A/n: Sorry for the wait, I meant to have this out sooner but I severely sprained my wrist and am now learning the perils of typing one-handed. Hoping to have things back to normal soon- thank you all so much for the reviews (and for reading!) x

Of all the clichés that might've been true, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" rang truest.

Clara woke up before the Doctor (she knew because she could hear him snoring), and to occupy her mind, she went through everyone she knew here and all their offenses. As she did, she truly couldn't come up with even one person who had done something terrible to purposely harm anyone. The closest she came was herself.

There was Dr. Martha Jones who—as the Doctor had shared with her during one of their many conversations—compassionately euthanized her suffering and terminal patients. She was in prison not because she'd hurt anybody who didn't want to be hurt. She was in prison simply because what she'd done was illegal.

Clara's knowledge of Vastra's past was still sketchy, and there were some dubious comments about cannibalism that Clara sincerely hoped were hyperbolic in nature, but Clara did know that everyone she'd hurt had been violent criminals. Vastra had told her that her mission in life was to protect women and children. Her crime was the violent way she went about that.

Jenny. Sweet Jenny that Clara already loved, who put everybody before herself. She'd asked her what she'd done once. All she received back was a distant look and the words "I was a maid, so I did what I do. I cleaned house."

And then there was the Doctor and his baby. Clara refused to ask him any more about it, because she couldn't imagine the pain losing an infant would cause. She felt she was right to assume it had cut him deeply and irreparably. She still didn't know how many people he'd killed or why exactly he'd done it, but she knew if it was for an organization that John was part of too—and it was somehow involved with protecting his disabled daughter—that it couldn't be that morally offensive.

Lastly, there was her.

She felt she was on the darkest end of the spectrum.

It was true that she'd done it for John. But how noble was that, really? Deep down, it was disturbingly selfish. She wasn't thinking about anyone but herself and how much she needed John. How much she loved him, wanted him, relied on him. How much she would be lost without him. She had lied in court and insisted she'd "seen red" and that she wasn't even aware of what she was doing. But that was a terrible lie. It was calculated and planned. She had done what she was trained to do: locked her mind on her target and set about retrieving him, no matter the odds. The same people who'd trained her so fabulously in reconnaissance were treated to a firsthand demonstration of her might. She set those soldiers loose on their officers—fully knowing there would be deaths and injuries—and she hadn't even convinced herself that it was for the greater good, because at the time, she didn't even care enough to stop and wonder if what she was doing was right. She just knew she had to do it.

So maybe she shared a cell with a woman who allegedly ate the face off of a child murderer.

But Vastra was doing something to save dozens of innocent lives and families. She had attacked a specific, guilty target.

Clara could not say the same.

Clara was wholeheartedly certain that the intermingled sound of John's pen scratching paper and the oscillating fan was the best sound in the entire world.

Forget music. Forget audiobooks. Forget flutes, violins, pianos, babbling creeks, waterfalls, rain on tin roofs. She would never hear anything better.

She had been stretched out on her stomach, enjoying the breeze of the fan on her naked skin. But then John's pen scratched away for longer than it typically did on their sleepy Wednesday mornings, so she rolled over onto her side to peer at him. He was hunched over, his notebook in his lap. Clara smiled tiredly at the way his brow was furrowed so seriously. The small pout to his lips was insanely kissable.

She stretched her arm out and reached up. She lightly touched his brow.

"What are you writing about?" She asked curiously.

He looked up distractedly, but seemed to find interest in what he saw. He straightened and grinned down at her broadly, obviously forgetting her question. She bit the inside of her cheek as he reached over and set his palm on her bare hip. He smoothed his hand slowly down the curve of her outer thigh and then back up.

"I always want to set toy cars on your hipbone and let them slide down your legs." He commented.

Not for the first time, what Clara assumed would be a sexual instigation turned into a befuddling—albeit slightly adorable—statement. She shook her head fondly.

"Most men would just make a comment like…'nice arse'." Clara pointed out helpfully.

He frowned. "No. No, no. I'm not talking about your arse. I'm talking about the curve of your hip. It's very different. This is the perfect curve for something to slide down. A marble, maybe." He snapped his fingers and locked eyes with her, elated. "Bullets. Clara, bullets would—"

She silenced his mouth with hers. He tasted like peppermint, courtesy of his toothpaste that morning.

"You are insane." She murmured softly. Her lips brushed against his as she did. She rolled her forehead against his. Her eyes fluttered shut as their cheeks caressed. She liked the warmth of his breath on her parted lips. "And you never answered me, Smith."

