Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Just Breathe

Clara had thought that, being Christmas and all, things would have ended better. Sure, Jeanette or whoever, left John in an angry stammer and Mrs Hudson was speaking her mind under the influence of too much sherry – but that was normal – until Sherlock left.

He had stalked out the door, the clock edging on midnight, and swished out and into the dark street. He had been a sweep of darkness, his face void of emotion. You may think that he looks like this most of the time, but Clara knew he didn't. When he was around John, his eyes would flicker with his never-ending thoughts or he would spit a mischievous comment. With Clara, a smile would tug at his lips, demanding to be given in to or his eyes would twinkle. That night, Sherlock was pure darkness. It was as if he had been unplugged from the world and moved like a robot.

"Where are you going?" Clara had called from the kitchen sink.

"Out," he said, in a deathly monotone.

Clara remembered tip toeing into the living room but he was already thundering down the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John had yelled but then the front door slammed shut.

A call on Clara's mobile from Mycroft sent them scurrying around the flat. Irene Adler was dead. Clara could imagine her body in the morgue. She could see the unearthly porcelain skin gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Her hair would be raven black on the slab. Guilt churned through Clara like cold porridge. She swallowed, ruffling through Sherlock's sock drawer. She had despised that woman, and now she was dead as could be. And Sherlock, oh – Sherlock. A trench-like rift carved between them over Irene – both admiring her, both equally as jealous. Clara had dallied with a few girls and boys, it wasn't strange for her to feel attracted to Miss Adler. Her guts twisted in disgust, how were so nasty to each other over one woman!

Christmas Eve felt like a dream, even though it was only a few hours ago. Clara reminded herself about how all was forgiven. Soufflé Girl and Cheekbones were back. Still, guiltiness wrapped around her throat like a python.

Clara moved to Sherlock's cupboard. A phantom breeze sent the empty hangers clinking. Surprisingly, it wasn't just filled with suits and silk dressing gowns. Disguises as bright and colourful as the tinsel wrapped around the Christmas tree were all bundled together. Clara poked at a police officer's coat and trailed a finger down a woolen cardigan. To see Sherlock in that!

John bumbled into the room. Clara slammed the double doors of the cupboard. "All clean?" he asked.

"Yeah," Clara replied. She spun on her heel, biting her thumb.

"He'll be fine," John reassured her, patting her arm awkwardly.

"He's Sherlock," she sighed. John attempted a smile and wandered out. "When is he ever fine," Clara asked herself.

She didn't want to wait for Sherlock. John sat slumped in his chair. His fingers twitched on the arms rest as he watched the door out of the corner of his eye. Clara slipped into her plaid pyjamas and slipped underneath the sheets. Sure, it was Sherlock's bedroom but they were used to sharing.

They never actually climbed into bed together, nor woke up with other still there; but for a few hours (sometimes – Sherlock was quite a nocturnal creature) in the night, they breathed in rhythm peacefully.

It struck her dumb when the door squealed open and Sherlock started muttering about his sock drawer. Clara pretended to be asleep. She curled up on the very edge of the bed and shut her eyes firmly.

Clara heard his coat crumple to the floor. The wooden boards creaked underneath his weight as he shifted across the room.

.

Sherlock threw off his coat. It folded in on itself as it hit the floor like forgotten wings. He braced his arms on the windowsill, his breaths pulling in and out sharply from his nose. Irene Adler was dead. He had made Molly timidly draw the sheet off of Miss Adler's face and then further, just so he could be sure. 32-24-34. The code to her safe; her measurements. Then as he had stalked into the flat, John stared at him as one might stare at a homeless man. Pure disgusting pity. Sherlock turned around, sliding down the wall till he hit the floor.

Then the mattress's springs squeaked. Tpit-patpat of bare feet tip toed over the room. Of course Clara had been awake. As soon as Sherlock entered the room he had known. She had held her breath in her bluff. He hadn't had the energy to call her out.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I know," he rumbled. A beat. "Go back to sleep."

"No," she immediately answered. So stubborn. She was holding something. It was too dark to see it properly. Clara knelt down beside him. "Merry Christmas," she shrugged.

Sherlock reached for it. A scarf. A dark blue, perfectly folded. He sniffed the fabric. "Clara Oswald did you buy me an identical scarf?" he pondered softly. A smile shadowed over his lips.

"Problem?"

"It smells different."

"Boo-hoo."

Silence clouded between them. Guilt rippled off of Clara in waves, something close to sadness was seeping out of Sherlock. Clara wedged herself underneath his arm, resting her head on his chest. Kind of the way Oscar – the annoying gargantuan cat of hers – slides underneath everyone's hands hoping for a pat, no matter what position they are in. Sherlock froze, not sure what to do. Clara blindly grabbed his lost arm and wrapped it in her tiny hand. "Just breathe," she murmured. So he did.