Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Hugs

Sherlock was standing in front of the Vermeer painting, tapping away on his phone. John, Lestrade, Clara and Miss Wenceslas were standing behind him. Clara peered over the detective's shoulder (quite an achievement for the vertically challenged). Sherlock was searching up topics like "Pigment analysis", "Vermeer brushstrokes" and "Canvas degradation". 'It is a fake,' he muttered, 'it has to be.'

'That painting has been subjected to every test known to science,' Miss Wenceslas butted in with a sniff.

'It's a very good fake, then,' Sherlock spat back. He spun around and glared at her with his grey hawk eyes. Clara would have run the other direction if he looked at her like that. 'You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?'

Miss Wenceslas turned to Lestrade, looking extremely exasperated. 'Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?' She had her hands on her hips and spoke in that clipped accent of hers.

In the middle of her sentence, the pink phone trilled from Sherlock's pocket. He took it out smoothly and answered the call. He held the phone out in front of him with the device on speaker. 'The painting is a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.' Heavy breathing was all that came in response. Clara bit her lip. 'Oh, come on, proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved t, I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed.' John and Lestrade shared a worried look as silence came out of the phone. Sherlock took a deep breath to compose his mind. 'Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?' he demanded.

'Ten...' It was a small, trembling voice of a young boy. A boy.

As soon as Sherlock heard the sound he whipped back around to the painting. John's face was a mask of horror. 'Sherlock,' Clara murmured her voice was stone cold.

'It's a kid,' Lestrade gasped. 'Oh god it's a kid!'

'What did he say?' John asked quickly.

Clara looked desperately at John. 'He said "ten".'

'Nine...' the feeble voice echoed in the large room.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the painting. 'It's a countdown. He's giving me time.'

'Jesus,' Lestrade growled, rubbing his chin.

'The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?'

'Eight...'

John put a hand over his mouth. Clara looked over to Miss Wenceslas. 'You have to help him! This child will die!' her eyes were desperate. 'Tell him why the painting is a fake!'

Miss Wenceslas flinched and began to open her mouth. Sherlock held up a hand to stop her.

'Seven...'

'No shut up. Don't say anything; it only works if I figure it out.' He spun round to the painting again. John walked away. The tension was unbearable, he started pacing. Sherlock started muttering to himself. 'Must be possible. Must be staring me in the-' He turned around and met Clara's eyes. 'Face.'

'Six...'

She stared right back, brown eyes on impossibly grey ones. A million words seemed to pass between them. Don't you dare – Clara's eyes said, silver tears lined them. Don't you dare let a child die for your game.

'Five...'

'Slap me,' Sherlock suddenly said. Clara's brows knotted in confusion. 'Hit me!'

CRACK!

The impact sounded like a gunshot in the large room. Sherlock hardly flinched. The sudden pain made him think clearly, like the penny finally dropped. 'Oh, oh!' He looked at the painting then back at Clara. 'Oh I love you, you impossible girl!' he cried and kissed her forehead.

'Okay...?' She murmured. 'Are you feeling alright?'

'I am absolutely brilliant.'

'Four...'

'It's speeding up!' Lestrade warned.

'In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!' He shoved the pink phone into John's hand as he skipped backwards from the painting. He pulled out his own phone and started tapping away.

'Three...'

'What's brilliant? What is?' John demanded.

Sherlock laughed in delight. Clara felt like slapping him again. 'This is beautiful, I love this!' he threw his head back in pleasure.

'Two...'

'SHERLOCK!' Lestrade yelled furiously.

Sherlock grabbed the pink phone and yelled 'the Van Buren Supernova!'

A pause that lasted a life time filled up the room.

'Please. Is somebody there?' Sherlock let out a relieved breath as the little boy's voice cried out of the phone. 'Somebody help me!'

'There you go. Find out where he is and pick him up.' Sherlock handed the phone to the inspector. John and Sherlock shared a look. 'The Van Buren Supernova, so called,' Sherlock told them while showing a picture of it on his phone over his shoulder. 'Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in the eighteen fifty-eight. Clara's exploding soufflé the other night prompted my memory.' He gave them all a triumphant look.

Sherlock walked away with Clara on his heels as John let out a relieved sigh.

.

Out the front of the gallery, Sherlock was lost for words. A minute ago Clara Oswald had flung her arms around him, trapping his own arms, in what humans call a hug.

'Clara, I-I, no not the hugging, please-Clara c'mon.....errr, help!'

'No way you insufferable drama queen,' she sighed, laughing to herself. 'I'm going to kill or hug you if you do anything like that again.'

'I'd prefer the killing, thank you very much.' She just squeezed him tighter.

'Oh oh, what do we have here? Mr Sherlock Holmes the great detective.....defeated by a hug.'

'Lestrade-help me...please.'

'No no no, you just hold still there,' Lestrade bit his lip as he got out his phone to snap a picture. Clara giggled.

'Please, I'll do anything. I won't insult Anderson next time, I promise.' He sounded so desperate it was almost funny.

Clara poked her head up. 'Send it to me please?' She asked sweetly.

'Anything for you Clara,' he smiled and winked at Sherlock.