Heeey guys I'm back again :D Thank you so much for all the reviews ayy I'm so glad I made you ship it :D That last chapter was pretty fun to write but I enjoyed this one too :D
Just to clarify, this takes place around the time of His Last Vow so John and Sherlock don't know that Moriarty is still alive yet, he's gunna make that shiz public soon ;;) And for Clara I guess it's whatever time, but it's still the Eleventh Doctor :P
Sooo wow it took me like all day to write this, so I hope it's good! Enjoyyy and reviewww to let me know what you think ;;)
Clara felt guilty. She was beginning to feel guilty a lot recently, come to think of it. At least this time, she wasn't doing something illegal.
She was fully aware that she was going to lose her job at some point if she kept this up, and focusing on her profession more was precisely the reason she had decided to stay here on Earth for a while in the first place, but that didn't stop her from phoning in sick that morning. She shook the feeling of guilt away, knowing that this was necessary as she left the flat and walked out into London's streets. She hailed a cab, pleased when it came to a halt beside her although disappointed when she saw that the cabbie wasn't her psychotic friend. She knew it wouldn't be him of course, but that didn't mean she didn't miss being around him.
"221B, Baker Street, please," She smiled at the back of the head who nodded in understanding and began to drive through the busy London streets. His driving was a lot safer and more legal than Jim's had been, but she found the journey was lacking a certain excitement. She checked her phone nervously for the time, hoping it wasn't too early in the day to meet with the residents in 221B. She was sure they wouldn't mind, once she explained why she was there.
"Here you are, miss," The cabbie drawled in a thick Cockney accent and Clara thanked him hurriedly, paying her fare and exiting the cab in a rush. She found herself outside a dainty little café called Speedy's, and had to admit she wouldn't mind going for a coffee inside the quaint little shop. Beside the café was a large black door with 221B emblazoned upon it in thick gold writing. Clara felt her breathing become rapid as she craned her neck up to see the flat above, a sudden feeling of nervousness hitting her. A small fluttering of the blinds in the window above let her know that her presence had been noticed. There was no turning back now.
She stalked up to the door and knocked bravely, wondering what secrets would lie inside these walls. She jumped a little when the door swung open moments later to reveal a kindly old lady with a friendly smile.
"Hello, dear," She smiled then leaned forward slightly with a knowing look and continued in a hushed whisper of understanding. "Are you a client too?"
"Um," Clara frowned at the strange choice of words. "A- A client?"
"No, Mrs Hudson, she's not a client."
Clara and the old woman who had been identified as Mrs Hudson looked up to the source of the deep baritone voice. It belonged to a man who was standing at the top of the stairs and was staring down at Clara shrewdly. He was wearing a dressing gown and his mop of curly black hair was slightly disheveled. Clara frowned and wondered what she had gotten herself into.
"She hasn't come here for her own problems," The man continued blandly. "It's something more serious than that and hopefully more interesting. You look promising, come on up, Miss...?"
"Oswald," Clara replied, glancing towards Mrs Hudson politely as way of introduction. "Clara Oswald."
The man didn't reply and disappeared into the flat above. Mrs Hudson patted her gently on the back.
"You go on up, dear," She smiled kindly. "I'll make some tea. I'm just the landlady, mind, not the housekeeper, though they don't always remember that."
"Thanks," Clara returned the smile genuinely, comforted by Mrs Hudson's kindness. She reminded her a lot of her gran.
"And don't worry if he's a bit," Mrs Hudson stalled as if trying to find the right descriptive word, scrunching her nose up and waving her hands around. "You know. He can be like that at times."
Clara nodded though she wasn't sure what the woman was talking about and climbed the stairs to where the man was surely waiting for her. She pushed the slightly ajar door open wide and stepped into the flat. Her first impression of it was that it was quite untidy and her eyes widened in shock at the sight of the multiple test tubes and bunsen burners on the kitchen table. She blinked a few times as she walked fully into the flat, hoping that they weren't eyeballs that she suspected she saw bobbing about in that transparent glass.
