"And how is my favourite detective going?" Clara said cheerily into her phone, despite the heated conversation she had just escaped. Clara's smile vanished as Lestrade spoke quickly into her ear. "Kidnapping?!" She exclaimed, her feet speeding up as she trotted down the street. She stuck her hand out, hailing a cab. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there."

Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the United States of America had two children, Max and Claudette, enrolled at a posh boarding school, St Aldate's, in Surrey. It had been the last day of school, but Bruhl was still in Washington, so the two kids and some others remained. They had just vanished overnight. The ambassador had asked for Sherlock...the Reichenbach Hero. Clara's heels crunched across the gravel. The school was definitely grand: trimmed hedges, immaculate lawns and wrought iron gates. "Clara, hi," Lestrade said, hands on hips and looking grave. He frowned. "Where's Sherlock?"

Clara's chin jutted back defensively. "Why should I know?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Whatever, I'll go get him. You two and your bloody rows..." he trailed off, muttering angrily. He sped away in one of the unmarked police cars.

Clara shook her head and walked up to Donovan, who looked surlier than usual. "They haven't been seen since last night," she said stiffly. Donovan nodded at a whimpering woman leaning on the hood of the police car. "That's the Housemother, Miss Mackenzie."
Clara swallowed uneasily. "This is awful."

"Yeah well, shit happens." Donovan crossed her arms, "So...Lestrade said you're the unofficial social worker."
"Not a social worker, just a comforting presence really," Clara corrected. She had a teaching qualification but definitely not any actual social worker training.

"Well, I think your comforting presence is needed," Donovan said sharply.

Clara's smile didn't meet her eyes as she gave Donovan one last glance. She walked over to the House Mistress carefully, nodding at the police officer who was cradling a box of tissues for the older lady. "Go easy," the constable murmured as Clara went past. "Miss Mackenzie," Clara greeted, a small smile on her face. "I'm Clara, Clara Oswald."

"Hello," Miss Mackenzie warbled, blowing her nose. Her great blue eyes were overflowing with tears that tracked down her wrinkled face. "Are you a detective?"
"No, I'm not in the police." She tentatively placed her hand on Miss Mackenzie's trembling ones. "Now, is there anything you'd like to tell me before a detective comes over?" Miss Mackenzie shook her head, reaching for another tissue. "How about a nice cuppa then, eh?"

The young constable volunteered to trek to the staff room.

"Your husband's a detective - I saw him in the paper," Miss Mackenzie said, her chin wobbling. "Is he coming to arrest me?"

"No, no, no, of course not," Clara replied, her mind still wrapping around the statement. "You're not in any trouble at all; this is not your fault."

"Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night!"

Clara looked up, aghast, as Sherlock started shouting at the poor House Mistress. He'd suddenly appeared, face taut with anger. "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?"

"Sherlock," Clara warned, her voice rising.

He ignored her and ripped the shock blanket from Miss Mackenzie's shoulders. "Now quickly, tell me!"

"All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

Sherlock's face softened and his hands rested gently on her shoulders. "I do, I just wanted you to speak quickly." He straightened and started to head to the school. "Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now."

"Sherlock," Clara barked, running after him. "You nearly gave her a heart attack, hey! You listen to-"

Sherlock whirled around so fast that Clara had to skid to a stop on the gravel. "You kept me in jail for eight hours," he growled, teeth bared.

"Some kids just got kidnapped - you really want to do this now?"

"Aren't you meant to be comforting someone?" He snapped. Then blinked, as if in surprise. His eyes narrowed. "What did he do?"

Clara frowned. "What?"

"You've talked to Mycroft."
Clara gritted her teeth. Stupid detective making stupid deductions. "So?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, seething. "Your hands," he allowed. Clara looked at her hands, turning them over. "You've been biting your nails more than usual, recently too - clearly somebody has been agitating you...oh." Sherlock stopped talking. He motioned to Lestrade, who stalked over. "Get her out of here, back to Baker Street."

"What?" Clara yelled, eyes flashing.

"You said no to the deal."

"Obviously," Clara replied. "I'm not leaving - we've been over this."

"I can't have you involved,' Sherlock said. He'd told her so many times, couldn't she just get the message? "I don't know when or where Moriarty will strike."