He turned his head just slightly. He rubbed his nose affectionately against the side of hers in some sort of lazy eskimo kiss.

"I'm writing about you." He admitted. He sounded bashful.

She leaned back. Her eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Me?" She clarified. She smiled. "That's sweet. I think. Is it nice things?"

He ducked his head, embarrassed. His cheeks were pink.

"I'm telling my granddad all about the mission last week. And how amazing you were."

Clara's stomach fluttered. John's granddad was the most important person in his life, and coincidentally was the reason John was in the RAF in the first place. His granddad had been the Air Vice Marshal a number of years ago, and he loved the air force more than life itself. It was a testament to John's love for his granddad that he was here. He hated the army, and even though Clara wouldn't have ever said it aloud, John was a terrible soldier. He was too sensitive, too carefree at times, too...well, trusting. Innocent. But he loved his granddad, so he stayed. And according to John, Clara was the only woman he had ever seemed to approve of. Her being a successful army girl did all of the heavy lifting.

"All I did was carry a few kids out of a building." Clara dismissed quickly, eager to end that particular subject.

John frowned. He set his notebook to the side, as if this was a very serious matter. He gestured towards the window.

"Go out there and ask one of those people what you did. I promise not one of them is going to say you "just carried a few kids". You saved them."

Clara wasn't sure why she felt embarrassed. Perhaps it was because she'd gotten so emotional about the entire experience. She didn't want to talk about the state she'd been in when she found him that following night.

"I wasn't trying to."

"Clara."

"What? I wasn't. I was just doing what needed to be done."

"You're not a mathematics student. You can't convince me your brain is that analytical and clean-cut." He paused. He seemed to be considering what he said before he said it. "You walked right into that building. Why aren't you even a little bit proud of yourself?"

She looked down.

"Mostly I'm just trying to forget about it. Walking into a burning building was pretty traumatizing." She muttered.

He sighed. She watched him pull his notebook back over to him.

"Well, you saved three children. I'm pretty sure you've got a good karma overload now. No matter what sinful things you do from this point on, I think you're in the clear."

"I don't think it works like that."

"Sure it does."

"No…I don't think so."

"Yeah. You have your 'get into heaven, no exceptions' card now. We could rob a bank worry-free."

Clara rolled her eyes—a common response to a lot of the things he said. But she always made sure to kiss him afterwards, just to make sure he knew. He was absolutely mad, but she loved the hell out of him.

The truth was that it had ripped her apart to hear those people screaming inside the building.

Especially since it was a neighboring squadron's fault that the flames were eating it in the first place.

It was a mistake, an incorrect hit—and an unnecessary one. Danny never made strikes against civilians unless it was absolutely necessary. Rand wasn't quite as sensible.

She had thought that they would all rush to the aid of those inside, because that's what they did, right? Saved people? But she realized in one complete, quick moment, as she stood frozen in panic and watched all her comrades do the same, that perhaps that wasn't what they were after all.

It was the sight of a mother falling to her knees that slapped Clara out of her stupor.

Her cheek was pressed into the dusty ground. Her chest was heaving. There were no tears because there weren't even any breaths. Clara knew what that felt like.

She had shrugged Danny's concerned hand off her shoulder. Had flung her weapon onto the ground beside her, removed the second one at her waist, shrugged off her heavy jacket.

"Clara?" Danny demanded. It didn't take him long. "Don't you dare."

She dared.

And afterwards, once the children were returned to their families, she felt her throat stitch closed. She spent the entire ride back viciously fighting back her tears. She kept seeing the burn marks on the kids' skin. They were alive, and their injuries weren't debilitating, but they were hurt. And so many other people had died. Their families. The mother of two of them.

She hated seeing anybody in pain. She had to get over that.

It was Danny who found her after her long crying session. She'd been wandering the base, heading for John's building, but she'd forgotten Danny was supervising the nighttime patrol.

"What's happened?" He asked. She ducked her face, but it was too late. His large hand pressed her flushed cheek. "Come here. Look here."

She found it hard to ignore his commands. He was the only superior officer she had ever willingly followed all orders from, and that was only because she trusted him that much. He had nominated her for Initial Officer Training that coming fall, but she was certain that even when she had her own squadron that she'd still listen to him.

So she looked up at him. She met his concerned eyes.

"You can't save them all, Clara." He said softly.

She balled up her heart. She tensed her muscles and stood straight. She wouldn't cry in front of Danny especially.

