Elephant's Memory (Sherlock BBC)

7: Demons

Clara had been staring at Baker Street ever since Mary's funeral. She had barely moved in three days, except to have tea, go to the bathroom, and to retreat to Sherlock's room at precisely nine o'clock pm to sleep. She would stare down at the street through the window for hours a day, watching the world go by, and then (with difficulty) she would retreat to Sherlock's room and fall asleep. She wore nothing but black. On the tenth night of this, after Clara had gone to bed, Sherlock and John were up, thinking, in front of the fire.

"She's quiet, Sherlock."

"I'm not complaining."

"Well, I am!" John said. exasperated. "I completely understand post traumatic stress, but this... She won't speak, she won't eat... I've been lacing her tea with dietary supplements. She hasn't so much as touched her phone... I don't get it."

"Let her grieve, John." Sherlock replied softly as he tuned his violin. He had been playing for Clara; John said that it soothed her. "She can't forget trauma, her brain doesn't allow for it. Her scars never fully heal." he glanced up, eyes sharp. "Isn't it odd that I understand that, and that you don't?"

"I do understand that." John said. "But I'm concerned, Sherlock."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Talk to her."

"About what?"

"Anything!" John rubbed his temples. "Look, I've got a getaway with Sarah this weekend, and I need you to look after her. You don't have a case right now. Take her for Chinese or something." Sherlock scoffed. "Please? She listens to you." Sherlock paused and looked at John for a moment. Then, he relaxed.

"Right. Chinese. Got it."

"Good! Good." John said, trying not to look so excited. "Well, I'm off to bed. Wales tomorrow, yanno? Night."

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock replied, as he began to rub rosin into his bowstring of his violin. He stared into the fire for a while, still rubbing the string while the gears in his head turned. Then, he set the instrument back in its case. The fire was dying, and the glass of water next to him sufficed to douse it the rest of the way out, but he was fading fast. He hadn't slept in days, and he barely made it out of his chair. His eyes fluttered closed as he stumbled to his bedroom, tripping inside. He had barely paused to remove his shirt and trousers. before he fell onto the mattress next to Clara's small body. He was almost asleep when he felt her shaking next to him. When he opened his eyes, the streetlight was just enough to see in. Clara was sitting up in bed beside him, and her shoulders were shaking.

"Wh'tis it?" He grumbled, half asleep. "Why're you crying?"

"It's nothing." Her voice broke. "Go back to sleep." she said, waving him away. She slipped back under the sheets, curling into the fetal position with her back to Sherlock.

"What is it?" He asked again, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Are you wearing pants?" she replied calmly, giving only a slight hiccup as he carefully turned her onto her back. Her eyes weren't red, so she hadn't been crying for long, but evidence of a previous session of crying was clear in her eyelashes and tear ducts.

"Of course I am." Sherlock felt that intense surge of pity again, also twinged with sadness and a hint of anger. Clara knew that he'd seen straight through her, and got out of bed. Sherlock listened to her bare feet pad into the bathroom, and his promise to John echoed through his mind. He stood up himself, tugged on his pyjama bottoms so that she wouldn't feel awkward, and followed her.

She held both edges of the counter, crying silently into the sink. She knew Sherlock was right behind her.

"It's getting worse. They're getting worse." Her nightmares. Sherlock thought before his brain began to over-analyse the situation.