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.
Sherlock came back to the present. He had to find this Doctor again. He had to make sure this was true. Clara's phone was on the table. Sherlock snatched it up, scrolling through her contacts. She always left it lying around. Clara got easily sidetracked - a burning soufflé, a good book, a case that had them running down the stairs. The Doctor. Sherlock stilled, taking it all in. He banked the digits into his memory and placed Clara's phone back on the table. She came in a second later, picking it up and stuffing it into her handbag. She pecked him on the cheek before she left - some sort of job interview at a school. John was off as well, finishing his tea before heading to the hospital. Sherlock picked up his own phone before dialing the number.
"'Ello? Who is this?" The voice was curious, defensive and matched the gangly person from Sherlock's memory. "I'm quite busy at the moment," the voice continued with snarky impatience.
"Hello, Doctor," Sherlock uttered. He couldn't quite believe it.
"I thought you'd be quicker," the Doctor sighed.
"Sorry?"
"Clara said you were smart - a genius perhaps."
"Of course I'm a genius," Sherlock scoffed into the receiver. Was it even a question? "Where can I meet you?"
The Doctor paused before answering. "Are you in Baker Street, alone?"
"Yes, why?"
"Well then you've got a client."
The doorbell trilled.
.
The Doctor sniffed around the flat like a dog inspecting a new home. He brushed over the mess of petri dishes and microscopes in the kitchen and sneered at the frozen eyes defrosting on the bench. He tutted at the dust on the mantelpiece and frowned at the general dilapidated appearance. "You've really let this place go," he remarked, sitting down in John's tattered chair and crossing one gangly leg over the other.
"I don't really have guests."
"Gathered. How did you meet Clara?"
"Over skype - one of us accidentally called the other. My brother employed her as my..." he paused, embarrassed. "Supervisor." He regained his composure quickly, sitting down in his own chair and considering the Doctor over clasped fingers. "How did you meet Clara?"
"Which one?" The Doctor quipped and Sherlock looked even more intrigued. "I met Oswin Oswald on Skaro - just a silly little planet - she was the Junior Entertainment Manager for the starliner Alaska. I met Clara Oswin Oswald in London, the Victorian era. She was a barmaid and a governess. I met Clara Oswald because she called me, wanting help with the wi-fi." The Doctor talked incessantly with his hands waving. He was incapable of holding his flapping fingers still while chatting. "Now, you take her crime solving? Detective-ing. She's nearly died because of you. But she's addicted and I don't like it."
The Doctor's face turned fowl with anger. Sherlock matched his glare. "Your influence has nearly killed her, too. You lost her in the space of two minutes - oh, yes, I remember that, don't you worry -"
"We got her back," the Doctor growled, his hands curling into fists.
"Gallivanting around the universe, space and time, all that rubbish - it's not natural."
"Neither is a grown man in need of a babysitter - like I said, she's addicted to time travel. She loves it."
"You'll be the death of her!"
"Which is a problem for you, isn't it wonder boy?" The Doctor leaned forward. They were like two protective animals, snarling at each other. "If she's gone then no one will stop Mister Heroin over here-"
"Oh, oh, oh, I get it," Sherlock seethed. "You can't help it. You're jealous."
"What? No!"
"Oh, yes. You offer her the universe but she'd rather solve crimes with a detective in a scruffy flat."
"You think a pompous detective will fool me..."
"Yes, I think he will," Sherlock interrupted, his tone sharp and short. "You're easily distracted, you can't keep your eyes off of that bird on the windowsill for more than a few seconds, obsessive and compulsive - you've straightened that bowtie four times since you walked in the door. Definitely more than a habit. You are defensive and nervous, fiercely protective. Just the right time for some OCD to come out and play. Are you impressed yet, because I'm hardly trying and I'd rather get onto something important."
The Doctor spoke through gritted teeth. "If you kill her, I'll bury you myself."
Sherlock smiled but it didn't reach his cold eyes. "Likewise." He stood up, flicking his violin bow around like a sword. "Now, where's your ship?"
"It's a TARDIS," the Doctor scolded. "If you're going to spend ten minutes insulting me you could at least have the decency to not call her a ship."
"But it is a space ship?"
"A spaceship?!" The Doctor exclaimed, his hands flying about. They'd gotten the death threats out of the way and now it was time for some real fun. "No, no, no, much more than an ordinary spaceship. A time machine, time and relative dimensions in space," he smiled, thinking lovingly of his TARDIS.
"Fascinating," Sherlock uttered. The murder was slowly leaving his voice and he switched to his usual curious self.
The Doctor got up, pinning Sherlock with a look. He could see the same loyalty to Clara in the detective's eyes. "Do you want to see her?"
"Your ship? Of course."
"No, no, Clara - Clara Oswin Oswald."
"The Clara I read in the book," Sherlock said, thinking out loud. "The Clara who died."
"She's quite a catch," the Doctor promised with a smirk. "But you'd already know that."
.
Sherlock brushed his hands over the smooth silver edges of the consol, admiring the impossibility of it all. There was a squeaky over head screen and countless blinking buttons and gold switches. Protruding from the consul and spiralling up to the ceiling was a cylindrical glass chamber with a bobbing green light trapped inside. It was beautiful. Panic rose up in Sherlock's throat like a ball of water, making him choke. But he swallowed it down. It was easier the second time to not go into shock, to calm his heart and breath it in. Clara is impossible, Sherlock reminded himself. And she doesn't make you have panic attacks.
