This story is also on Fanfiction. Penname: ItsAKiliThing

---

Thank-you to Ariane DeVere at livejournal for the transcript of the episodes.

---

I created the cover image using pictures online and collage apps.

---

I do not own the Sherlock or Doctor Who universes or characters.

---

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." - Sherlock Holmes

---

Clara Oswald was young, hardworking and going absolutely nowhere. She had left the kind hearted family she had babysat for and moved straight to London on a whim. She was dreaming of a fairy tale life. She would get an amazing job at a wonderful school and marry a man or a woman who she would love for the rest of her life.

Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Clara set her two suitcases down on the gritty floor and grimaced at her new flat. It was practically a basement. There was hardly any natural light casted over the small kitchenette or the tinsy living room. Mrs Hudson, the nice old land lady was absolutely delighted that Clara had moved in. She was practically hovering two inches above the ground as she led Clara through the flat. "I can't thank you enough for moving in here Miss Oswald, no one else would take it." Mrs Hudson sighed fiddling with her flowery apron.

"Once I get it all fixed up and a few er, womanly touches, it should be good as new!" Clara tried to smile happily, but the enormity of the job was slowly sinking into her head. "Oh and call me Clara, I can't stand it when I'm reminded of my unmarried status," She chuckled, trying to humour the old woman.

Mrs Hudson squeezed Clara's arm. "Oh, you're a funny one Clara! God knows we need a bit of laughter here on Baker Street," She gushed, frowning at the ground. "There's a single man upstairs but..." She trailed off, making a face. "He's a bit strange. He means well, I think – but don't be surprised if some god awful noise wakes you up in the middle of the night. He's always doing experiments."

Clara nodded slightly. She was a tad confused by Mrs Hudson's gossip. Mrs Hudson left her in the dingy flat, muttering about groceries. Clara let herself sigh loudly before getting on with it. Today, she would find out if manual labour and her would ever get on. She picked up a pair of old runners that were sitting oddly in the middle of the carpet and shoved them into the bin. She tore down the dusty curtains, sparking a coughing fit out of her. She threw the mouldy food out of the fridge and wiped down all the surfaces she could get her hands on. Finally, Clara smacked on a pair of rubber gloves and decided to brave the bathroom.

She actually felt pretty proud of herself after a few hours of hard work. The furniture truck came and some nice lads helped her move her bed in. 221C was looking ship shape as Clara smoothed her hand over her little desk and flattened a colourful rug across the floor. She snatched her laptop from on top of her suitcase and curled up on her bad amongst the purple and blue pillows. She scrolled through online newspapers lazily, searching for anything that vaguely resembled teacher, nanny or tutor positions. There was absolutely nothing that Clara could apply for. She laid back closing her eyes and cursing her brain for putting this fantasy into her head. Of course London wasn't magical! What a silly idea, to think moving to the city would do her any good.

Clara absentmindedly clicked onto Skype. She tried calling her father, but he didn't answer. He was always a weeper - cried at everything. He even shed a few tears when her pet goldfish was found belly up at the top of the bowl. Clara figured he was probably in a bit of denial at her moving, but they both knew it was time. Clara logged off, but she must have clicked the wrong button because her screen lit up with the outline of a man.

"Hello?" Clara asked nervously. She sat up a bit, her body on high alert.

"Who are you?" A deep voice responded, the stranger came and sat right in front of the screen. He had a long pale face and a mop of dark curls. "I can't see you."

"What do you mean you can't see me?" Clara muttered. She started fiddling with her laptops buttons, cursing her horrible technology skills. All previous worry was shoved to the side as she poked at her laptop. "I can see you."

"I was trying to Skype John," He said, lip curling in frustration. His intelligent grey eyes – or were they light blue? – sharpened and oh, the cheekbones!

"Who's John?" Clara wondered aloud.

"My flat mate. Who are you?" The stranger sniffed and proceeded to wobble his laptop roughly.

"None of your business," Clara told him, her chin jutting back. "Who are you?"

"None of your business," the man replied, sitting back in his chair. He considered the laptop with obvious irritation. Clara couldn't tell much from his surroundings – ghastly wallpaper, a few strange trinkets but, was that a skull?

"Is that a skull on your mantelpiece?" She demanded. This handsome stranger was turning out to be quite interesting.

"Friend of mine," he said stiffly, "Not important."

"Bet he was a nice bloke," Clara murmured under her breath, smiling in awe. "Why are you skyping me?"

The man sighed and rolled his eyes boldly. "I was trying to Skype John, do keep up. No why can't I see you? All I tell is that you're female and English!"

"Is he your flat mate or your flat mate?" Clara asked, her eyebrows wiggling even though he couldn't see it. Now she was really enjoying this.

"He has a girlfriend. Now why can't I see you? I need to deduce something!" He slammed his fingers on the edge of the desk and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Whoa, Cheekbones, don't cut yourself," Clara giggled.

"Cheekbones," the man protested. He felt his face, a furrow appearing between his brows. This only made Clara laugh even more.

"Careful dear, you might poke someone's eyes out. Anyway, what did you mean by deduce?"

He sat forward, ready to show off. "I can read people, observe things others can't. Now why can't I see you?" He squinted up at the camera. Clara got up and carried the laptop to the kitchen and propped it up onto the toaster.

"Broken camera, bad hair, take your pick," she offered, filling the kettle up with water and lighting the gas stove. She peered at the mysterious man. What a strange day. She was surprisingly curious about him. He was odd, but in a good way – she hoped.

The man flicked his head away in annoyance. "Not helpful," he sneered, eyes twinkling.

Clara squirmed in the kitchen, hardly being able to keep the smile off her face. "So is there a word for a total screaming genius that sounds modest but a tiny bit sexy?" She asked.

The stranger gave a lopsided smile. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

Clara grinned. "I see what you did there."

"So what have you been doing other than skyping a total stranger?" He tried to sound nonchalant but Clara could tell in his face that he was desperate for an answer.

"Moving, job-hunting, baking soufflés?" She suggested, glancing at the ingredients set up in the cupboard. She took the shrill kettle off the stove and poured the bubbling water into a teacup. "You?"

"Observing, deducing and solving crimes," he replied casually.

"Oh! A detective; your girlfriend must be so pleased," Clara told him brightly.

"Consulting detective," He corrected, eye twitching. "And before you ask, I consider myself married to my work."

"Shame," Clara sighed, sipping her tea. "I'm depressingly single."

"Gathered."

Clara stared in shock at the laptop screen. "How?"

"You flirting," Sherlock Holmes stated with smug logic.

"Everyone flirts," Clara argued, "Even married people!"

"Married people flirt differently," Sherlock explained. He rolled his eyes, as if it was obvious.

"Just admit that your blank laptop screen is totally turning you on," Clara said quickly, breath hitching in excitement. She bit her lip but Holmes's expression didn't change. She was a tad put off.

"John is back, I have to go," He said. Clara heard a door slam through the speakers.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes," She uttered dismally. All the exhilaration disappeared.

"Goodbye Soufflé Girl."

The call ended and Clara felt that her flat was oddly silent. Who was this mysterious Sherlock Holmes? She typed through a message with her number on it, just because. She had no friends in London, and a handsome stranger through Skype was her best bet. He was probably on the other side of England, hell, maybe even the other side of the world! If only she knew that he was slumped on the couch directly above her.