Sherlock Holmes squinted through the microscope, he marvelled at the swirling compounds mixing together for half a second before the slight thrill wore off. He was bored, everything was boring - even John. The flatmate himself was eating toast sloppily while he typed an email excruciatingly slowly to his latest girlfriend. Poison. That's how he would murder John - not that he would. Unless John was in fact a mass murder living incognito in London. Sherlock tilted his head, considering his flatmate with cold calculativeness. He dismissed the idea as marmalade dripped down John's front. He grumbled and stalked to the kitchen for a napkin.

"What are you doing?" John asked, dapping his shirt.

"Occupy myself," Sherlock replied bluntly, his words short and clipped with annoyance.

John walked back to his laptop, ready to finish his sappy email. "Need another case, I suppose," he breathed, sliding the laptop towards him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing. "Yet London's killers all seem to be on holiday."

"Everyone has to take a break at some point," John chuckled. He closed his laptop and went back to the kitchen. "We have a new neighbour by the way; Clara Oswald or something. Living downstairs - 221C."

"Mrs Hudson must be so happy," Sherlock drawled. A new neighbour wasn't interesting enough to allow enthusiasm. He swapped around the petri dishes and stared at a cluster of tissue cells.

John clattered around making tea, trying to find a clean cup. "She could be a serial killer," John wondered aloud, his head in the cupboard under the sink.

"A serial killer that owns a cat?" Sherlock snorted.

"She owns a cat-" John bumped his head on the edge of the sink but grinned at the cup clenched in his hand.

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head to the living room. "Well I don't think we do." A muscle twitched his jaw as the small fluffy black kitten pawed its ear, in

armchair. He sneered in disgust as the animal snuggled deeper into the leather. He twisted back to the microscope, trying not to concentrate. Concentration led to deductions and deductions led to boredom as there wasn't anything worthwhile to deduce. John went over, hand outstretched to smooth the fur of the sleek feline. The kitten hissed and swiped savagely with its claws, catching John on the hand.

"Ahh, ouch," he muttered, jumping back. "I guess it won't be staying here long, will it?" Sherlock ignored him as the kitten raced off, back down the stairs. "How's your soufflé girl?"

Sherlock blinked. "Fine," he told John, his tone short and abrupt.

"She hasn't called, has she?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. No wonder Sherlock was being so surly. Sherlock grabbed some tweezers, engrossed in the contents of another petri dish. John was right though, it had been two days and still no word from the mysterious woman. "Don't get too hopeful, Sherlock," John warned. "You don't even know her."

The detective spared a glance to the maps on the wall. All he needed was another hint, another clue to narrow it down. "Are you trying to give me relationship advice?" Sherlock muttered, realising what John had just said.

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose," John answered, stirring his tea.

"Firstly, I don't need it, hence no romantic relationship," Sherlock retorted, his face scrunched in disgust. "Secondly, I don't think you should be giving it anyway. Look at all those girlfriends. Personally, I've had enough of whimpering women on the doorstep."

John gave Sherlock a few suggestions on where he could put those tweezers before shrugging on his coat and stalking out of the flat.

.

Clara sighed at the silly ad she had submitted into the paper a few days ago, detailing her expertise in working with children. She had checked her emails continuously and her phone had been silent as the grave. How was she ever going to get any money? It would take forever for that spot at Coal Hill High to open up. She'd be living on the streets soon enough, starving and desperate. Even Cheekbones had given up on her. Clara stared morbidly at her laptop, gosh, no wonder she had bought Oscar. The little kitten had raced into her room and hid underneath her bed. She leaned over the side, hair trailing on the floor as she spied the handful of fur. No amount of sweet talking could coax him out. Clara huffed, giving up, when her laptop blipped. Clara couldn't control her grin. "I thought you'd left me for dead!" She exclaimed, smiling at the long pale face on the screen.

