Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Impossible Possibilities

Sherlock Holmes squinted through the microscope, he marvelled at the swirling compounds mixing together for half a second before the slight thrill wore off. He was bored, everything was boring - even John. The flatmate himself was eating toast sloppily while he typed an email excruciatingly slowly to his latest girlfriend. Poison. That's how he would murder John - not that he would. Unless John was in fact a mass murder living incognito in London. Sherlock tilted his head, considering his flatmate with cold calculativeness. He dismissed the idea as marmalade dripped down John's front. He grumbled and stalked to the kitchen for a napkin.

"What are you doing?" John asked, dapping his shirt.

"Occupy myself," Sherlock replied bluntly, his words short and clipped with annoyance.

John walked back to his laptop, ready to finish his sappy email. "Need another case, I suppose," he breathed, sliding the laptop towards him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing. "Yet London's killers all seem to be on holiday."

"Everyone has to take a break at some point," John chuckled. He closed his laptop and went back to the kitchen. "We have a new neighbour by the way; Clara Oswald or something. Living downstairs - 221C."

"Mrs Hudson must be so happy," Sherlock drawled. A new neighbour wasn't interesting enough to allow enthusiasm. He swapped around the petri dishes and stared at a cluster of tissue cells.

John clattered around making tea, trying to find a clean cup. "She could be a serial killer," John wondered aloud, his head in the cupboard under the sink.

"A serial killer that owns a cat?" Sherlock snorted.

"She owns a cat-" John bumped his head on the edge of the sink but grinned at the cup clenched in his hand.

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head to the living room. "Well I don't think we do." A muscle twitched his jaw as the small fluffy black kitten pawed its ear, in

armchair. He sneered in disgust as the animal snuggled deeper into the leather. He twisted back to the microscope, trying not to concentrate. Concentration led to deductions and deductions led to boredom as there wasn't anything worthwhile to deduce. John went over, hand outstretched to smooth the fur of the sleek feline. The kitten hissed and swiped savagely with its claws, catching John on the hand.

"Ahh, ouch," he muttered, jumping back. "I guess it won't be staying here long, will it?" Sherlock ignored him as the kitten raced off, back down the stairs. "How's your soufflé girl?"

Sherlock blinked. "Fine," he told John, his tone short and abrupt.

"She hasn't called, has she?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. No wonder Sherlock was being so surly. Sherlock grabbed some tweezers, engrossed in the contents of another petri dish. John was right though, it had been two days and still no word from the mysterious woman. "Don't get too hopeful, Sherlock," John warned. "You don't even know her."

The detective spared a glance to the maps on the wall. All he needed was another hint, another clue to narrow it down. "Are you trying to give me relationship advice?" Sherlock muttered, realising what John had just said.

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose," John answered, stirring his tea.

"Firstly, I don't need it, hence no romantic relationship," Sherlock retorted, his face scrunched in disgust. "Secondly, I don't think you should be giving it anyway. Look at all those girlfriends. Personally, I've had enough of whimpering women on the doorstep."

John gave Sherlock a few suggestions on where he could put those tweezers before shrugging on his coat and stalking out of the flat.

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