"Why are we even doing this?" John groaned as they crowded round the coffee table.

Clara shuffled the cards as best she could. "Because the criminal classes are on holiday," she responded. It was code for Sherlock won't stop bloody complaining.

John shook his head. "This will end badly, I can already see it."

Sherlock harrumphed and snatched the cards from Clara's grasp. "Hey!"

"Your shuffling skills are unsatisfactory," he muttered and proceeded to shuffle the cards in an elaborate fashion.

Clara narrowed her eyes. "Fine, you can be Mrs. Peacock," Sherlock blanched, "John can be Professor Plum and I'll be Colonel Mustard," Clara finished off devilishly. She grinned. "Oswald for the win! Oswin!"

"Who's the victim then?"

"Miss Scarlet of course," Clara replied. "I always think it sounds rather theatrical." Clara slipped three cards into a small envelope and placed it into the centre of the board.

"Everything about this game is theatrical," Sherlock argued.

"You would know, Mrs Peacock," John grabbed the dice and thrusted them at Sherlock. "Let's actually start."

The Cluedo board was old; one of Mrs Hudson's that Clara borrowed in an effort to silence the detective. They had gotten over the pool saga rather quickly though neither John nor Clara wanted to encounter Moriarty anytime soon. None of the three had talked about it, though the occasional mention in passing kept them on their toes. Clara wasn't at Baker Street that often now; apparently Mycroft had her supervising another problem child. Sherlock was incredibly miffed.

However, he was intrigued by her absence. He didn't have anyone to row with now that both of his neighbours were out working. Occasionally he would walk into the kitchen expecting to find Clara with flour on her nose but she wouldn't be there. No cases, no Clara. What had the universe come to?

Cluedo was an experiment that was going increasingly downhill. Sherlock observed the board in a serious silence. When they eventually persuaded him to roll the dice further explanations of the rules followed. "Have you never played Cluedo?" Clara uttered, she couldn't believe it.

"I prefer the more practical sense." He pointed room. "Reverend Green can't have done it, he was-"

"Sherlock, it's not about guessing. Use your," John threw a notepad at him, "Bloody piece of paper to work it out."

Sherlock gave him a look. "I'm deducing the possible suspects and ruling them out, isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"NO, you have to play by the rules."

"Well the murderer didn't do that so why should I?"

Clara cleared her throat loudly. "AS I am in the library, I believe it was Reverend Green, in the library using a candlestick."

"Well that's completely incorrect, as I was saying Reve-" Sherlock started but was cut off abruptly.

"You're meant to show me a card-"

"Card? What card?"

"Oh, jesus..."

Clara sighed. "In front of you, Cheekbones. Now if you have a card that has Reverend Green or the Library..."

"Or the bloody candlestick," John continued. "You have to show it to Clara – but only one card."

Sherlock's eyebrows screwed together and he made a face. "But I have all of them, what's the point in that?"

Horrendous grumbling and exasperated explanations were not to be quenched as the detective made more trouble than he was worth.

"The victim did not kill herself!" John snapped.

Sherlock shrugged. "That or she faked it, hard to tell at this point."

"Where did she get the body then?"

Sherlock stood up and pointed at the board. "Have you seen the size of that kitchen? She could have hidden another body anywhere."

"Cluedo isn't about that," Clara sighed. "There is always a culprit."

"There is no other way! Mrs White was obviously indisposed in the Billiard Room with Colonel Mustard. Judging from the layout of the house and the hidden passageway from the study to the kitchen, it is clearly plausible."

"No it isn't! IT'S BLOODY CLUEDO!" John raged.

"Look! I'll open the envelope!" Clara intervened. She picked up the paper and splayed out the three cards. "It was Mrs White, in the Hall, with the dagger."

Sherlock yelled something incoherent. "Impossible!"

