Sad eyes
A soufflock fan fiction
Chapter I
Scene: Setting post-Season 7 Christmas Special of dw and A Scandal In Bulgaria of Sherlock.
Clara awoke to the bang again. She sat up, and breathed a gulp of cold dusty apartment air, holding it and listening. After a moment she let it out and lay back down defeated. This had happened every morning at exactly six o'clock for the past two weeks.
On a normal day she would go back to sleep for about an hour, get up, and go to work. Today was Saturday. 'A good, exiting day.' The doctor had told her. So she sighed and slowly rolled herself out bed.
For one month she had been living in a drafty, dusty, creaky, thin walled apartment, with no sense of style, cleanliness, privacy or cheerful disposition.
The doctor just had to go and meet Clara's dad. All his life her father had wanted to build a rocket. Not the little baking soda and vinegar ones, an actual proper rocket with flames and fancy flares. The fact that his daughter's new "colleague from work" knew how to build one was too much to handle: they had taken over the apartment. They had even taken her bike. It had gotten to the point where she could not fit her things, or herself, so she moved out temporarily. (Her gran was on a vacation in bath, and wasn't back till the end of the next month.) The doctor claimed to have "sorted everything" (used fake money to rent a dump for £450 in the backstreets of London.) no denying, she was grateful he made an effort, but he could have at the very least got a flat near her work. The landlady was nice though…
The worst part about the apartment was the neighbors above her. They were decidedly the most disturbing people she had ever lived with. Granted, She hadn't lived with many others than her dad and mum, but still. Nearly every other day the police would come trampling up the stairs making a racket doing who knows what and the stench from the ceiling does not deserve to be written down.
They were two men, she knew that much. Weather they were a couple, she couldn't be certain. Clara Oswald had no desire to know who, or what they were. Until this Saturday…
"Going always," she thought to herself as she groggily pulled on a giant hand knit sweater and tiptoed upstairs in thick wool socks. The smell of burnt toast was overwhelming. She plugged her nose, took a deep breath through her mouth, and knocked on the door of 221b.