Anderson ↠ BBC Sherlock

act one; three

Back in Lestrade's office, Clara propped her feet up on his desk. "I dislike you," she announced, staring over at Holmes.

He glanced at her. "And why is that, Anderson?"

"Clara," Clara corrected, "and it's because you're a dick, actually." She raised her hand, or tried to. "What kind of maniac handcuffs a poor defenseless girl to their brother's boss' chair?"

Holmes frowned. Whether it was because of the dick comment or the maniac one, she didn't know, nor did she particularly care. "At least it's not the desk."

"We both know that's only because there's nothing on the desk to handcuff me to," Clara said. She peered down at the cuffs. It would be fairly easy to get out of them, but was that a skill she wanted to reveal to Holmes? Clara thought not. "Is this revenge for me declaring your love for mass murderers, or for specifying that it was James Moriarty who gets you all hot and bothered?"

He considered it. "Both."

"Oh, you shouldn't let that bother you, Holmes," Clara informed him, smirking. "We both know that James probably jerks off to the sound of your name."

"You..." Holmes trailed off, unsure of how to respond. He tried again. "You disturb me."

Clara grinned. "Good."

"I don't see that as a good thing, Anderson," he informed her.

Her eyes narrowed. "Clara."

"Clara," Holmes conceded. "There is something wrong with you, if you're fantasizing about criminals doing— that."

"That," Clara echoed, incredulous. "I mean, I know you're a bit of a prude, but... seriously? The words you are looking for are jerking off. Or masturbation, but if you can't say jerking off then you probably can't handle that."

He scowled, just like she knew he would, but visibly steeled his resolve. "Mas-tur-bat-ion," he spat out, emphasizing each syllable. She had, after all, issued a challenge, and Holmes had never been one to pass up the chance to prove he was right.

Clara winced, feigning empathy. "That looked hard for you," she said, and then pointedly looked down. "Hopefully not too hard. I wouldn't want to see the bulge that James seems to think so highly of, you know? It'd be weird. And I definitely don't want to see you jerk off, so don't get any ideas."

He stared. "Jerking off," Holmes said, slowly, "isn't exactly one of my past times, and it's hardly something anyone would do in public."

"You've clearly never gone on the internet," said Clara. He rolled his eyes, so she added, "And, while it may not be one of your past times, I'm sure it's one of Moriarty's."

"I wouldn't know," he said, eventually. "Do you not have anyone else to bother?"

"Of course I do," she confessed. "I have plenty of people I can bother. My brother and your pseudo-boss come to mind. But they're all looking for James Moriarty, and seeing as we managed to get so much closer to the man without even trying— well, what's the point?"

"I got close to him."

"Uh, no," said Clara. "We did. Don't tell me you forgot about the bulge incident so soon after it happened. Early on-set dementia is a real epidemic, you know."

"Trust me," Holmes scowled. "I didn't."

"What, didn't forget, or didn't have a bulge in your pants when you met the Consulting Criminal?" she asked. "I mean, I can't blame you, Holmes. Moriarty is— well, he's bloody attractive, that's for sure. I'm sure if I had a," she gestured below his waist, "then it'd be bulging when I laid eyes on him, too. Except, you know. I don't. And you're supposed to be his arch nemesis, not his lover."