"Well come on then, I haven't got all day," The man plopped himself down in an armchair and gestured to another seat with an expression of extreme boredom on his features.
"Haven't got all day? Sherlock, you have nothing on, Lestrade hasn't called with a case- Except for that one you so politely declined and you're ignoring everything on your website."
Clara suddenly became aware of another's presence in the room as she remained standing nervously. The man was sightly older than the first, with greying blond hair that was spiked up in all directions due to his previous shower. He was sitting in an armchair across from Sherlock and was reading the newspaper half heartedly. He glanced up at Clara and offered her a quick smile.
"Don't mind him," He shot Sherlock a warning glare with was met with a theatrical rolling of the eyes. "He's always like that. Just sit down there, it's where all the clients sit."
"Client?" Clara stopped in her tracks, unwilling to sit down in the chair until she knew a bit more about these people. "Why does everyone keep calling me a client?"
"You're not here with a case for Sherlock?"
"No of course she's not, John," Sherlock snapped, leaning forward and studying Clara intently. "She doesn't even know why she's here herself, not fully. In fact she doesn't even know about us."
"Sorry," Clara grimaced, finally sitting down in the chair. "It's a bit of a long story."
"Do you seriously not know who he is?" John butted in incredulously, allowing his gaze to stray from his newspaper and jabbing a thumb at Sherlock. He let out a laugh of disbelief as Clara shook her head. "Christ, where have you been living for the past few years? This is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, as he likes to call himself. Consulting prat, I prefer sometimes."
Consulting detective. Clara froze at the words, her mind straying back to the consulting criminal.
"Yes, and this is John Watson my oh so helpful blogger," Sherlock mocked John's tone impatiently with an air of haughty sarcasm. "Are we done with the boring formalities? I want to know why a London schoolteacher with a habit of being late who has just returned home after a lot of travelling dossed off work today to visit a detective she doesn't even know about. Who told you to come here?"
Clara blinked and gaped at the man. "How the hell do you know all that?!"
John muttered the words "show off" under his breath as Sherlock's expression remained neutral, completely ignoring his blogger.
"It's not important," Sherlock waved his hand at her nonchalantly but there was a small spark of mirth in his eyes. "But since you asked, it's obvious that you're a schoolteacher by the time you got up out of routine and the pencil marks on your sleeve. You're usually late but you made sure to get up on time today and left in a hurry, you need to talk to us about something urgent. Someone told you to come here, you didn't know about us, wouldn't know where to find us. You're not an idiot, you just haven't been around for a while, travelling is my assumption as you wouldn't have time for such news when you're travelling."
"Sherlock Holmes, of course!" Clara snapped her fingers, the name suddenly coming back to her. Sure, she hadn't been paying attention to smaller Earth news in a while but she could vaguely remember the name. He was a detective with amazing skills of deduction who could apparently tell someone's profession from a stain on their tie or the way they tie their shoelaces. "I've heard of you. You're right, you're right about everything."
"So talk," Sherlock Holmes leaned forwards, resting his chin on his hands and analysing her, making Clara feel suddenly self conscious.
"What," She took a deep breath, almost unsure as to how to begin. "What do you know about Jim Moriarty?"
"What?!" John slapped down his newspaper and stared at her, mouth agape as Sherlock stiffened visibly. Clara wriggled uncomfortably under their gazes at the unexpected effect her words had had on them.
"Go on," Sherlock held up a hand to silence John and remained staring at Clara.
"I... I was told I'd get answers about him here," She straightened her back, steeling her tone. "That you'd know about him, his story."
"Stories, always the stories," Sherlock mumbled as John looked about to explode.
"Sherlock, I told you!" He raised his voice slightly, startling Mrs Hudson as she came into the room with a tray and three small teacups.
"I brought you some tea-"
"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yelled, standing up and beginning to pace as the little old lady squeaked in fright and scurried downstairs, leaving the tea on the table in front of them. Clara didn't feel much like drinking it now.
