The Experts At The Fall

"This one's for the torn down,

the experts at the fall,

c'mon, friends, get up now,

you're not alone at all."

All she remembers is a big, useless blur. A dull blur and a voice and a reply she gave.

"Run, you clever boy, and remember."

Then, she died.

Or so she thought, because Clara Oswald just can't stay dead. She just reappears somewhere else, sometime else, and remembers a blur.

"You're supposed to be dead.", she says. She remembers his face on the front page of the newspapers.

It's a bit weird seeing him without the blood.

"You're not supposed to exist.", is all he replies.

She gives him a look, "How-"

"I have my ways."

One day, Clara Oswald meets Sherlock Holmes at a crappy motel in Cardiff and he's dead, too. Or at least he's supposed to be.

"How did you do it?", Sherlock asks her one day as they're having breakfast at the same crappy motel in Cardiff. She furrows her brows as she searches through the memories that remained in her head. It's all still a blur, but she remembers dying. Just dying.

"I didn't.", Clara replies simply, shrugging.

He cocks an eyebrow, "Excuse me?"

"I never faked my death, Sherlock."

"But, you died-"

"Twice.", she adds.

He leans in, "How did you fake your death?"

"I just died."

Sherlock Holmes doesn't sleep for a week.

(Clara huffs.

"If I told you I just disappeared, would it satisfy you enough to start sleeping again?"

Sherlock considers her question, "Probably."

"Okay.", she sighs, "I disappeared.", she shoves a plate in front of him, "Now, eat.")

"Why did you fake your death, Sherlock?"

He doesn't look up from his newspaper, "Irrelevant."

"If it's relevant to you, it's relevant to me.", she says and after a few moments he looks up at her. There's this spark of emotion in his eyes that she can't really place and she knows that if she asked him, he'd deny it. She ignores it.

"Why do you want to know, Clara?", he asks, his voice as emotionless as ever, putting the newspaper down.

"Because you're my friend."

"I faked my death because of my friends."

The spark was sadness.

"Why?"

"To save them."

She gives him a light smile, "They're lucky to have such a good friend."

He nods.

(Two days later, he tells her everything. It feels good.)

She takes his hand.

"Come with me.", she says, pulling him lightly. He looks at her, not sure of her intentions.

"Where?", he hates not being able to read her.

She doesn't reply.

They're in front of 221B, Baker Street.

He talks in a hushed tone, "Why did you bring me here?"

She doesn't reply.

"Clara!"

"It's been three bloody years!", she quietly yells out, "Moriarty is dead. It's time for you to come back."

He looks her in the eyes, "Then why don't you?"

She shakes her head, "I can't."

Before he can demand an explanation, she knocks on the door four times.

(John gives him a punch in the face.)

The word of Sherlock Holmes being alive spreads like wild fire.

She moves in.

John doesn't mind. He's in the middle of moving to a house with Mary and, if he's to admit, he's glad Sherlock will have someone to take care of him.

"Just make sure he eats.", John tells her one night after Sherlock collapsed in bed. He hasn't slept for days, but he put a jelaous ex-wife behind bars; surprisingly, she was a difficult catch, "And sleeps."

Clara smiles.

"And he likes to keep body parts in the fridge."

She raises an eyebrow.

John laughs, "I know."

She kisses him.

A simple peck on the cheek as she puts the plate of food on the table in front of him.

He discards her attempt of changing the subject, "I still want my cigarettes.", he says, standing up from the table without touching his food. She smiles cunningly as he rampades around the house, "Where did you put them, Clara?"

"Eat your breakfast."

"Cigarettes, Clara."

She gets them out of her pocket, keeping them out of his reach, "Eat. Your. Breakfast."

Sherlock groans.

He watches her as she sleeps.

"Why can't I read her?", he asks John as the doctor brings the tea. Mary says nothing at first, leaving her husband to do what she knows he does best; dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

"You need to deal with the fact that you can't read everyone, Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head, "I just can't read her."

Mary pipes in, "And where's the problem in that?", she asks and Sherlock turns to face her. She smiles, "When you're solving a case, dear, isn't the thrill in the mystery? In the unknown?"

Sherlock turns back to watch Clara as she sleeps, still trying to deduce something, and John smiles.

(She kisses him again.

This time, it's a peck on the lips.

However, this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about, after all, and that doesn't confuse him all that much.

"I still want my cigarettes, Clara.")

"You're fond of her."

Sherlock snorts, not looking up from his microscope, "Don't be silly, John."

"I'm not saying you're in love with her - I mean, you're Sherlock, who would I be kidding? - but I think you like her. You like the mystery around her, too. The Impossible Girl.", John teases.

Sherlock ignores him.

"Sometimes, I dream of a mad man with a blue box that's smaller on the outside."

Dreams never used to spark Sherlock Holmes' curiosity, but this time they surprisingly do, "A mad man?"

Clara nods, a bit taken aback with his interest, "With a box."

"That's blue?"

"And bigger on the inside.", she takes a sip of her tea, "It's going to sound stupid, Sherlock,", she says, shaking her head as her cheeks blush slightly, "But it feels so real."

Sherlock looks at her, "Tell me more."

Slowly, she does, and he chooses to remember every single detail.

One day, Clara Oswald dies.

"I don't want to go.", she says as she barely manages to find her voice.

He doesn't know what to do. Sherlock Holmes was never good in these situations. He grabs her hand.

"It's going to be okay.", he replies but he knows it's just an empty phrase. Something that isn't true. Not a fact.

And she knows it, too.

So, she does the only thing she knows to do when she's dying - something she's a professional at, apperently - and says the same phrase she remembers and dreams of over and over again, "Run, you clever boy, and remember."

Sherlock recognises the words.

"I'll find him.", he says.

She smiles, closing her eyes, "You can't."

Sherlock Holmes takes her hand inbetween his palms, "Oh, watch me."

AN: You guys. I wrote "Sherlock". I never thought I'd do that; I'm not a good enough writer (psh, like I'm a 'good' writer, anyway) to write Sherlock Holmes. I also put him in a relationship - well, if you call this a relationship - with Clara. I don't think that was done before (if it was, link me, because I ship them so hard), so at least I come first at something. Did I do Sherlock Holmes justice? Or should I go hide in a cave because sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost will come to haunt me because this sucks shit?