Night visions
The first night:
Clara Oswald was shaking. The cold wind pulled on her thin white blouse and hit her skin with all cruelty. She wasn't wearing a jacket. John had called her one hour ago and she had been walking trough London since then.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
Her best friend had jumped off the roof of St. Barts hospital, before the doctor's eyes. The ex-soldier had called her afterwards and Clara found herself running through the streets. When the hospital came in sight, she could see a lot of police caps and a hearse.
The first person she recognized was Greg Lestrade. The DI was walking around, gesturing his arms wildly. When he saw her, he just shook his head. Clara felt invisible. Nobody seemed to take notice of her. When she finally found John, he was bearly able to speak.
"He jumped, Clara. He just jumped."
The words she wouldn't believe echoed through her head, swallowing her own footsteps on the nearly frozen pavement. She hugged herself more tightly and breathed hard. Her hands were already numb.
She didn't remember how she made it to his house. For John was with Mrs. Hudson back at Baker Street and Greg fully involved at work, who would think of Mycroft Holmes?
Clara didn't care how the older Holmes had learned about his dead sibling but he would know for sure. Yesterday, John had reliably informed her that Mycroft himself had provided information about Sherlock to his worst enemy: Jim Moriarty.
The memory of the night at the swimming pool made her shiver even more. Moriarty had used her as a living bomb and when Sherlock and John had arrived she had to say those horrible lines...
"Didn't see that one, did you?"
The high windows were dark, only a street lamp made her find her way up the stairs. She pressed the door bell with two numb fingers and waited. Nothing happened. Clara tried again with her flat hand against the bell this time. Still nothing. Oh, she would hit him! She would smack his face so hard, he wouldn't even remember her name! She pressed the bell again and lingered for about 7 seconds before she found herself banging against the heavy wooden door with her fist. It hurt like hell! Just before she could press the bell one more time, the door was opened.
"There is no need to blame the door, Miss Oswald", said Mycroft in a low voice. Clara was suprised that he himself opened the door. She had expected a house maid, a butler or even Anthea. She didn't answer and his eyes wandered down her body.
"You must be freezing", he stated and stepped aside to let her in. She couldn't keep her eyes off him when she entered the house. He looked tired. Far more tired then she had ever seen him. He had taken off his suit jacket, left in his open waistcoat, white shirt and suit trousers. His shoes were polished as usual as if he hadn't been outside all day. Had he not been at the morgue? Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her curious look but didn't say anything. He made his way through the corridor, turning to the right, where Clara could see the gleam of a fire.
She followed him into the living room, enlighted by the fireplace. Her cold skin began to prick in the warmth and she shook herself slightly, the cold still clinging to her clothes. Mycroft sat down on an armchair, a small table with an half empty brandy glass on it to his right. Clara sighed. She stood next to him. His eyes were fixed on the flames infront of him when he spoke.
"So, what can I do for you, Miss Oswald?"
She didn't know what to say. She felt small and helpless. There was a part of her that wanted to hug him and tell him that everything would be fine. Clara knew what it felt like to lose someone so close. Although the Holmes boys never seemed to really get along they were still brothers. Had been brothers.
Slowly she sat down on the stool infront of the armchair. He looked at her but his eyes seemed to be far away. Clara had noticed the strong attempt of the older Holmes to protect Sherlock at least trying to keep him out of trouble by giving him a task, giving him something to work. Even though Sherlock, John and even Lestrade did their best to avoid Mycroft, all of them under the impression that he was an arrogant snob, it had always been obvious to Clara that the man of the British Government actually cared for his little brother.
"He's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet", Sherlock had once told her. And here he sat, his arms hanging, his shoulders sank down, his chest bearly moving under his thin breath. Mycroft Holmes looked everything but dangerous to her. When she didn't answer he reached for the brandy glass but hesitated, as if he was not sure if he really wanted it. Without another thought in mind Clara reached for his hand which was nearly jerked away.
"It's alright, don't worry", she whispered when she saw the slightly terrified look in his eyes. Mycroft Holmes was scared. Just like his brother he wasn't good at interacting with people. Even though Mycroft had always had more of a gentleman in her eyes in holding the door for her, while Sherlock would slam it right in her face if she didn't watch out. They both had their armours. Sherlock used to be rude to keep people away while Mycroft was polite and distant. When it came to physical touch they were both unable to cope. But in contrast to his little brother Mycroft Holmes didn't withdraw.
She took the glass out of his hand and placed it back on the small table. Surely he'd had enough for today. His expected protest didn't come, maybe he was too tired to argue. She took his hand in hers very slowly giving him time to change his mind if it was too much for him. Their fingers touched and Clara felt an electric vibrating under her skin. He watched their joining hands like a lion watched its prey. Ready to strike, prepared for hunting. His thumb came up and caressed the back of her hand lightly, like the brush of a feather, so gently.
"You are still freezing, Miss Oswald"
"Clara", her voice was shaking.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"It's Clara", she repeated and put on a shy smile.
"Clara", he said as his fingers caressed her skin softly.