"Sherlock, this," John raised his eyebrows in earnest, jabbing the front of the newspaper aggitatedly. "This is what I was talking about. I tried to tell you, Lestrade tried to tell you, but you thought it was nothing."
"It is nothing."
"How- How is that nothing?!" John burst out, standing up and waving the newspaper in Sherlock's face. "Who do you know who can break into a high security vault like this and write the words 'Miss me' on the wall? Well, Sherlock? He's done much worse!"
"It's not him," Sherlock snarled, rounding on John. "It can't be. It's not."
"Can I see that?" Clara held out a hand for the newspaper which John gave to her with a perplexed exprression. She scanned her eyes over the front page as the two bickered, smirking when she read that the money had all been safely returned with no explanation as to what happened. Maybe there was a bit of goodness in him after all.
"Tell me about him," Clara tossed the newspaper onto the table and addressed Sherlock and John curiously. "Tell me what's going on, tell me."
"Who sent you here?" Sherlock turned to her, avoiding the demand. "Who was it that told you to come to 221B to know all about James Moriarty's story?"
Clara swallowed, unsure how to respond. She hadn't been expecting this kind of a reaction at the sound of his name, and it seemed that the message on the wall of the vault had been meant for Sherlock. Something told her that he wasn't exactly a friend.
"He did," She finally uttered quietly, wringing her hands together anxiously. "Moriarty."
"That's impossible," Sherlock's eyes grew wide and his lips barely moved as he uttered the words.
"Why?" Clara was growing more nervous by the minute.
"Because he's dead."
Clara felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. She opened her mouth to respond but closed it again, having no words to put forward. Dead? He couldn't be. He wasn't.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden hammering of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs at an urgent pace and she snapped up her head to see a well built, silver haired man burst into the room, clearly panic stricken.
"Lestrade, what is it?" Sherlock turned his attention to the man who Clara guessed was a police officer.
"There's been an explosion. A huge explosion, numerous fatalities and no logical explanation for any of it," Lestrade explained breathlessly. "Will you come?"
"Moriarty..." Sherlock whispered then shook his head as if trying to banish the thought. "I'll follow on behind."
Lestrade nodded and left as Sherlock shrugged on a long trench coat and motioned to John without looking at him.
"John, you're coming with me."
"Oi, wait!" Clara stood, stalking over to the arrogant detective. "You need to give me answers! Nothing you're saying is making any sense!"
"And nothing you're saying is making any sense either, which is why I have to use this potentially useful case to clear my head."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"No," Sherlock stated blankly, turning to leave. "Although I would be interested in talking to you some other time, the nonsense you're spouting really is quite interesting."
"Do you think it's him?" John addressed Sherlock, cutting Clara off before she could respond indignantly. "Moriarty? Explosion without a logical explanation? Sounds just like something he'd do for fun."
"No, John," Sherlock growled. "It can't be. This is all- This is all a mistake and I need to think it through."
"So you really don't think it's him?"
"It's a possibility," Sherlock scrunched his nose up in annoyance. "But it's too far fetched to consider right now."
"Makes sense though, if he's still alive."
"Two years? It wouldn't take much for him to get bored," Sherlock murmured thoughtfully but then frowned and shook his head angrily. "No. I'm not considering this right now, I'll go to my mind palace once I've got more to go on. To the scene of the crime, Watson!"
John raised his eyebrows in defeat and shot Clara an apologetic look.
"But I need what I came here for!" She demanded, following them out of the apartment at a quick pace. "You've only left me with more questions than I had before!"
"Talk to us tomorrow once I have more data," Sherlock hailed a cab and clambered in with John following. "You know where to find us."
"Wait- Oh, why do I even bother," Clara let out an indignant huff as the cab drew away from the footpath. She clenched her hands into fists, completely at a loss for what to do and feeling more frustrated than ever. Explosion? John had seemed to think that Moriarty was behind it, and just the thought filled her with dread. Was he alright? She wondered where he was, hoping fervently that he had had no hand in the matter and John was making an incorrect assumption.
