Just like defeating, or at least decreasing the threat of Moriarty, Baker Street was exhausted. John had his job which kept him out of the house and since Sherlock was in a state of mourning for the Irene case, they just ambled between 221A and 221B like forgotten waifs. Clara was lolling in Sherlock's armchair one morning, sipping tea lazily, when John had an epiphany.

"Clara?" His voice held a question.

"Mmm."

"Can I mention you on my blog?" He cleared his throat, turning the laptop round. "You see, I think I'm dropping in followers. It might spice things up a bit?"

Clara gaped. Her eyes flicked from him to the screen and back again."I thought you'd already mentioned me?"

"Hardly - Mycroft wanted me to keep you out of it, but if you'll let me..."

"Sherlock!" Cara suddenly screeched. The door had banged open and Sherlock stood sentinel-like in the doorway, splattered from head to toe in blood and holding a harpoon. He looked murderous and...slightly ridiculous. All this while Clara and thought he was still asleep in his bedroom.

"Well that was tedious," Sherlock muttered, clearly vexed.

John's hands had stilled an inch above the keyboard. "You went on the tube like that?"

"None of the cabs would take me."

"I'm not surprised," Clara scoffed, as Sherlock marched into his bedroom. "Don't put blood on the carpet!" She called out, half heartedly. They heard the shower creak and the pipes rattle as Sherlock cleaned himself up. When he finished, John brought up the issue of the blog again.

"I think I should put Clara on the blog," John said as Sherlock shook his wet curls. "Wouldn't do any harm plus I reckon the readers will like it - someone to connect with, you know?"

"A workaholic who looks after a crime-solving sociopath for a living?" Sherlock flicked his eyebrows, "Great idea."

"Do you really need to," Clara sighed. "It's not like I'm directly involved in the crime solving bit. I just tag along."

"Clara, you are an integral part of closing cases," Sherlock abruptly said. "Put her in the blog."

Clara's mouth fell open. "Was that a compliment?" She shut her jaw with a snap, realising she probably looked like a cod fish. Sherlock just shrugged and paced to and fro while clutching the harpoon with white knuckles. "Must be Christmas," Clara decided.

"Don't be stupid, that was last month," Sherlock grumbled. He hated Christmas. Mrs Hudson had tried to make him wear antlers.

Clara rolled her eyes. He didn't mean it but she could tell something was stressing him. He'd have out with it in a second or two. John moped off downstairs, muttering about biscuits. "I need some," Sherlock spat, his hands shaking and toes jittering. His eyes held crazed intensity "Clara - get me some."

"No," she told him, calmly. She crossed her arms. "Cold turkey, remember? We agreed, no matter what." Sherlock lent the harpoon against the table. His face twisted in disgust. God, he was desperate. "Anyway, you paid everyone off in a two mile radius. No one is going to sell you any."

"What a stupid idea - whose idea was that?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "Mrs Hudson's, of course."

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yelled at the closed door. His teeth were bared angrily.

"You're doing really well, Sherlock," Clara insisted. He hadn't had a cigarette in a two weeks. Even though it made him moody, insufferable and frantic - John and Clara applauded his efforts. It was the best he'd done, ever.

"Tell me where they are," Sherlock demanded, rummaging in the draws of the desk. Papers flew above his head and wafted to the floor. He shoved the stapler and pens onto the floor. The old newspapers fluttered to the ground. He whirled round, shooting Clara the most pleasing look he could muster - watery, puppy eyes and parted lips. "Please," he uttered, dismally.

Clara wriggled in her seat. He knew, the bastard, he knew this look worked on her. Take that Irene Adler, she thought, knowing she just made Sherlock beg. Clara didn't let her face soften, though she urged to. "No, sorry."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," Sherlock bargained. Clara chuckled loudly as she got up and started gathering the paperwork. "It was worth a try."

Inspired, Sherlock pounced underneath the coffee table beside the unlit fireplace. He unearthed a dusty slipper and ratted around inside it. Clara gasped when he managed to find one, slightly bent, cigarette. "A-ha!" Sherlock tucked it in his mouth and reached for his lighter.

"No!" Clara shrieked and launched herself at him. She managed to pry his hand away from his dressing hand pocket and accidentally flung the lighter across the room.

They shared a look.

"Sherlock," Clara warned. His eyes sharpened. She gritted her teeth.