Suddenly they were all shouting. Mrs Hudson came up the stairs only to be nearly decapitated by the flying Cluedo board. The landlady hurried back down as fast as her squat legs would carry her. Clara walked up and held the offending piece of cardboard. "Sherlock it's a game, and you lost, so..." She grabbed a handy knife off John's laptop and stabbed the board to the wall.

"Mrs Hudson will kill you for that!" Sherlock responded.

Clara crossed her arms. "No, she'll put it on your rent and scold you for it. Don't pretend it's not true."

"I'll..." he was lost for words. Sherlock wanted just one victory. "I'll tell her it was you!"

"Ha," John laughed. He looked down at his shoes when Sherlock faced him. He coughed innocently.

.

"God, why is everything so boring?" Sherlock lounged in his armchair casually in a blue dressing gown.

"Am I boring?" Clara poked her head out of the kitchen.

She watched Sherlock roll his eyes. "Right now you are," he muttered.

Clara pointed her spatula menacingly at him. She raised one of her eyebrows. "Do you want me to ever play Cluedo again?" A blob of left over mixture dripped onto the floor.

Sherlock spun around in his chair and faced her. "Would you really?" He looked like a child trying to hide their excitement. How could someone be both smart and childish at the same time?

She licked some of the latest soufflé off the spatula suggestively. "Maybe...." He narrowed his eyes. "What's in it for me, cheekbones?"

"Aren't I charming enough?" He sniffed and spun around. Clara could see his bare feet jittering on the carpet.

"Not during Cluedo!" Clara laughed to herself. God, the victim couldn't really fake their own death. John had had to take a walk to let off some steam after that match.

Sherlock spun back around, desperate. "What about monopoly?" His eyes glinted sharply at her.

"I always lose."

"Why wouldn't you? You're playing skills are appalling!"

"It's based on chance. How on earth does that make my skills appalling?"

"You're not as bad as John," Sherlock allowed, not looking at her.

Clara put her hands on her hips. Her mouth quirked to the side mischievously, even though Sherlock wasn't looking. "Dare I say it, but was that....a compliment?" She spoke the last part in a stage whisper.

"Your soufflé is burning...." Sherlock drawled from his seat. The light filtered through the window glinted off his hair...lord.....he looked like a model for silk dressing gowns.

"A compliment from a Holmes, it must be Christmas!" She beamed up at the ceiling.

"Thank goodness it isn't." Sherlock shuddered.

"Has my birthday come early? Have I died and gone to heaven? Are you an alien imposter disguised as the magnificent Sherlock Holmes?" This had to get a reaction.

"Either shut up or go murder someone," Sherlock snapped almost playfully.

Clara grinned. "Not an alien then."

.

"How's Molly?" They were still in the flat, hopelessly bored to death. He couldn't find the mysterious object Clara had used to turn off the lights at the swimming pool. Anything, give me anything, a murder, a suicide, a bloody case!

Clara dumped her burnt soufflé into the bin with a clang. "How's Moriarty?" She snapped back. Questions, questions, questions. Why was her 'profile' still pinned to the wall, why was John angry again, why was that man dead, why wasn't that lady a suspect.....was Clara infuriating or was she that helpful voice in his head, the nagging second-guessing thoughts, the constant reminder of humanity and humility? Sherlock didn't know and he didn't like no knowing.

Sherlock's eyes slid to her 'profile' hidden in a shadow. Impossible.

"You shouldn't treat Molly like you do," Clara's sharp voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry?"

"Molly – you take advantage of her crush on you!" Clara ripped off her apron. "You're awful to her."

Clara. She was burnt soufflés and fire and sincerity. He shrugged, unperturbed. "She doesn't seem to mind."

"She goes out of her way for you and you just be...." She pulled at her hair. "Arguhh, you!"

"Well I can't change that, can I?" It always led to this. When nothing was interesting they poked each other's buttons. Throwing stones in a glass house. But shattering was both inevitable and impossible at the same time. Sherlock shook is curls. That word.

"You can try! People change!"

He chuckled darkly to himself. "No they don't."

"You're not people," she replied softly.