She quickly hailed a cab, instructing the driver to take her to a street that was near her apartment. She held her head in her hands as she attempted to process all the new information. Dead? Jim Moriarty wasn't dead! Was it possible that Sherlock was talking about someone else? Somehow she didn't think so.
She left the cab about five minutes away from her flat, planning on doing some serious thinking. She needed answers, but there was no point hanging around 221B now that Sherlock and John weren't there. She couldn't stop worrying about Jim and the explosion and the fact that at least two men seemed to think he was dead. She needed to find out more about what had happened, needed to get to the site of the explosion.
She rushed into her flat and closed the door firmly behind her, sinking down onto the couch and shaking slightly. She was hopelessly confused and just wanted to know what was going on. She stared at her phone helplessly, wishing she had Jim's number so she could call him and ask him what the hell was going on.
She jumped at a knock on the door of her flat and froze in fear. Nobody had buzzed the intercom, but there was definitely someone outside. She rose slowly and winced as the door was knocked upon again more urgently this time and walked slowly up to it. She peered through the peephole, curiousity getting the better of her and let out a cry of surprise when she saw who it was, flinging open the door in a hurry.
Jim Moriarty stumbled slightly as the door unexpectedly gave way and caught himself just before he fell, using the doorframe as a support.
"Jim!" Clara cried in relief, the feeling fading suddenly as she took in his appearance. "Oh my God."
"Hi, Clara," Jim winced and swayed slightly. "Mind if I come in?"
"What happened?" Clara put a hand on his arm to steady him as he took a shaky step forward. "Are you okay? Stupid question, you're obviously not."
Jim looked more tired than Clara had ever seen him before, his usually sleek, well kept hair was messy and out of place. He was wearing a black suit, the clothing ripped in a couple of places. What shocked Clara the most and sent a chill of fear running down through her was the large stain of red seeping from his torn shirt.
"Sorry for choosing your carpet to bleed all over," Jim winced again with each step. "But I... I didn't have anywhere else to go."
Everything in Clara's mind fell away except for Jim Moriarty, Jim Moriarty who was in obvious need of her assistance. She felt sick with worry at the size of the wound, tears threatening to prick her eyes at the fear that he might not be alright. He stumbled and swore loudly, grabbing onto the side of the table in an attempt to remain upright as Clara rushed to help him.
"Don't worry about the carpet, nothing a bit of vanish won't fix," She led him to the couch gently helping him to lie down. "It's you I'm worrying about. Jim, what happened?"
"I'm going to ruin your couch."
"Jim!"
Maybe it was the choked tone of Clara's voice as her concerned tears threatened to spill, but Jim suddenly looked guilty and decided to explain.
"I... I made a mistake."
Jim let out a small cry of pain as Clara rolled up her scarf and pressed it to his stomach as gently as possible, holding it there in an attempt to staunch the blood flow.
"Clara, you don't have to-"
"I do."
"No, really," Jim protested as Clara took his hand and pressed it to the balled up scarf, resting hers atop his. "You don't need to help. I'll be fine, I just need a place to lay low until this bleeding stops."
"Well this bleeding won't stop until it's too late unless you let me help you," Clara replied firmly, standing up. "Hold that there. I'll be right back."
Jim mumbled something incoherently that sounded very much like a swear word as Clara rushed to the cupboard in the kitchen where she kept her medical supplies, unable to shake the nagging worry that the contents of her first aid kit may not be enough to tend to Jim's injuries. She practically ran back to the man lying on her couch, annoyed to see that he was attempting to sit up.
"Oi!" She yelled, running over to him as he flopped back down with a groan. "No moving, Mister!"
Jim muttered something unintelligible again, his breathing becoming shallow as he began to lose consciousness. Clara realised that he was losing an awful lot of blood despite her makeshift attempts to stop the bleeding.