"Don't get too excited," Sherlock Holmes drawled, straightening the collar of his purple shirt. He was still talking to a blank screen which irritated him. Inside he had missed talking to the invisible woman, John could only go so far. Anyway, this was a good experiment for

. Ugh, even the word sounded poisonous. What would John think of him? "How are the soufflés?"

"Oh, I made one for you but it was too beautiful to live." She pouted despairingly at the charred mess sticking out of her bin. "How is the crime solving going?"

"Nonexistent," Sherlock said, bluntly, rolling his eyes. He carried the laptop over to the wall decorated in the maps and pins dedicated to this impossible girl.

Clara frowned. "So you don't have a case? I thought all detectives just sort of...had, cases?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'P' in his usual fashion.

"What about me?" Clara asked, the words slipping out before she could properly think over the. She watched his face curiously as he sighed loudly. He turned the laptop around so the camera was facing his living room wall. A section was covered in maps with highlighted circles and pins sticking into the wallpaper. "Oh!" Clara said, not sure what to say. "You really have done your research, Mr Holmes." She marvelled at the paper clips glinting in the soft light and the sticky notes wafting the breeze. It was a mess, but a beautiful one. He

take his work seriously. "C'mon, Cheekbones," she jeered, grinning. "What's the answer - who am I?"

"I-I, well..." He stuttered, his left hand curling into his hair, pulling at the roots. "Maybe - er, I don't actually have the answer. There are too many possibilities. I want -

something to deduce!" He peered at the screen, jabbing the keys. He had to see something, anything in that black screen but all her had were her words. Sherlock was used to using his eyes, he felt weak without them. "This is so incredibly frustrating," he growled, "Yet the simplicity is brilliant!"

"Am I the first to stump the famous Sherlock Holmes?" She hummed, smug at his reaction. What a dramatic detective he was.

"Stump me?" Sherlock repeated. He placed the laptop down on the table and balanced his chin on the pale tips of his fingers. "No this is just a game, Soufflé Girl; a problem to solve."

"An impossible one it seems..." Clara added wistfully.

"You are the impossible one," he retorted, making her scoff. "Now can I have another clue for my puzzle?"

"The great detective asking for a clue? Not so fast Holmes - cheating isn't allowed." Clara tutted at the screen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned the laptop back down to the collage of maps. "I have hundreds of possibilities here and nothing else to go on. I'm at a dead end." He was practically pleading but it came out all funny and strange in his mouth. He was obviously used to getting what he wanted. "I won't call you until you tell me something," he threatened, his tone switching back to normal. It was a lie though, he liked this game too much.

"Oh, stop it!" Clara said, though the idea shocked her. "We both know that idea is completely bonkers. You can't get enough of me."

"We just met - how can you be so sure?"

"Shut up or I will hang up on you Holmes."

"Stop flirting or I will hang up. Just tell me something about yourself - anything."

"Hmmm..." Clara tapped a finger on her chin thoughtfully. "I can't just tell you anything, you could be a serial killer."

"Pftt," he scorned, nose scrunching. "You're more likely a killer than me. You could have a gun underneath your bed for all I know. Though it is unlikely."

"Huh," Clara murmured, slightly disappointed that she wasn't as mysterious as she thought.

"How about you tell me where you went shopping a few days ago?" Sherlock steered the conversation onto something else. He tried not to pressure her too much. If she was stressed she'd probably resort to outrageous flirting or something more aggressive, like slamming down her screen.

Clara paused. Should she? "You said you had hundreds of possibilities right?"

"Three thousand, nine hundred and sixteen."

"Right. So even if I told you..."

"There would still be too many avenues of inquiry - I wouldn't be able to narrow it down. It would take months if I went around knocking on doors."

Clara tilted her head, rubbing her lips together, studying the face of the detective. "Piccadilly," she whispered, closing the laptop lid with a whimsical smile. Was it terrible that she was really excited about this odd game they were playing?

Unknown to her, the detective in the room above paced across the carpet happily, crossing out streets on his maps and circling others. The games was on; Sherlock was one step further.