"Finally reached that conclusion, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Cheekbones. You're probably more human than the rest of us." This turned his head. He took in her round face, her lank hair, the flour on her dress, cat hair on her stockings.

She smiled lazily. "Made you look," she said. Liar.

"Jesus.....Sherlock its mid-morning! Why aren't you dressed?" John thumped into the living room. Snark and strong coffee and courage.

"When did you leave? You were just here a minute ago."

"No, I was here yesterday. I stayed the night at Jane's."

"Who's Jane?" Sherlock demanded just as Clara muttered "Girlfriend."

"Ah..." Sherlock responded. "Another one?" he murmured to Clara inconspicuously as John padded into the kitchen.

"Same one," She whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"Nurse?"

"School teacher."

"I can hear you!"

.

John was updating his blog at the living room table when the effects of Clara's absence were starting to sink in. Sherlock was brooding more than usual and hardly ever changed from his sleepwear. He was leafing through a newspaper across from John, in a red dressing gown.

"What are you typing?" he interrupted, sipping from his mug of coffee.

John's fingers clacked on the keyboard. "Blog."

"About?"

"Us."

Sherlock tilted his head. "You mean me."

John paused. His fingers hovered over the keys. "Why?"

"You're typing a lot." John had barely opened his mouth when the doorbell rang. "Right then," Sherlock sighed and stood up, stalking towards the door.

Over a period of many weeks, 221B had been busy with people coming to consult with Sherlock, the increasingly popular detective. Each client would sit in a chair facing a fireplace as he or she wailed, grumbled or whispered about their problems. Clara's warm nature usually put people at ease from her spot at the table or the kitchen. Without her presence, clients seemed rather daunted by the icy detective. John missed her way of speaking over Sherlock so he didn't frighten or upset anyone too much. Plus the way she stabbed him with a pencil when he was being annoying.

Sometimes she was there, others not. Mycroft had given her a very busy job. Some days she wasn't home till late. Mrs Hudson was always asking after her.

John knew his blog was becoming an item of envy or hate for Sherlock. Later that day, Sherlock was using a magnifier glass to inspect the strange spots on a deceased woman. "Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock had asked. Lestrade watched, disinterested, from the other side of the table.

"Where d'you think our clients come from?" John squinted at the pale flesh on the woman's shoulder.

Sherlock moved his magnifier down the arm. "I have a website."

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website." Sherlock straightened and snapped his magnifier shut. He glared at John and pouted momentarily. "Right then," John continued. "Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are..." He pointed at the tiny spots but Sherlock had already turned on his heel and flounced away.

Lestrade pointed at the corridor. "Is this cause Clara's gone?" He rumbled in a whisper. "Cause its bloody well getting on my nerves. He needs to cheer up or... I dunno."

On another distinct occasion, John knew Clara had to come back sometime soon. Two little girls sat politely together on one dining chair while Sherlock paced in front of them. "They wouldn't let us see Grandad when he was dead. Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?" Her high pitched voice asked innocently.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to them. "People don't really go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned."

The two girls looked at each other in obvious distress. John covered his face. "Sherlock..."

Sundays were the best days because Clara had the whole day off. John told her about the trip to Southwark. There was a body in a car boot but apparently the deceased should have died in a plane crash in Germany the day before. He had napkins from the flight, a boarding pass and even those silly biscuits – all from the said plane. His passport was definitely stamped in Berlin Airport. She raised her eyebrows. "Lucky escape," she decided.

John chuckled. "That's what I said."

Clara wasn't completely isolated from the cases the boys observed. Lestrade was always texting her tabloid nicknames or when the boys got a big article. Mrs Hudson cut pictures out and stuck them on her fridge. They were an internet sensation and Clara teased them relentlessly. John wanted to drag her along when they knew press would be present, just so she could get some payback. An article or two would be all it took to shut her up.

One fateful day, Clara happened to take the wrong left and ended up getting the fright of her life. "Sherlock!" she held a hand to her heart. "You're wearing a sheet!"