"Are you alright?" the Doctor asked, with a certain gravity tainting his voice.
"Fine," Sherlock replied shortly. "Just...adjusting."
"Most people vomit," The Doctor shrugged, turning a few dials.
"I'm not most people," Sherlock retorted with a grim look in his eye.
"Well if you do," the Doctor spat, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Now, are you ready?"
"I'm always ready."
The Doctor gave him an unnerving smile. "Geronimo." He slammed down a lever and they were thrown around like old socks in a washing machine. Sherlock lurched back and managed to grab hold of the outer railings with white knuckles. The wheezing, groaning sound of the TARDIS reverberated inside his ear drums. The Doctor, damn him, was laughing. Sparks blew from the console like tiny fireworks and at last they landed with a thump. Sherlock strode towards the door, reaching for the handle. "Wait!" The Doctor shouted. Sherlock turned, ready to snarl at him. "You are not entering Victorian London looking like that. They'd think you're some wizard, come with me..." The Doctor whistled down the stairs, turning left, happy as can be. Sherlock begrudgingly followed.
Sherlock's shoes tapped on the cobblestones as he waltzed to the pub the Doctor had pointed out. He straightened the tattered waistcoat and brushed a hand over the silken cravat. Despite the moth eaten tuxedo jacket, Sherlock confidently jammed the top hat over his curls and proceeded to walk into the Rose and Crown.
He had been expecting to see Clara straight away but she wasn't in sight. "Sit down," a voice in his ear hissed. Sherlock fiddled with the inconspicuous contraption sitting in his ear. "You look like a complete boffin!"
Sherlock say down haughtily at one of the rickety tables. The Rose and Crown was bustling with regulars and travellers and generally bearded men sloshing beer down their throats. Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his hat, waiting for Clara. Was she even working? The buffoons occupying the inn were loud and round, laughing and singing. A fellow in the corner banged out a shaky tune on the broken piano. "Is she even working?" Sherlock whispered aloud, angrily.
"No, I just brought you here to see the sights - of course she's working you nitwit!"
"Why can't you leave the TARDIS?" Sherlock muttered, feeling exposed. The Doctor started babbling about time streams but Sherlock wasn't listening. Someone had slammed a wooden mug down on the table, sloshing liquid of the lip and onto the surface.
"Alrigh'?" She asked, smiling a brief practiced smile. Her accent was different, definitely more rural but with a friendly lilt in her voice. She was stunning, in a worn red dress and had her hair piled on top of her head in a twist. It really was Clara. "What can I get you?"
Sherlock sat, stunned. "Some dinner would be nice," he managed to stammer.
"I'll be back in a jiffy," she grinned and swirled away, already talking to the next customer.
Sherlock waited, his heart in his throat. It was amazing, unreal. He sipped the homemade brew but spat it out onto the floor. It was bitter and smelled like old socks. He didn't understand how the other burly men were chugging it down like it was the elixir of life. Clara brought his dinner, placing the steaming plate in front of him and sliding into the seat opposite. Sherlock picked up the cutlery and poked at the lump of meat and burnt potatoes. "You're different," Clara stated, frowning slightly. "We don't get your sort of lot in 'ere much."
"What's your name," Sherlock said, though he already knew it.
"Clara," she said, tapping her fingers on the table. She considered him with those dark eyes he saw everyday. "What's yours?"
"Sherlock."
"That's a funny name," she laughed, smiling tentatively.
Sherlock allowed a smile. "If you say so."
"Sherlock," she repeated, testing it in her mouth. It was the first time this Clara had said it. It was strange, Sherlock's Clara said it every day, barking it, murmuring it, whispering it and stammering it. "What brings you to the Rose and Crown?"
"I was hungry," he said. Sherlock stabbed a potato with his fork and sliced it in half with the knife. He chewed it, missing Mrs Hudson's cooking.
"God, you can even use your cutlery all proper! These louts," she nodded at the shouting men over her shoulder, "They'd just shove it in their gob."
"Etiquette isn't a burden," Sherlock replied.
"You sound real posh too." She bit her lip as if considering something. "Could you help me with something?"
"Course," he said, talking over the gamey meat between his teeth.
"Come with me, I'm on my break anyways..." Sherlock followed her outside into the cool night air. She gestured for him to sit on a rickety wooden bench in the park across the road. Clara stood up, pacing and wringing her hands. "I've got this job interview in three days for a governess job. I really, really need this position except I can't talk nice, can I? Could you help me?"
Sherlock was taken aback. "...Okay," he started.
"How about you just say things and I'll copy 'em?"
"Alright. Um...my name is Sherlock Holmes."
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"No, no, no, you've got to enunciate the end, Sherlock."
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Yeah! Okay, how about...I like green eggs and ham."
"What?" Clara giggled. "'Right, er, I like green eggs'n'ham."
"Stop skipping over words - green eggs and ham." Her voice stopped sounding like she was talking through a mouth full of crackers and rather gained an important high toned pronunciation of a true English Lady.
"You sound like a Queen," Sherlock applauded.
Clara smiled, her eyes shuttering. "Cheers, Mister Holmes. You're a true gent."
Sherlock brushed himself off as he stood up. He was reluctant to leave but the Doctor was nagging in his earpiece. "It was a pleasure," He replied, kissing the back of her hand and bowing deeply. It was so theatrical that Clara burst into laughter. Sherlock strolled through the streets feeling like he was walking on a cloud. He hummed, practically skipping his way to the TARDIS.