Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Wrong Toilet

Sherlock was uncomfortable. The ground was too hard, the wind was wafting his hair into his eyes and all the flashing cameras were giving him a headache. He hated this. He wanted to solve crimes, all the gratitude riff-raff was unproductive and utterly unnecessary. But still, he stood on the pavement as a family hugged their son while the press crowded around like bumbling blowflies. "Our family has our son back after his terrifying ordeal; and we have one person to thank for his deliverance: Sherlock Holmes." The grateful father looked kindly upon Sherlock and John who stood as still as statues.

The public applauded and little Tom, the rescued boy, handed Sherlock a small token of their thankfulness. Sherlock shook the box. "Tie pin," he deduced. "I don't wear ties."

"Shh," John hushed out of the corner of his mouth.

"Clara!" The child cried with loud enthusiasm. Tom pushed past the reporters and ran to hug Clara who was walking towards the crowd. Tom latched his arms around Clara's torso as she awkwardly patted him on the back.

The buzzing media turned their lenses on her, finally realising it was the mysterious girl they had depicted in the paper a month ago. The reporters were shouting questions and receiving only Clara's concerned, pleading stare in return. "Mister Holmes!" A young columnist cried. His voice was loud and slurred. "Is this your Mrs?"

"Ah..." Sherlock trailed off, searching for a way to get Clara out of the situation as soon as possible. "This is Clara Oswald, she works with us and looked after Tim-"

"Tom," John corrected.

"Looked after Tom once we had located him." He shook hands of the family roughly and then unlatched Tom from Clara and steered her down the street.

A month later, Clara watched, grinning, as Sherlock stood awkwardly at Scotland Yard's press conference with John muttering out of the corner of his mouth. Lestrade explained how Sherlock captured the evasive Peter Ricoletti and how grateful the police were. Sherlock smiled insincerely. Clara could see that he was ready to bolt when the moment arose. The press applauded and Lestrade handed Sherlock a small present, haphazardly wrapped in purple tissue paper.

Sherlock held it, not sure what to do or say. His eyes found Clara's instantly. God, she was magnetic. "Open it!" She mouthed, her eyes twinkling in amusement. A few reporters turned around, catching sight of the mysterious Clara Oswald they had heard of on a few occasions. Sherlock ripped apart the packaging, unearthing a grey deerstalker. "Oh," he uttered, attempting to seem pleased. Sally Donovan and Lestrade were in a fit of laughter.

"Put it on!" A photographer begged and soon the whole audience was chanting.

Sherlock shoved in on his head with gritted teeth. He glared at Clara, knowing that she was probably the mastermind behind it. She grinned smugly, enjoying how uncomfortable he looked. It served the selfish prick right.

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up," Clara sighed once they had gotten themselves back to Baker Street.

"What up?" Sherlock mumbled, flicking through a newspaper.

"The whole marriage business."

"Boffin?!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly, his nose an inch from the page. "'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'?"

"Everybody gets one," John explained. Sherlock through the paper onto the coffee table haughtily.

"Gets what?" Clara asked, picking up the paper.

"Tabloid nickname."

"Huh. I hope I don't."

"Page five, column six, first sentence," Sherlock sighed, grabbing the deerstalker and punching it. "Why is it always the hat photo?"