Cheekbones, Coincidence and Clara Oswald

Saint or Sinner?

"Bit of first-things-first-ness. What's your name?" The Doctor asked, his voice civil but his face drawn taught with anger. The Zygon had awoken, and seemed rather chatty. "My name's. Well, you can call me the Doctor. But then you knew that, didn't you? You want something. What is it?"

"You are the President of the World?" The Zygon demanded, red suckers flaring.

"I suppose so."

It's squished face seemed to smile with evil glee. "We want the world."

.

Sherlock lifted the lapel of the dusty jacket, revealing a gleaming skeleton beneath. The dimly lit room, walls made of dirt and mould, offered little light of the scene, even with Lestrade's crew setting up lights. Molly was creeping about on her tiptoes, clutching a notepad like it was made of gold. She didn't seem to be watching the scene, only Sherlock.

Lestrade leaned in close, making Sherlock nearly drop the tweezers he was using to pry at the fabric. "This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?"

"Just giving it a go."

"Right..." Lestrade rumbled. "So, John?"

"Not really in the picture," Sherlock replied, gritting his teeth. The pain.

"Clara?" The stricken look on Sherlock's face was answer enough. Lestrade stepped back. "Right, um, sorry."

A rattle above them sent cement dust drifting to the floor. Sherlock straightened, peering at the ceiling.

"Trains?" Molly proposed, her pen poised above her notepad.

"Trains," Sherlock agreed.

Batting away the voices in his head, Sherlock flipped open a compartment on the desk and nonchalantly threw a heavy book onto the table, making the dust plume in the air. 'How I Did It' by Jack the Ripper, was the title and author of the mysterious novel.

"I don't get it," Molly said, her eyes tracing over the skeleton. "This skeleton can't be more than...six months old."

"It's impossible," Lestrade exclaimed, pointing at the book. "It can't be?!"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer. Instead, he started to repack his pouch, the pain in his arm flaring with every movement. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."

"No," Lestrade countered, "Insult away."

"The corpse is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale..." He flicked out his phone, "...a week ago."

Lestrade's face dropped. "So this whole thing is fake?"

"Yes."

"Looked so promising..."

Sherlock was already pocketing his tools, "Facile."

Molly set down her pen, her brows furrowing. "But why would anyone go to all that trouble?"

"Yes," Sherlock hummed, "Why indeed, John?"

.

"Sherlock, this isn't the way to the, the train guy," Molly said, as they whizzed around London in a black cab.

"No, we're going back to the lab," Sherlock explained, his face twitching with pain. "Slight problem." He held up his hand, where fat droplets of blood had run down the skin and were now dripping onto his suit pants. A drop splattered onto the cement like it's own tiny crime scene.