Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Rose and Crown

Oscar yowled angrily, his fur bristling as Clara accidentally shoved him to the floor. She jumped up from Sherlock's chair as if electrocuted, staring at the newspaper with eyes as large as dinner plates. The cat slunk into the kitchen, death staring his owner over his shoulder. Clara froze, her lips moving as she read the article to herself. "Sherlock!" She choked out, "OhmygodohmygodohmygodSherlock!"

"Clara, what is it?" John rushed into his apartment from hers. The door between was never left shut anymore. John had been scavenging for clean teacups. Clara was at loss for words, she just shoved the newspaper at him. John took it off her, his eyes instantly drawing towards the photograph. It was a picture of Clara and Sherlock on either side of Fletcher, the young tour guide from Dartmoor. "But this was, this was a month ago," John protested. What could be wrong? Of anything, it was a nice photograph, even though Sherlock was grimacing.

"Read the article," Clara spat, stabbing the flimsy newspaper with her index finger.

John squinted at the print. "Oh god," he muttered. The article highlighted the shiny rings adorned Clara and Sherlock's hands. It went on to quote sections of John's blog when they first mentioned Clara.

"And I still have this stupid ring on. I completely forgot about it." Clara pulled it off of her finger and threw it onto the floor in a breathless rage. "Can't Mycroft do something about this?"

"Clara, it's already circulating. You'll just have to wait until it dies down."

"What are you two raving about?" Sherlock muttered as he trooped up the stairs.

"This!" Clara snatched the newspaper from John and shoved it under Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock sniffed in disgust. "I don't concern myself with media. It's counter productive."

"Well this media thinks we're married," Clara seethed, her words like fire.

John shrugged. "To be fair, you two were pretty convincing." Sherlock and Clara both gave him a pointed glare. "Just saying," he muttered in defence. Clara swatted him with the paper before strutting into her own apartment. John just enjoyed the doubling view numbers on his blog.

"Hey, who used my laptop?" John demanded, spying the sleek silver machine on the bottle green couch.

"Oh, it was just Oswin," Sherlock dismissed easily. "She was shopping or something."

"What did you just call me? Oswin?" Clara stood in the connecting doorway.

Sherlock paused, biting his lip. "Sorry, right, Clara. I meant Oswald."

"I thought you had your own laptop?" John said.

Sherlock didn't listen to their petty argument, he couldn't get it out of his head. Oswin. He'd heard that name before - Clara had said it while playing Cluedo, "Oswald for the win! Oswin!" - but it was more than that. Something else he couldn't grasp. It was right in front of him but as tangible as smoke. Sherlock sat down and entered his mind palace. He raced through the hallways, following the wheezing groaning sound that accompanied the two syllable word. Oswin, Oswin, Oswin. Bowties. Why did that pop into his head? Why were bowties important? Sherlock entered a room, white walls and floors, bleary white light. A tattered blue dressing gown was crumpled on the floor. Sherlock picked it up, running the silk through his fingers. It was shredded with burn holes and the unmistakable smell of melted plastic.

"Oh!"

It came to Sherlock in a rush: time machines, the Doctor, an exploding star, wonder boy, a time lord. He could remember it, all of it. The day that never happened, that was rewritten. Sherlock plucked a floating piece of paper out of the air. The torn out page of a book, mottled yellow with age. And there she was. The simple picture of a governess with hair pulled back and victorian era clothes. Clara Oswin Oswald was inscribed underneath in a beautiful flowing script. She was real then, the Doctor had confirmed it. And she was real now - the brave Clara he knew.