Read about a new tenant in 221c, Sherlock getting his cheekbones scolded, John becoming increasingly confused and soufflé after soufflé as Moriarty and the Doctor are about to turn round the corner.Outrageous flirting, wild arguments, suggestive eye...
Clara rubbed the stark white hospital sheets between her fingers. She had hardly noticed that someone had removed her shoes and taken off her heavy overcoat; she couldn't even remember being tucked into the bed by a junior nurse. The sheets were stiff and rough against the pad of her thumb. Mrs Hudson would have complained to the head nurse. She heard a small knock at the door but didn't look up. Nothing mattered. He was dead. It sliced through her like a knife. Dead.
"Clara, I um..."
It was Lestrade. Same warm country lilt, same fumbling words. Sherlock never remembered his name. A tear fell from her lashes and onto her cheeks.
"Clara I'm so, so sorry," his voice cracked, but regained his composure through one hearty sniff. "I came to give you this."
"That's evidence!" Someone interjected. Anderson. Stupid Anderson. Always one step behind. There was a crackling of a plastic bag and shuffled footsteps.
"Let her have it - for god's sake!" Donovan. Strong-willed Donovan who never had anything nice to say. Clara frowned. Donovan despised Sherlock. Had despised Sherlock. The shuffling stopped and the room quieted. "Hasn't she been through enough?" The words were hissed through Donovan's clenched jaw.
Clara knew Lestrade would be gritting his teeth as he snatched the bag from Anderson's hands. He walked over, the lines on his face tightened with stress. "We er, got most of the blood off," he said, placing an evidence bag next to her leg. Clara didn't stop rubbing the bed sheet as Sherlock's coat stared back at her. She closed her eyes and all she could see was that coat flapping in the wind on top of the roof. "I'll see you back at," Lestrade stopped, unable to speak. He cleared his throat. "Back at Baker Street."
Clara turned away. As if she could go back there. She waited until their footsteps echoed through the hall, and then disappeared for good. It took all her might to drag her eyes from the dreary windowsill to the crumbled bag. And once she started staring, Clara couldn't stop. Dead.
She carefully ripped the plastic open, her breath hitching as the scent of him flooded her nose: cigarettes, cabs and crime scenes. The ash pinched her nostrils, making her want to sneeze. The cab smell was bearable - like old perfume mixed with food wrappers. Crime scenes always varied. Clara breathed in the slight latex glove odor and the taint of disinfectant coming through. But the stench of rusty, metallic blood seemed to seep over the fabric like a heavy cloud. Dead. An hour ago the same blood was still safe in his veins. Half an hour ago it had soaked into her stockings.
She ran her hands along the coat, the thick wool soft against her fingers. She trailed a finger along the inside of the lapel, marveling at the silky smoothness. One beautiful coat, for one beautiful man.
A new sound of footsteps tiptoed into her room. This time, Clara looked up. She was halfway out of bed before the Doctor even touched his bow tie nervously. "I don't think you should be doing that," he advised, herding her back to the white sheets - Clara batted his hand away in protest.
"He's dead," she stated, the sobs stinging her voice with stark devastation. "But you already know that, don't you? That's why you're here."
"Yes, well - I don't know what to say, I..." He trailed off, mouth quirking at an odd angle. The Doctor was never good with emotions, nor human ones.
"Bring him back." She curled her fingers around his coat lapels and dug her fingers into the soft wool. "Tell me you will bring him back."
"Clara," he replied, softly; a gentle warning.
"Time can be rewritten - you said so yourself." She gazed at him with yearning eyes. She'd do anything to bring back the surly detective.
The Doctor shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "I can't - his death is a fixed point in time. Trust me, I would if it were possible."
Clara shook her head. The Doctor could save anyone - he was an alien, a timelord, a hero of the universe. "How dare you," she whispered, looking away. Her hands relaxed, falling limp at her sides. The adrenaline wore off and she was left in a hospital ward with a useless friend, a dead man's bloody coat and scratchy white sheets. She was as hollow as a rotting tree.
"I'm sorry - I can't, it's-"
"Then what is the point of you?!" She yelled at him, tears dried but her hands filled with fury as she shoved him away. He lied to her - for a man so hated by half the Galaxy and loved by all he saved, he couldn't rescue one detective from stepping off a ledge. Clara had watched him destroy monstrous creatures and restore the very foundations planets had survived on. He'd broken every rule the universe exacted to save as many innocent people as possible. How dare he deny her this one life.
"Get out," she breathed, her shoulders trembling. She looked him dead in the eye, not caring about the hurt crumpling his features. "I said, get out," she hissed.
He paused, as if to say something, but decided against it. With the turn of his heels, his bandy legs carried him away. Clara hoped it was to the farthest edge of the solar system.
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To continue exploring the adventures of Clara Oswald and Sherlock Holmes, click on my profile to read the next installment - Cheekbones, Coincidence and Clara Oswald
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