"Why not?"

He moved his hand to her shoulder. She felt the tears rising inside of her, threatening to spill out. She gripped tighter onto her control.

"Because it's impossible."

She shrugged out of his grip.

"Nothing's impossible."

She was just barely holding on when she crept into John's building. She padded silently down the rows of bunks, ignoring the odd looks she received from the inhabitants who were still awake. She stopped at the back and lifted John's covers. He jumped and startled from his light sleep when she slid into his bed.

"Clara?" He whispered. He reached up and wrapped his arms around her body (that still smelt of smoke). He pressed his face into her hair (that still smelt of smoke). And Clara let go of the reins on her heart (that still smelt of smoke). Her first sob was silent, muffled against his neck. He gripped her tightly to him.

"Oh, Clara," he whispered, stricken. It was the very first time she'd ever cried in front of him. She felt ashamed. He rubbed her back and tugged her even closer. He intertwined their legs. "What is it?"

She breathed her words so hopefully no one else would hear them.

"It's impossible to save everybody."

"What? Who told you that?" John asked. "That's rubbish."

"No it's not. It's true. I know it is. But I guess…I guess I only just realized it."

"It's not true. And even if it was…well. You're the most impossible girl in the entire world. If anybody could do it, you could." She took a shuddering breath and gripped his shirt in her fists. She was panicked because she didn't feel in control. Not when she fell apart. "You could save anybody, anything."

"Stop." She mumbled, but her voice was laced with tears.

"No. It's the truth. Out of everybody here, every single officer and every single gunner and soldier, you are the only one I would trust wholeheartedly with my life. And it's not just because you're madly and terribly in love with me." Clara's laugh was weak and watery. He smiled against the top of her head. "It's because you're the most capable. And don't tell me I'm biased, or that it's not true, because who was the only person jumping into a burning building today?"

She didn't respond. He didn't care.

"You. And who's the only person here with a deep phobia of fire?"

It was automatic. "Not scared of fire." She mumbled into his neck. He ignored her, and rightly so.

"You." He completed. His fingers stroked slowly through her hair. "Clara. I'm so proud to be yours."

Ordinarily, she would've made a face and grumbled about his cheesy comments. But it hit her hard that night. Her heart swelled and her eyes burned. It meant so much to hear that—enough that she almost didn't even want to tell him. She wanted to keep it secret inside of herself.

"I'm proud to be yours, too," she finally said.

He leaned back and kissed her lips. She wanted it to last forever. She could have lived in that moment until the end of time.

John carefully sealed his letter. Clara watched from the edge of his bed. She was in the process of getting dressed. The other men in his bunk would be returning soon and she didn't want to be found lounging about nude.

"I lied to you before." John admitted sheepishly. Clara turned and looked back at him.

"Oh?" She asked, her eyebrows raised. He crawled forward and sat on the edge beside her. He looked down at his feet. Clara watched him tap them nervously.

"I wasn't really writing about that mission." He glanced up at her for a moment, but then he looked back down, his face red. "I was telling my granddad that you're the person I want to spend the rest of my life with."

There were always two truths to everything. There was the one you told people, the nice or understandable one. And then there was the hoarded one that didn't make any sense at all.

The second truth that Clara couldn't bear to voice aloud was that she hadn't jumped into that burning building for anyone but herself.

In that split, sick second, she hadn't decided to save anyone. She hadn't thought to herself: all those people, all those children. She'd snapped and her mind had reverted to a dark place, and she had thought: I want to know what it feels like to die by fire for somebody else.

It wasn't a suicidal cry towards the heavens. It was a quiet wish to understand, to share an experience. To somehow be close to her mother again in the only way that was left.

She was crying when he finally woke up.

"Clara?" He asked groggily.

She couldn't respond. A frantic agony had taken root inside of her. She paced the floors and wrung her hands. She needed to be out of that room—she couldn't be in there any longer. The emptiness, the quiet, the mold, the metallic water, the lack of food…she told herself it was all these things making her lose it. As if she hadn't tortured herself with memories.

"I have to get out of here." She told him tearfully. "I can't stand it. Please."

"We should be out soon. Take a deep breath."

"I can't."

"You can do anything you set your mind to."

She could've laughed, if only she didn't feel so sick. (No she couldn't. The proof was in two bodies.)

"Have you tried the toast?" He asked. His voice was calm, even. She hadn't even realized the tray had been delivered. She sometimes forgot things. And sometimes—she didn't.

"What?" She asked shakily.