Clara scrambled towards the shining silver object, pushing Sherlock aside. He grabbed the back of her dress, making her yelp. Clara trudged forward anyway, eye on the prize. Sherlock went to overtake her but Clara shoved him into John's chair and they both went sprawling overboard. Clara shuffled on hands and knees towards the green couch where the lighter rested underneath. Sherlock grabbed her ankle so she kicked him in the shoulder. He brushed it off, and they both shot to their feet. Sherlock, in his desperation to reach the stupid lighter, lost his footing on the bunched up carpet and took Clara down with him again.

"Christ," Sherlock wheezed, as Clara landed on top of him. Her body obstructed his view but they both grappled for the lighter anyway. Their hands knocked together underneath the couch.

"Ooh-ooh!" Mrs Hudson had pottered in. "I was just saying to John that...Oh dear."

"This is not what it looks like, Mrs Hudson!" Clara squeaked, her voice muffled by embarrassment. She doubted the old lady heard a thing.

"Blimey." John stood in the doorway, flabbergasted.

"Get off!" Sherlock growled because breathing was becoming an issue. Clara rolled over and before he could, snatched the lighter and held it up as evidence.

Understanding washed over Mrs Hudson and John's faces. "Sherlock, you were doing great!" John protested.

Sherlock just sneered reproachfully. Clara plucked the dusty cigarette that was pressed between his lips and pocketed it roughly. They glared daggers at each other. Point 1 to Oswald.

"Tea, anyone?" John proposed, trying to vanquish the awkward silence.

"I need something stronger than tea, seven per cent stronger," Sherlock snarled, twirling the harpoon between his fingers. Clara brushed herself off, insufferable addict. He aimed the harpoon at Mrs Hudson, brimming with deductions. She flinched. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again."

"Pardon?" Mrs Hudson rested a hand over her heart.

"Sandwich shop. New dress. But there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking." His eyes flicked to her wrinkled hands. "Tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don't we?" Everyone looked appalled, for slightly different reasons. Sherlock sniffed loudly, snorting in air. "Mmm: 'Kasbah Nights.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."

"Please," Mrs Hudson said, exasperated. At least he dropped the harpoon.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee," Sherlock continued. "He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about." Everyone gaped and Mrs Hudson was on the brink of having a seizure. "Well...nobody except me."

"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't," Mrs Hudson exclaimed, angry blotches appearing on her cheeks. She stormed out of the room.

"Apologise!" John demanded as soon as Mrs Hudson was out of earshot.

"Oh John, how I envy you." Sherlock sighed and curled up in his chair, hugging his legs like a petulant child. John and Clara exchanged glances. Was this bait? Sherlock did love a good argument.

"Envy me?"

"Your mind: it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad." John was so annoyed that he went back downstairs to steal food off of Mrs Hudson. Clara was left with an addict in severe withdrawal. "I need a case!" Sherlock yelled, stamping his feet.

"You just solved one!" Clara replied, matching his voice. "By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!"

Sherlock's hands drummed on the armrests. "That was this morning, when's the next one?"

"Nothing on the website?" Clara offered, trying to quench his thirst for a good murder.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and collected John's laptop from the table and shoved it into Clara's hands. He started narrating the comment on his blog as Clara scanned through it. "'Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?'" His voice turned light and he flapped his hands in the air.

"Bluebell?"

He clasped the bridge of his nose. "A rabbit, Clara!"

"Oh," was all Clara could say.

"Ah, but there's more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous ..." Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm. He took on the high-pitched breathless voice of a little girl as he said, "'like a fairy' according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ..." He stopped in the kitchen, jaw dropping. "Ah! What am I saying? This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

"Are you serious?" Clara's brows drew together worriedly.

"It's this or it's Cluedo," Sherlock muttered.

"Aha, no," Clara said, shutting the laptop with a snap. That terrible game where Sherlock had been so difficult Clara ended up stabbing the board to the wall. "We are never playing that again."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."

Sherlock gave her a look. "It was the only possible solution."

"It's not in the rules," Clara sang. She waltzed into the kitchen with her empty teacup.

"Then the rules are wrong!" Sherlock spat furiously. The short ring of the doorbell stopped their chatter. Clara paused. Maximum pressure for the least amount of time. Single ring. Client.

.

You need to leave, Sherlock was staring at her. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Clara frowned. Excuse me?

Henry Knight, the slightly strange but sort of nice client was sitting in their living room as a documentary on Dartmoor was playing. It showed dramatised clips of Baskerville, the research centre and spooky moors. Something killed Henry's father one dreadful night when Henry was just nine. The little Henry on the television held up a drawing of red eyed, fiery monster.

He likes you, Sherlock rolled his eyes, it's directly affecting the interview. Clara stifled a laugh. Cheekbones, you cannot be serious, she seemed to say. Sherlock gave her a pleading look with steely eyes. He'll exaggerate this absurd tale even more if you don't leave the room.

