Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Buckingham Palace

Sherlock was surprised when Clara stumbled into the room. It was an accident; she had been expecting a set of stairs. She tilted her head in confusion. "Sherlock!" she uttered, looking him up and down. "You're wearing a sheet!" His dark hair contrasted with the single white sheet wrapped around him like an ethereal toga.

"What on earth are you doing here?" John asked. Unlike his flatmate, he was in his usual getup - plaid shirt tucked into clean trousers and his everyday jacket. "We're in Buckingham Palace." He looked at the elegant ceiling like he still couldn't believe it.

Sherlock looked her up and down, glancing over her tartan dress, cardigan, gloved hands and dark tights. "Oh..." he murmured.

Clara walked over and seated herself in between the men. She eyed the folded set of clothes on the ornate coffee table in front of them. "Are you...?" She trailed off, looking down at Sherlock. Wearing any pants?????

"No," he replied nonchalantly. He didn't need her to finish the sentence.

Clara sat back, blushing. Her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her fringe. She looked at John, who looked at Sherlock who looked at Clara. They burst out laughing. Clara covered her mouth and dipped forward.

John gestured to the amazing room. "Buckingham Palace, fine." He loosed a breath, trying to restrain himself. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray."

Sherlock and Clara chuckled together.

"What on earth are you two doing here?"

John gave her a look. "I could ask you the same question!"

"I'm supervising," she responded.

Sherlock shrugged. "She is good at it." His lips quirked. "She's had lots of practice."

"Clearly not!" John laughed, his eyes bright. "He's in a bloody sheet for Christ's sake!"

Was it impossible to not get the giggles in this situation? Clara clutched her stomach and hid her smile behind her hands.

"What are we doing here Sherlock?" John asked, somewhat seriously. "Seriously, what?"

Sherlock grinned. "I don't know." The carpet was rich, the furniture immaculate and ornate furnishings blooming from every doorway or windowsill.

Clara turned to him, a curtain of hair drooping forward. "Here to meet the Queen?" she suggested.

Mycroft Holmes chose that precise moment to enter the room. "Oh, apparently yes," Sherlock muttered.

They all cracked up again. Mycroft looked at them in exasperation, smoothing his immaculate suit. "Just for once, can you two, or should I say three," he glared at Clara, "Behave like grown-ups."

John snickered. "We solve crimes, she babysits, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

Sherlock gazed at his brother without the slightest hint of humour. "I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," he spat.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" Mycroft's nose scrunched up. He always seemed to look like the stench of manure was constantly making his face contort in disgust. "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock replied, in a clipped tone. John looked startled - Clara made a note to ask about it later.

"Time to move on then," Mycroft sighed. He picked up the pile of dark clothes and offered them to Sherlock. The younger Holmes gazed into space, disinterested. Mycroft heaved a breath and straightened. "We are in the heart of Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation," Mycroft glowered sternly at him, "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

Sherlock shrugged. His shoulders moved easily up and down in his unusual garb. "What for?"

"Your client."

Sherlock stood up, his magnificent sheet made him look imperial but rather silly. "And my client is?"

"Illustrious," a voice answered. Everyone turned to look as another well-dressed Englishman entered the room. He had greying hair and was neat and tidy as Mycroft but with more humanity etched into his features. "In the extreme."

"Harry!" Clara greet warmly. Sherlock shot her a traitor's glare. It didn't stop her from pecking the newcomer on the cheek and exchanging kind words about his grandchildren.

Mycroft coughed loudly, spurring Harry into action. "And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous." Harry greeted Mycroft respectfully. They shook hands politely.

"May I apologise for the state of my little brother?"

"Full time occupation, I imagine," Harry chuckled good-naturedly.

Mycroft inclined his head as Sherlock scowled. "Yes, I have people hired." Harry took this as a joke but Holmes was very serious.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." Harry smiled a little and shook John's hand.

"Hello, yes," He replied. Clara could tell John was at least a little smug at this.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

John started. "You employer?"

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."

John thanked him and tilted his head smugly at Sherlock.

Goodness, did Clara remember that adventure. For some absolutely absurd reason, Sherlock and Clara found themselves at a little stage theatre on the strand, watching a terrible play called Terror By Night. Though Sherlock grumbled and groaned at the tedious scenes, he was quite delighted in the end. The play had a 'Cluedo' feel and just as they were about to reveal the whodunit, a character went rage at another and hit them with an aluminium crutch. The crutch was meant to be rubber to not hurt the actors. When the man was struck on the head with the crutch, he was killed!

Sherlock had shot up like a bullet and clasping Clara's hand, rushed towards the stage. The crowd screamed and those who went to help the fallen fellow found he was quite dead. Somehow, the death was not classed as murder. Sherlock explained that the deceased had wanted to get the actor who had hit him fired by replacing the rubber crutch with an actual one. However, due to the fondness of scotch on the assaulter's behalf, the plan turned much worse than a jab to the shoulder. Whatever reasoning Sherlock deduced soared completely over Clara's head.

Harry stepped forward. "And Mr Holmes the younger," His eyes glinted cheerily, "You look taller in you photographs."

"Take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," Sherlock replied blandly. He took a sharp breath and elbowed his way towards Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work."

He faced to Harry and told him politely, "Good morning." Sherlock turned on his heel and began to saunter towards the doors Clara had entered from. Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped on the end of the sheet quite calmly. Sherlock's momentum dragged the sheet from his body, revealing sharp shoulder bones. Oh my goodness, the sheet is.... He managed to barely grab hold of it before he was completely exposed.

Clara's eyes bulged and her chin dropped. She snapped her mouth shut before John could notice. Sherlock's wide shoulders tensed and the line of his spine grew ridged.

"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft declared sternly.

"Get off my sheet," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away," he decided. Clara clapped a hand over her mouth.

"I'll let you."

John stepped forward, brows slightly creased. "Boys, please. Not here."

Sherlock nearly trembled with rage. "Who. Is. My. Client?!"

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake..." Mycroft cut off his tremendous snarl and composed himself. "...put your clothes on!"

Clara watched as Sherlock's torso heaved with a furious breath.