"The toast. It's hard as a rock. Let's see who can eat it quickest without breaking a tooth."

"No, I—I don't, I'm not hungry." She muttered, confused.

"Then I automatically win." He boasted. There was a long pause. His tone was light, conversational. "You know, I killed an MP with toast once. Well, marmalade. Well, arsenic. It was a lazy Sunday."

If his purpose had been shock value, it worked fairly well. Clara forgot what she was gasping over for a lovely moment, her mind narrowing in on his admission.

"Seriously?" She asked thickly. She sniffed against her leaky nose.

"Seriously." He affirmed. "So no need to feel badly about yourself. I'm at least thirty times crueler than you."

"I'm not sure poisoning someone's marmalade once makes you qualified for that." Clara argued shakily.

"That was just my lazy Sunday."

She could've asked then. Everything was in her favor—he felt sorry for her, she sounded pathetic enough, he was offering details. But she didn't want to manipulate him into giving away anything. It felt like the grandest betrayal of all.

"My idea of a lazy Sunday was reading in bed from dawn 'till dusk." She said instead.

"What about John?" He asked, and Clara felt her heart clench.

"What about him?" She asked sharply.

"Well, was he with you during your lazy Sundays?" He asked calmly.

"Oh. Yes, usually. Though he used to irritate me like no one else could." She stopped, but found she wanted to keep going. "He used to read over my shoulder and make these…cheeky little comments every few pages. Oh, it drove me mad."

Now the thought of it made the corners of her mouth twitch up, and her heart pang with longing. She never would've guessed that the things that made her so angry back then were the things that she'd kill to have again.

And because he'd broached the topic, she felt safe doing the same.

"Did Missy take part in your murderous Sundays?"

"Hmm, yes." He answered. "Until she decided her allegiances were located elsewhere. She was the star witness against me in court."

The betrayal must have felt worse than anything.

"I'm sorry." Clara said honestly.

"Don't be. It's nice to see people's true natures. Then you can stop fooling yourself."

She almost said but everyone isn't like that. John and Danny aren't (weren't) like that. But she didn't want to put the spotlight on them, in case he knew something she didn't. She couldn't bear to have the good memories she had corrupted.

Silence soaked over them. Clara listened to the footsteps from above.

"What did you do on your most…productive Tuesday?" She wondered.

This time, his silence went on for a very long time. So long that Clara feared he wouldn't respond at all. When he finally did, she wondered if maybe he shouldn't have.

"You remember Saxon, I'm sure."

"Of course." Clara affirmed hesitantly. But she was already bridging the gaps. She knew that must've been the Prime Minister he'd killed, as he was the only one who had died in power, but she and the rest of the world were told he'd died of natural causes. "But he died of a stroke."

"Sure, in history books, he died of a stroke." The Doctor agreed. "Considering what was going on, it was in the country's best interest to keep it all hush-hush."

"Well?" Clara pressed. "What happened to Saxon on your productive Tuesday?"

"He went in for his acupuncture appointment." His voice was matter-of-fact, cold. "I'm afraid he didn't quite leave it the same."

Anything Clara might've been brave enough to ask was drowned out by the sound of the door banging opening.

"RY2227—out. You're back to your cell." The screw greeted.

Clara didn't move at first. She stared, waiting for the catch.

"Sorry?" She asked.

The screw narrowed her eyes. "Out! I haven't got all day. Move, move, move!"

Clara grabbed John's wristwatch off the sink. It was all she had with her. She didn't even bother pulling the shirt on over her undershirt.

The very first thing she did upon returning to her cell was throw herself at Vastra.

She wrapped her arms around the tattooed woman and gripped her closely, her eyes searing and throat aching. Vastra was frozen in her embrace.

"You're back." Vastra said dumbly, stunned. It was so unlike her. But so was the tentative hug she gave Clara after a moment.

"You're okay," Clara beamed. She sniffed and dutifully ignored the way her vision had gone blurry.

"Wish I could say the same for the bastards who poisoned me." Vastra commented casually. She sighed with mock disappointment. "Ever so tender in the end."

Like a lot of Vastra's comments, Clara decided it was best not to ask for more information. She pulled back from Vastra and turned, taking in her unchanged bed and desk. She flung herself back on top of the covers. Her arm slipped underneath the blanket and searched. She curled her fingers around the spine of Meditations.

"In comparison, this feels like freedom." She shared.

