𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 | 𝘖𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 3 ✔︎

Chapter VII - Redbeard

Sherlock groaned and turned over in bed. It was early in the morning and still dark outside, and Clara was still awake. Sherlock had drifted off not long after he'd settled in last night, quite late, as usual. Clara had never fallen asleep. She'd tried, but her mind had been alive all night jumping from one doubt to the next, leaving Clara with questions she didn't have the answers to. Questions such as why would Sherlock do this to himself? How come I know so little about you--how do we still know so little about each other? What do I need to do to help you? Clara had been up all night searching for answers she could work out. She realized that neither she nor Sherlock knew next to nothing about each other's childhoods. Was he always this intelligent and detached? Or... had something happened that changed him? If so, what was he like before?

Clara found herself wishing she knew him then. Like Mycroft knew him... like his parents knew him... like his friends knew him. Come to think of it, did the past Sherlock have friends? John had been Sherlock's only friend before Mary's death, as far as Clara knew. So who was before John?

Sherlock groans again, and this time Clara hears a name. "Redbeard." Clara turns to face him, confused. Redbeard? Sherlock's dark curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, obviously having another nightmare. He's been having a lot of those lately and Clara can't tell about what. But this name, Redbeard, Clara hadn't heard before. Sherlock's face was stern, almost agonizing, so Clara did as she usually did.

"Sherlock," she brought her hand up and wiped Sherlock's curls out of his eyes with her thumb, her hand resting on his cheek. "Sherlock, it's alright,"

Sherlock's eyes remained closed, his face still in pain. Clara snuggled close to him and wrapped her arms around him, her small figure fitting under his chin. Sherlock untensed and seemed to calm down. Clara lay there for a bit, snuggled against Sherlock. Their breaths sync into a rhythm, Sherlock's exhales ruffling Clara's hair. Trying to fall asleep, Clara listens to Sherlock's breathing, steady, slow, her eyes lulling. After a while, Clara felt Sherlock's arms wrap around her as well, and she closed her eyes, suppressing a smile. And to the breaths of her sociopath, she fell asleep.

~

"Tea, love?" Clara looked up from her novel to Mrs Hudson at the door.

"Good morning, Mrs H. That would be lovely, thank you," Clara smiled.

Mrs Hudson shuffles in and hands Clara her cup of tea. Chamomile, as Clara liked it. "Very thoughtful, Martha, thank you,"

"No trouble, dearie. What's that you've got there?" Mrs Hudson asks as she sets the tray of tea on the side table.

"Agatha Christie. Emma." Clara replies, taking a sip.

"Ah, a good one then," Mrs Hudson straightens herself up. "Is Sherlock up yet?"

"No. He won't be up for a good half hour yet,"

"Well, let him know tea's on the side table, alright?"

"Actually, Mrs H, I was thinking I'd be going out this morning," Clara tells her, closing her book and smiling.

"So early? But it's hardly eight. Alright, though. I'll let Sherlock know you're out if I see him," Mrs Hudson turns toward the door.

"Thank you," Clara responds as 221B's door closes.

~

Clara's boots click on the pavement as she approaches an old, tall building. The building's architecture doesn't really make it stand out on the London street, as the architecture of the area is so old. Trodding up the steps, Clara momentarily glances at the golden plaque by the door that reads, 'the Diogenes Club.'