"Jim?" She put a hand to his cheek as his dark brown eyes focused on her. "What happened?"
"A meeting with a client," Jim wheezed as Clara took away the scarf in an attempt to get a better view of the extent of the damage. "He had to be stopped but I was just a tad reckless with the timing..." He paused and inhaled sharply as Clara helped him shrug out of his jacket. "But if I'd have left it any later I would've had to wait a lot longer to get another chance to end him... Bombs," He spat out the word with a pained scoff. "So unpredictable."
Clara's hands shook as she gently unbuttoned his blood soaked shirt, realising that it had been him that had caused the explosion. And by the sound of it, he had killed a man too.
"So," Clara's voice shook slightly as she spoke. "You... You blew up a building just to kill one guy?"
"No, no, don't be silly," Jim gave a strained chuckle. "The man was shot dead. The explosion was just a cover up, just a little something to mystify the incompetent police. No one searches for a bullet in amoungst charred rubble."
Clara wasn't sure how to respond but her anxiety at the fact that Jim was clearly a lot more dangerous than she had first realised was replaced by fear at the sight of the huge gash in his side as she peeled his bloody shirt back.
"Jim," She whispered urgently. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No," His tone was harsh and firm as he replied, despite the fact that he was in a weak state, and Clara knew she couldn't argue with him. "That would be an extremely stupid idea."
"No, you know what an extremely stupid idea is?" Clara responded shakily. "Killing a man and then nearly getting yourself blown up in the process!"
"It's... Complicated," Jim hissed as Clara began to clean the gash so there would be no risk of infection.
"I'd believe it," She replied curtly. "There's a lot of things that are complicated around here. I went to 221B today."
"Oh?" Jim's tone was light but he stiffened and studied her almost anxiously. "And?"
"And they were called away by some police guy telling them about a mysterious explosion," Clara replied quietly. "So I didn't get to hear your story. But they... They did tell me one thing."
"Which was?" Jim questioned softly after a small pause. Clara swallowed nervously before speaking the words.
"They told me you were dead."
"Ah, yes I forgot about that bit," Jim's playful tone had returned though it was slightly strained.
"What did they mean?" Clara demanded. "You're here, you're alive! Well, just about."
"It's just part of the story," Jim spoke quietly in his soft Irish accent. "Spoiler alert, not dead."
"But..." Clara frowned as she reached for the bandages. The wound was even worse now that she could see it more clearly, but the blood wasn't gushing as strongly as before. She was scared, becoming more and more terrified at every new piece of information she picked up about Jim Moriarty, but she couldn't stand seeing him in pain. He let out a soft groan as she began to wrap the bandage around his torso and she winced slightly.
"Sorry," She murmured softly. "I'm being as gentle as possible. Promise."
"I know," Jim ground out exhaustedly, a small whimper leaving his lips as she finished up. He took a few deep breaths, eyes squeezed tightly shut before he murmured. "Why?"
"Why what?" Clara stood to wash the blood off her hands, making sure it was completely gone before she made her way back to Jim. She wasn't one for getting faint at the sight of blood, but all the same, she didn't like it.
She knelt down beside Jim who was still lying motionless with his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow, but she was gaining the confidence that he would be okay.
"Why did you help me?" He murmured softly, opening his eyes to look at Clara. She could see the confusion and a hint of vulnerability in his eyes and she realised that he probably didn't receive much kindness. "You didn't have to."
"Yes, I did," Clara took his hand gently in an action that surprise both herself and Jim. He stiffened at first, but the effort seemed to take too much out of him and he relaxed into her touch with a small sigh, giving her hand a light squeeze. Clara smiled at the warm feeling which gathered in her stomach, her heart rate speeding up slightly for some reason she couldn't explain.
"I don't like seeing you hurt," She mumbled, clarifying her earlier response. "So don't go getting yourself blown up again, yeah?" She attempted to lighten the atmosphere with a small grin.