Sighing, Sherlock picked up the remote and turned the television off. "So what did you see?" He asked, referring to what the Henry on the TV had said, something about knowing what killed his father.

"Oh, um...I was just about to say," he pointed at the black screen.

Sherlock scratched his jaw lazily. "I like to do my own editing."

"Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me." Henry rather ungraciously pulled out a stained paper napkin and blew his nose loudly.

"In your own time," Clara said, forcing a smile.

"Yes, but quite quickly," Sherlock added.

Henry lowered the napkin and twisted it in his hands. "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr Holmes?"

"No."

"It's an amazing place. It's like nowhere else. It's sort of ... bleak but beautiful." On the last word he smiled sheepishly at Clara. Sherlock gave her a look - whatever, she told him with a flick of her hair. But I'm not leaving - you said so yourself, I'm an integral part of case solving.

Even if this absurd story has an ounce of truth, I'm never going to get it if he's ogling at you, Sherlock latched her with a glare.

I. Am. Not. Leaving. Clara quirked a brow. A challenge.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. Clara's stomach sunk. Henry was rabbiting on about something uninteresting about the moors but Sherlock, bloody Sherlock interrupted him. "Darling?" he asked, in his normal gravelly voice but somehow it sounded doting. He was looking at Clara. She cleared her throat, forcing a smile. Her eyes were filled with muted panic. Sherlock looked at his watch, his brows drawing together. "Shouldn't you be going? Night shift today, isn't it?"

John looked like he was about to have kittens. All the hope had disappeared from Henry's eyes. Clara got up, clicking her phone on and off again. "Oh, you're right. Better be off!" She walked around Sherlock's chair, trailing a hand across his shoulders and gripped a curl of his hair tightly. "Ah, but I left my wallet at work. Can I have some money for a cab?"

Sherlock didn't move until Clara gave his hair a sharp, angry tug. "Certainly," he muttered and fished out his own wallet. He went to giver her a tenner but Clara swooped in and snatched the fifty-pound note.

Clara smiled, pocketing the money. "See you later, nice meeting you Henry!" She walked down the stairs, infuriated. Insufferable detective, know-it-all, melodramatic show off, Clara stalked into Speedy's and ordered a very strong cup of tea. She started texting John, knowing he would be asking a million questions. She explained that Sherlock thought her presence would persuade Henry to be more impressive in his story telling. When John texted back, Clara slammed her phone down onto the table. He agreed.

"Clara!"

"Doctor!"

Lanky, floppy hair and elbow patches on his blazer - The Doctor. He read her face and sat down immediately, turning grave. "Oh bollocks, what has he done now?" He folded his long legs underneath the table.

Clara flicked her hair, sniffing. "Nothing." She sighed heavily. "Nothing."

"Sunsets? Aliens?"

Clara scrunched her nose. She wasn't feeling it today, the whole space adventure thing. She was about to answer when the teenage girl, who waitressed at the cafe came up to her. "Are you...Clara, from Dr Watson's blog? I mean, I've seen you and Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes in here sometimes and I just read the new blog post and..." The girl trailed off her cheeks blooming like two red tomatoes.

Clara gaped. That was quick. "Um, yeah...I guess I am."

The girl smiled and the piercing in her lip curled upwards. "Can I have a photograph?" She pulled out a tatty smartphone from her apron,

The Doctor straightened his bowtie - worried and impressed. A confusing expression. "Okay," Clara said. The girl leaned down and held the phone in front of their faces. Clara smiled, albeit awkwardly. The girl thanked her and went to hide behind the coffee machine.

The Doctor fiddled with his bow tie, a smile playing on his features. "Am I in the presence of royalty?"

Clara swatted him halfheartedly. "Can I borrow your ID badge?"

The Doctor frowned. It was a question that came out of the blue. "Why?"

Clara's shoulders shifted up and down. She held out her hand. "To wreck havoc?" She offered. The Doctor raised a delicate eyebrow. Clara exhaled, looking away. "I just want to annoy Mycroft, okay?"

His eyes sharpened and his mouth drew into a thin line. "Fine." Clara's glare was too much for him. He ratted inside his jacket and slapped the leather pocket on her palm. "But only because I like you."

Clara grinned and pocketed it. This would be fun. She picked up her phone as it blipped. Text from John. Wow. They were accepting the case - the case Henry Knight had scuttled to 221B about. They were going to Dartmoor! Wherever that was. Clara glanced up. "Hey, um, Doctor?" The beginning of a favour graced her words. The Doctor frowned. He wasn't a taxi service. But those pleading brown eyes...