It was late when Clara decided to walk home. The evening air was cool, almost soothing, as her sandals tapped softly against the damp pavement. She moved along the quiet sidewalk, until a faint clicking sound echoed behind her.
She froze, listening but the sound stopped. Shaking it off, she continued. But the sound returned, slightly louder this time, closer. Her pulse quickened. She spun around to find herself face-to-face with a tall, well-dressed man in a grey suit with white gloves, leaning on a cane. His smile was kind, but unsettlingly sweet.
"Who are you?" Clara demanded, still startled.
The man didn't flinch, he carefully tugged his gloves, "No need to be alarmed, Miss Oswald. I assure you, I mean no harm." He pulled out a badge, flashing it briefly.
Clara glanced at it, "Okay, but what do you want? And how do you know my name?"
He smiled faintly. "I know quite a lot about you, Miss Clara Oswald," He pulled a small notebook, "Clara Oswald, mid-twenties. English teacher at Coal Hill Secondary. Fiancée of the late Danny Pink. Parents, Ellie, and Dave Oswald. Mother, deceased." He read calmly.
Clara tilted her head, unimpressed. "Congratulations. I take it you're a stalker, then?"
The man chuckled. "Not exactly. But we've been keeping surveillance on you for a while.
"So, you're a really posh pervert, yeah?" She shot back.
His lips pressed into a thin smile. "Quite the comedian, aren't you?"
She shrugged. "Depends on my mood. Now, who are you?"
He sighed. "I'm a friend of Sherlock's."
Clara scoffed. "I doubt that. No offense, but I can't imagine Sherlock associating with you."
The man gave a small shrug. "Well, I like to think of myself as one. Unfortunately, he doesn't."
Clara studied him more closely. There was a slight resemblance. "You look a bit like him. Are you a relative?"
"Oh, you are clever, Miss Oswald," He said with a smile.
Clara shrugged folding her arms. "Thanks. So, did Sherlock send you? Or do you just enjoy following women home?"
"Actually," The man said, clearing his throat, "I'm his brother. Mycroft."
Clara nodded. "Well. Nice to meet you, I guess. What's this about?"
Mycroft's expression softened but it was still solemn. "I understand you've been helping, my brother."
"Maybe," Clara said with a shrug. "Is that a problem?"
"On the contrary," Mycroft replied. "Though I wish you wouldn't. Lord knows he doesn't need any encouragement. Still, I can't stop you. But I was hoping for a favor."
Clara arched her brow, "What kind of favor?"
"Just keep an eye on him," He replied simply." Perhaps, inform me of what he's doing. Think of it as… a caregiver."
"You're joking. Why would I do that?" She scoffed.
"I worry for his safety," Mycroft replied simply. "Sherlock can be a bit…reckless."
"Well, that's your problem," Clara shot back. "Besides I have better things to do than play babysitter for him."
Mycroft gave a knowing half-smile. "I thought you might say that. But consider this, how about if we find Danny's killer faster."
Clara stiffened. "Sorry?"
"I'm well aware of your situation," Mycroft said calmly. "Help me keep tabs on Sherlock, and I guarantee we'll find who killed your fiancé."
Clara narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe you."
"You have my word." He promised.
"So did the police," She scoffed bitterly. "Anyway, why should I trust you?"
"Because…" Mycroft said, leaning on his cane, "This would give you the closure you've been wanting for Danny. "That is what you wanted, hmm?" His tone was both gentle and intimidating.
Clara's voice softened. "Of course I do."
"And naturally," he added, "We'd compensate you for your trouble…"
"Wait, money?" Clara frowned, interrupting.
"It's the least we can do, Mycroft said smoothly.
Clara's glare hardened. "I will not compromise Danny's memory for money. This has never been about that. It's always been finding his killer," She said firmly. "And if you think I'd bow to you, then you're more of a twit than Sherlock!" She fired back. "Now leave me alone." She then turned on her heel and walked away.
"Have it your way," Mycroft called after her. "But I do hope you'll reconsider."
But Clara didn't look back, she just kept walking, her steps becoming hurried.
The next morning, Sherlock returned to Clara's school. It was almost dawn, the building was still covered in darkness, the streetlights giving the building an eerie glow. Sherlock stared at the dark old brick building, Clara's words about Danny being found in the woods echoed in his mid, something didn't sound right.
Sherlock crouched at the metal door, working the lock with a screwdriver he'd "borrowed" from a maintenance man. There was a sharp click, and he slipped inside.
He moved quickly inside, searching through the hall until he found Danny's classroom. The door was covered in tributes, notes, flowers, taped messages. A personal shrine.
Sherlock pushed the door open, stepping into the dim room. He tugged the blinds, letting in the glow of the streetlamps outside. The classroom was untouched, desks aligned, books still stacked, Danny's nameplate crooked on his desk, frozen.
Sherlock raised his camera, snapping photos. Then he leaned over Danny's desk. Papers and a grade book lay scattered, but one page caught his eye an unfinished mark, as if
Danny had been interrupted mid-stroke. The paper was crinkled, as though clutched in a final moment. Sherlock photographed it.
By the chair, a suitcase lay face down, its name tag askew. Suspicious. He stepped back, scanning the room. That's when he noticed faint streaks on the carpet, drag marks. He knelt, studying them, and a smile tugged at his lips.
"Oh, what amateurs," He muttered under his breath.
As he rose, something gleamed beneath a stack of papers. Sherlock pulled on his glove and retrieved it, a silver war medal. Danny's war medal.
He studied it, smirking. No soldier would carelessly leave behind something like this. It was a plant. A message. Danny wanted this found.
He slid it into his pocket, "I see you, Danny." Sherlock murmured.
The pieces were slowly coming into place. Danny, grading papers. A sudden struggle, maybe? Then his body slowly dragged away. The woods were merely a cover.
Sherlock straightened, confidence gleaming from his eyes. Flipping his coat collar, he strode out of the room, softly humming.