Anderson ↠ BBC Sherlock

act one; ten

Clara Anderson waltzed into Scotland Yard, confident in her ability to destroy her signature. It was eight-thirty, a full half hour before Watson had suggested he'd get there, and it would be easy enough to break into his little office and steal the form.

When Watson arrived, he would, of course, have absolutely no idea that any of this had occurred. If — and that was most certainly an if — he realized the paper was missing, he'd likely chalk it to down to him misplacing it. At any rate, Watson certainly would not suspect her of being involved, because apparently he liked her.

Clara turned the corner, smirk firmly in place. Nobody would ever find out that she worked with James, or that she knew precisely who Marni was. She was an extraordinary liar after all, and the people at Scotland Yard were so very far out of their league with this case.

Ultimately, there wasn't a single chance in hell they'd ever catch her; catch any of them. Holmes' incident made sure of that. As much as she may loathe to admit it, the Consulting Detective truly was a genius, and he was only person who had a chance of figuring her out. Luckily, he was indisposed.

It had been a bit aggravating at first, though Clara quickly came around to seeing the benefits. Despite no longer being capable of getting Holmes to do something that would make James hate him, she could perhaps convince the criminal to simply get over the pseudo-detective. It would be a lot cleaner form of manipulation, too; less effort, but just as rewarding of an outcome.

She turned around another corner, this one bringing her to Watson's workstation. Clara walked up to the door, ready to put her pick-locking skills to work— and froze on the spot.

He had told her that he would get there at nine, maybe even at ten, and yet he was already in the room. Clara didn't get it. Nothing had changed — Holmes was still in the hospital, she had checked — so why was he there?

Watson glanced up from the pages on his desk, as if sensing her presence. He seemed to almost tense when he noticed her, but before Clara could determine whether or not her eyes were misleading her, it was gone. He waved, cheerfully, through the window, and gestured for her to come join him. When Clara didn't move, he mouthed, "Hey," and pointed inside again. "Come — join — me."

She smiled back, even as she shook her head. Clara jabbed a finger towards her chest and then twisted her thumb upwards. "I'm," accompanied the actions, "okay."

"You sure?" Watson asked, and Clara wondered if he was actually talking aloud versus merely mouthing the words. He wasn't doing a very good job, if he was.

Clara made sure her eye roll was overdramatic. "Positive," she mouthed back.

She quickly left, making her way to Lestrade's office. He wasn't there yet, so she sat herself down in his chair and tried to figure out why Watson had arrived early. Clara had known for sure that he was absolutely pissed the night before. She had calculated his body mass and probable tolerance beforehand, so as to determine how much he would need to consume to forget anything that may have slipped out on her part. He had definitely woken up with a massive hangover, and Clara doubted he would have had the willpower to pull himself out of bed when in that much pain.

"Okay, rational thoughts," Clara told herself, knowing that she did most of her brilliant thinking out loud. "Watson went home. He went to sleep. He woke up with a brutal hangover, perhaps waking up earlier than he normally does because of it. He clearly didn't remember any of our conversation, otherwise I would've been arrested on sight; he's not the kind of person to hold that stuff in. After getting through the pain, the first thing on his mind would be... Holmes. And Holmes is in the hospital. But he's been visiting almost constantly, and I'm sure the nurses and doctors would be sick of his presence. Maybe they asked him to take the day off or Holmes is in surgery or something. So he came in early.  It make sense." She winced. "If I'm right."