe," Neilson told him.
Sherlock tilted his head in thought. "American," he hummed. "Interesting. Why would you care?" His eyes flicked to Irene curiously.
"Sir, the safe, now, please," Neilson prodded, the gun never wavering.
"I don't know the code."
"We've been listening. She said she told you."
"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't."
"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr Holmes."
"For God's sake!" John abruptly exclaimed. His hands gripped tighter behind his head. "She's the one who knows the code. Ask her!"
"Yes sir," Neilson continued in his loud, blaring voice. "She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets of the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."
Irene straightened beside Clara. "Mr Holmes doesn't-"
"Shut up!" Neilson shouted. His face contorted briefly then back to a commanding mask. "One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of you head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." Clara's brows drew together. What on earth was Irene Adler doing getting tangled up with these men, and what past encounters made Neilson so descriptive in his threats? "Mr Archer. On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson."
"WHAT?" Clara and John both shouted. Someone prodded Clara painfully in the kidneys so she winced.
Sherlock glared like an animal. "I don't have the code," he said calmly.
John cowered, panting, as one of Neilson's minions pressed the muzzle of his Glock into the back of his head. Archer cocked the pistol with a frightening click.
"One..."
"I don't know the code," Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth.
"Two..."
"She didn't tell me." Sherlock looked like he wanted to spin round and punch something. His fingers gripped at his hair. "I don't know it!"
"Three..."
"No, stop!"
Clara closed her eyes. She only just realised she had been holding her breath. Sherlock swung round to the safe, delving into his mind. Slowly, he tapped the buttons, hesitating between each one. A smiled curled over Irene's red lips as the safe unlocked with a click.
"Thank you, Mr Holmes," Neilson said. "Open it please."
Sherlock twisted the knob; he briefly glanced at Irene, who ducked her head. He looked back at the safe. Clara turned her head curiously. "Vatican Cameos," Sherlock muttered urgently.
Clara was dragged to floor by John, who had lunged out quickly. Sherlock opened the door of the safe and ducked underneath. A gun shots sounded and a body thumped to the floor. A few seconds of action passed as more bodies hit the carpet and Clara struggled to move with John's arm pinning her down. "D'you mind?" she heard Sherlock ask and a battle cry from Irene followed as she swung a gun at a guards head. He crumpled like a leaf.
"John!" Clara grumbled loudly and insistently.
"Sorry," he replied and released his grip to go check on Archer. "He's dead," John informed them after pausing to touch the man's throat. Clara brushed herself off feeling incredibly disgruntled.
"Thank-you," Irene told Sherlock with a suave smile. "You were very observant."
"Observant?" Clara squeaked.
"I'm flattered," Irene continued.
Sherlock wouldn't look her in the eye. "Don't be."
"Flattered?" John asked. He always seemed to be in a permanent state of confusion.
"There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building." Sherlock rushed out of the room with a stolen pistol in his hands. John tucked another pistol into the back of his jeans and rushed out with the detective.
Clara trotted out through the foyer. "Shouldn't we call the police?" She snipped.
"Yes," Sherlock responded smoothly. He pointed the pistol high in the air and fired a few shots. Tires screeched a few blocks away. "On their way." He skipped back into the house.
"Sherlock!" Clara stopped him, shoving him back with her gloved hands. Her eyes were wide with shock. Her lips parted, aghast.
He rolled his eyes, scratching the back of his head with the weapon. "Oh shut up. It's quick." He slid past her.
Clara harrumphed and turned on her heels. She pranced down the little stone steps and walked resolutely down the path. A few seconds later, she heard Sherlock rushing after her. "Clara..." he caught her by the elbow.
"Don't manhandle me, Holmes," she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp.
His dark brows crossed. "We're in the middle of a case and you want to go home?" he blabbered, not comprehending. "What's got into you?"
She gestured wildly with her hands. "Maybe I don't feel like being shot at or tackled or...gah!" She prodded him in the chest. He took a nervous step backwards. "Maybe I'm not in the mood for..." She swallowed, gaining a dignified air. "Skanky, blackmailing, harlots." She brushed a stray piece of hair back primly.
Sherlock put his hands on his hips. "You don't like her," he concluded.
"Exactly, Holmes – so I'd like to leave so you can go gallivanting about with her. Because the-game-is-on, isn't it?"
"Clara you're being an idiot," he chuckled lightly, shaking his head. Clara whirled and glared daggers at him. As soon as Sherlock started jabbering about human error and female emotions Clara turned round and stalked off.
.
"I thought you were going on a date?" Clara grunted.
"Yeah, well..."
The present situation explained itself. Sherlock had been drugged by Irene Adler. Clara and John were supporting the delirious and unconscious detective as they heaved him up the stairs. Reaching the stairwell, they dropped him mercilessly onto the floor. "Do you think he felt that?" John panted.
"I hope so," Clara muttered. She kicked his leg. "Prick."
"Is he drunk?" A familiar voice questioned from at the top of the stairs.
"Oh, Greg, thank goodness. He was drugged by this woman and lost the-"
"Bloody photographs," John finished.
Lestrade took it in his stride and together they somehow dragged Sherlock into the living room of 221B. Sherlock started hallucinating, he waved his arms round, mumbling about something-or-other. "Donovan is going to love me," Lestrade cheered as he took his phone out and started videoing.
"Sherlock, Sherlock..." John grumbled, trying to stop the high detective from falling over the furniture.
Clara opened the bedroom door and helped to support Sherlock as he swayed from side to side. "It's impossible!" he suddenly exclaimed. It was almost theatrical. "Ridiculously impossible but it's the only solution!"
"Yeah, alright mate...c'mon..." John half pushed Sherlock onto the bed but he merely tumbled to the floor.
Lestrade started giggling from the doorway. Clara sighed and grabbed Sherlock by the forearm and got him on his feet. He staggered towards the bed and finally, finally, managed to flop into the middle. They rolled him over onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.
"Wha-Why are you all in here?" Mrs Hudson bumbled in curiously.
"Sherlock was drugged," they all told her.
Mrs Hudson didn't seem at all perturbed. "Clara, I came to tell you," Mrs Hudson gazed sorrowfully up with her watery eyes. "Something dreadful has happened to your flat."
.
"Oh my goodness," Clara whispered, covering her mouth.
Plaster covered her room like snow and water turned the carpet black. A pipe had burst in the ceiling and water soaked through till the ceiling collapsed. All her possessions had drenched plaster clinging to them like mould.
"The builders are coming tomorrow afternoon but till then..." The landlady trailed off.
Clara tip toed through the mess and opened her cupboard. Her clothes were the only thing still dry. She dragged her suitcase from underneath her bed and bundled her clothes into it. Clara wanted to cry. It had been a long and stupid day and now her flat was destroyed. "It's fine," she murmured. "I'll sleep on their couch, they won't mind." She inhabited 221B enough anyway, it wouldn't be weird at all.
"Oh, good-o then. And Clara dear," Mrs Hudson clasped Clara's arm. "Mrs Tuner next door is moving out after Christmas anyway, but we'll talk about it later." Mrs Hudson trotted out of the room with a small smile, leaving Clara to meander slowly back up the stairs.