Elephant's Memory (Sherlock BBC)

2: Gone

"What do you mean you can't do anything?" Clara said, tears streaming down her face. She held herself, trying desperately not to fall into sobs and failing miserably at it. The very slow policeman, who she had been insulting and yelling at for the past quarter of an hour, sighed.

"Ma'am, there's no evidence that Mr. Hope disappeared anywhere. Nothing seems out of place-"

"Everything is out of place!" she sobbed into her hands as she watched the forensics technicians pack their things away and load them into cars. "I know! I remember! Nothing is in it's correct spot!"

"I'm sorry to tell you this, ma'am, but the boy is eighteen, and he's adopted. He probably just took off and lef-"

"No, he wouldn't do that!" she snapped at him, emotions spilling over in bitter tears. "I love my son, and I know him better than-"

"There's nothing we can do, ma'am. There's no evidence that he's missing. Go get yourself a shrink or something." He replied with annoyance, shrugging her off. She sat on the front step of the manor, looking at the CSIs as they packed up their kits.

"Are you alright?" A kind voice asked. When she looked up, a middle aged man with greying hair was standing beside her. She cataloged each of his features, including a badge that read "DI Lestrade", but the most striking thing to Clara was the warmth in his muddy brown eyes.

"No." she croaked in reply. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, sitting next to her on the doorstep. He offered her a cigarette, but she declined. They sat in silence, until Lestrade spoke up again.

"You know that there's no evidence that he's missing."

"Yes, there is. You just havent found it yet." She snapped, wiping tears out of her eyes. Her make up and normally sleek hair were everywhere, and she looked like she hadn't slept in days. "You people are never able to pick out the minute details. Never have been." he groaned, rubbing his temples. He knew that she wasn't crazy; he'd met enough real lunatics to know. He gently turned the card in his pocket between his fingers, unsure whether he would be helping or hurting her by giving it to her.

"I can't help you." He said. Her head fell between her bent over shoulders, tears splattering on the pavement. "But I think that I know someone who can." She glanced up, almost in shock.

"Who?" He sighed, turning the slip of paper over in his fingers again.

"I'm going to regret this, I just know it." He said, handing her the business card from his pocket. "He's not a part of Scotland Yard, but he's the best person I know for these sorts of things. The tricky cases, the odd ones, the dangerous ones." She clutched the card to her chest.

"Thank you, thank you." She said, jumping to her feet. She grabbed her coat from Herbert, who had been out shopping during the disappearance. As she slung her pocketbook over her shoulder, the butler disappeared into the house. She ran down the charming cobblestone street, waving her hand and shouting, "Taxi!"

As she ran from him, Greg Lestrade shook his head in worry, horror at himself, and pity.

"My god, I'm going to regret this."

---

Clara clambered out of her cab, smoothing her blouse and her hair. She glanced at the card again, even though she didn't need to; the address still read 221B Baker street. This was the place.

She checked her composure, which was usually carefully constructed and well fortified, and then carefully rang the bell. She heard a muffled male shout, and then hurried footsteps. In seconds, a handsome man with curly dark hair, dressed in blue pajamas came to the door. Clara looked up at him with aprehension; he was almost a foot and a half taller than she was and those cheekbones could slice bread.