"I suppose that answers my question about what solitary was like." Vastra responded. Clara sat up on the bed and crawled to the end of it. She leaned forward and grabbed a notebook and pen from the desk, intent on writing an apology to Danny for her absence and sending it on that very same day, but she found after a moment that she didn't feel like writing to him. She just wanted to touch her belongings. There was comfort in owning things.

"How's your Doctor?" Vastra inquired. "Did you see him at all?"

Clara looked up at Vastra. She considered telling the truth for a moment, but then she changed her mind.

"Fine. I saw him once or twice. He's used to solitary." Clara's throat narrowed at the sudden thought of what he'd gone back to. "Have—have we had outdoors time yet?"

"Just got back. Lunch should be here any moment. We're stuck eating in our cells for the week, thanks to all the fights." Vastra said. She caught the crestfallen expression on Clara's face before she could mask it.

"It's true, isn't it?"

Clara looked down and away. "What?"

"You and the Doctor. Everybody's saying you're involved."

"Oh." Clara said. She paused. "Well…yes, in a manner of speaking."

Vastra stared at her for a beat. And then she shook her head almost in wonder.

"I will never understand straight women."

Clara arched an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry—who in here is straight?"

Vastra arched an eyebrow right back.

It was later, right before recreation, that Clara was able to put some meaning to the way she'd been feeling.

She'd spent the entire day feeling an unexpected mixture of guilt and anxiety, and she wasn't sure why. Isn't this what she wanted? To be back with Vastra, with Jenny, with her books? She understood her feelings when she allowed herself to accept that the Doctor was the root of them.

"Vastra? Do you ever feel…" and then she stopped, because it suddenly seemed silly to ask.

Vastra stared at her unrelentingly. She waited. Clara had no choice but to follow through.

"Do you ever feel…uneasy, knowing the kinds of things everybody here has done?"

Vastra looked back down at her book, like the conversation was shaping up to be incredibly boring.

"No. Because I've done things, too." She answered. "I can take care of myself. And, as I understand, so can you."

But that wasn't what she meant.

"I don't mean…uneasy because you're afraid they'll hurt you physically. I know most of us are very capable of protecting ourselves. I meant more…" she didn't want to say emotionally. "Do you ever worry that you'll be betrayed? Or, rather, that your trust will be?"

Vastra looked back up at that. She looked concerned.

"Should I be worried about that?" She wondered, a bit suspiciously. "Funny thing for you to be asking. Queen of mutiny and all that."

It was a fair point.

"Is this about the Doctor?" Vastra wondered then. She shifted her book over onto her bed and looked at Clara curiously. "Did he tell you what he did to end up here?"

It was automatic, loyal, and at least half-truthful. "No."

Vastra observed her for a moment. "And would you tell me if he had?"

"…No." She admitted with an apologetic grimace.

Vastra nodded firmly. "Good."

She went back to her book.

"The way I see it, Ossie," she turned the page. "You get the loyalty you give."

It made her stomach hurt.

Of all the things she'd expected, a visitor that afternoon was not one of them.

She had assumed it would be months before she was allowed a visitor. But five minutes before recreation, the SPO himself appeared at her cell door. Vastra went visibly slack-jawed with surprise.

"Clara," he greeted, and that in itself made Clara's skin prick. "I'm afraid you'll be missing recreation. Pity."

She didn't even noticed she'd clenched her fists in anger until she felt the sting of her nails biting into her flesh. She had to fight to keep her anger internalized.

"And why is that, sir?" She asked.

He was smiling hugely, like he was in on something she wasn't. Which he almost certainly was.

"Because Mr. Danny Pink is here to call on you."

She stared. A strong ache began in the center top of her forehead, and it wasn't until she heard the racing of her heart that she realized it was from the sudden spike in her blood pressure and pulse. She didn't dare trust him.

"You're not serious." She deadpanned.

"As the plague. He's traveled quite a long way, so let's not keep him waiting any longer." He ordered.

Clara shot a quick look at Vastra, who nodded and shrugged simultaneously. Clara rose unsteadily to her feet. She suddenly wished she'd been able to shower first. She knew she looked like she'd been through hell and back.

"You are allotted the entire recreation period to visit with him." He told Clara. They walked at a leisurely pace, even though Clara wanted to run down the halls. He stopped her before entering the visiting room. He peered hard into her eyes. "If you behave from now on, I will personally allow you two hours of visiting each and every day. It's a generous offer, Ms. Clara. One that is unprecedented. You'd do well not to waste it."

She wanted to ask him exactly what he meant by "behave", but she was ushered into the room before she could.