"I don't tend to make a habit of it," Jim smirked. "But you have to treat things differently when you're supposed to be dead."
"Hold up," Clara frowned in confusion. "I'm still not getting something here."
"It really is a long story," Jim sighed heavily, allowing his lids to slide closed once again. "You're going back to Baker Street, I assume?"
"How did you know?" She sighed with a smile, then backtracked. "Wait, no. Don't answer that. I've already had that Sherlock Holmes bloke telling me my life story after I asked him a simple question."
Jim chuckled softly, wincing with pain at the action. Before Clara even realised what she was doing, she reached out and ran her hand through his soft, brown hair with a smile. Jim started and blinked at the sudden affectionate action, but couldn't help but smile slightly.
"Help me sit up," He spoke quietly after a moments silence. Clara frowned.
"I'm no doctor, but I really think you should be resting."
"I can rest sitting up."
"Right," Clara raised an eyebrow dubiously. "You planning on making a quick getaway or something?"
Jim struggled to sit up with a groan and Clara took hold of his arm to help, knowing that he was just as stubborn as she was and it would be no use to try and argue with him.
He struggled to catch his breath, leaning back against the couch. Clara sat down onto the couch close to him, feeling slightly worried that he'd do something idiotic while he was in this weakened state.
"Are you scared yet?"
His voice was low, soft and he refused to look at her as he spoke the words quietly. Clara paused, taken aback by the sudden question. She wasn't sure how to answer.
"I... I don't know," She murmured, looking up into his deep brown eyes which softened slightly as they met hers. "I don't know if I'm scared, angry, confused... I don't know."
"Some positive emotions in there aswell, I hope?" Jim had the arrogance to smirk despite the fact that the action caused a sharp pain to run down his side. He swore quietly, clutching his side as his eyes flashed with anger.
"There might be," Clara smirked back, reaching out a hand to take his as she didn't know what else to do to help. She was still trying to process all the information she had discovered about the pyschopath, still in shock and unsure how to feel. Deep down she felt she had known all along that he was capable of murder, that he was probably capable of much more, but she didn't want to believe it. She wanted to push the thought far far away, because she didn't want to push him away.
"I'd prefer to hear your story from your own mouth though," She spoke softly as Jim traced small circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. It was unexpected from him, and she had a feeling he hardly even realised that he was doing it. But she definitely wasn't complaining.
"I'm not sure you do," He whispered, casting his gaze down to their entertwined hands. "But I know you're not going to give up until you find out."
Clara nodded mutely, knowing that he was right. She couldn't back away now, she was in too deep. She had to return to 221B, and this time she was going to get answers no matter what.
"Let's just pretend you're not a criminal psychopath for a minute and just enjoy this, yeah?" She leaned her head against his shoulder on his uninjured side, feeling content.
"I'm not sure how I can enjoy sitting here with my side slashed open," Jim wriggled slightly, clearly not expecting her to curl up against him.
"Shhh, you're ruining it," She smiled, closing her eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted after the strange morning she'd had. She knew it wasn't late enough for sleep, but that didn't stop her eyelids from feeling heavy.
Jim sighed and mumbled something unintelligible but slowly relaxed, allowing Clara to lean against him more comfortably. She found that she felt happy, even though she knew she shouldn't, but her brain began to shut down and everything fell away except for Jim. She found herself falling asleep against the psychotic criminal, hoping that he would be there when she woke, but knowing that there was a good chance he wouldn't be.
Awh, I managed to get some fluff in there ;;) So what did you think? :D I live for reviews guys, they're like the nicotine patch to my Sherlock :)
Did you like it? What's your favourite chapter so far? :D
Guys, I'm begging you, please get inspiration from this and write a fanfic for this pairing because mine is like only one there aND IT'S KILLING ME BECAUSE I NEED TO READ FANFICS FOR THEM I HAVE FEELS OKAY.
Phew. Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I enjoyed writing it and I'd loveeeee if you reviewed :D Thanks guys ilysm!