"Okay kids!" Lestrade shouted, silencing them. "I am not having anymore of this bollocks. Can we please just get these children back to their father, yeah?" Clara and Sherlock glared at each other. They muttered something in reply. "Sorry?" Lestrade said, his voice laced with annoyance. "Yes," they told him, somewhat reluctantly.

"Good, now let's get on with it."

Lestrade led them to the dormitories, an uncomfortable silence surrounding them. Clara kept on trying to look at Sherlock, see what was curling behind his eyes but he always flicked his head away at the last second. They went to the girls' dormitory first. It was nice, but any six-grand-a-term boarding house would be. Sherlock was already dropping to his knees and peering underneath the bed.

"The intruder must have been hidden inside some place," Lestrade said, turning around, surveying the room.

"Where's John?" Clara asked, realising he wasn't there.

"Lunch date," Sherlock said, sniffing reproachfully. He didn't look at her as he answered. Clara opened the wooden trunk at the edge of the bed and rifled through the stuffed animals and sporting gear. There was a massive brown envelope stamped shut with a beautiful red wax seal. It was already broken, so Clara let the hard covered book slide out into her hands. It was 'Grimm's Fairy Tales'. She silently handed the envelope and book to Sherlock for inspection. He flicked through the pages and handed it back without a word.

"Show me where the brother slept," Sherlock murmured.

The next dorm was smaller, with only a few beds. Clara opened the cupboard, looking over the school uniforms and rumpled jumpers gravely. Sherlock went to the head of the bed, pointing at the frosted glass in the door. "The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

"Okay, so..." Lestrade prodded.

"So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." Sherlock pushed the door aside and stood on the outside. He raised his hand as if it were a gun. It was plausible. "What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" He walked around the bed, noting all the boy's possessions with his sharp eyes. "This little boy; this particular little boy..." He pointed at the bedside table which was overflowing with books. "Who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

"He'd leave a sign?" Clara offered, biting her lip.

Sherlock started sniffing. He snorted in air like a dog, smelling a forgotten cricket bat, the beside table. He reached underneath the bed and pulled out a bottle. "Linseed oil..." he murmured. He glanced at Lestrade. "Get Anderson."

.

They shut the wooden shutters on the windows and turned off all the lights. Anderson stood in the doorway, crumpled white overalls zipped up to his throat. Sherlock held up the bar of ultra violet light, waving it across the wall. 'HELP US' was written across the wall, messy and splattered but clear enough. Clara's stomach curled. The poor kids.

"Linseed oil, not much use," Anderson yawned. "Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper."

"Brilliant, Anderson," Sherlock said, moving the light across the bed.

"Really?" Anderson jolted in surprise.

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." Sherlock pointed at the floor, shining the light across the boards. Several sets of footprints were illuminated, some larger than others.

"A trail..." Clara murmured, bending down to look closer. She frowned. The shapes were funny, some were only half moons of imprint. "On what, tiptoe?"

"Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head." They followed the footsteps out the door and into the hall. "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."

"That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here," Anderson drawled, crossing his arms. "Tells us nothing after all."

"You're right, Anderson - absolutely nothing," Sherlock said, giving Anderson a dark look. "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace." Sherlock reached up and tore down the black sheet covering the window. Sunlight flooded in, making everyone blink quickly. Sherlock knelt down next to one of the footprints, fishing out his wallet of tools and a small plastic petri dish. He was smiling as he scraped at the wood and filling the container. Clara wanted to crouch beside him, laugh quietly while scolding him for being too happy when there were lives at stake. But she didn't. She looked at the ground, at her shoes, then turned on her heel and followed Lestrade back to Scotland Yard.

.

"Molly!" Sherlock cried, marching along the corridor with John walking swiftly beside him. John was much too eager to solve this case; obviously the date hadn't gone well.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out." She had her bag and coat on. Cardigan done up crookedly, long hair in a neat ponytail and a line between her brows - Molly Hooper never looked any different.

Sherlock swivelled her around so they were facing the door to the lab. "No you're not."

"I've got a lunch date," Molly protested.

"Cancel it," Sherlock said, walking forward. Why did everybody have lunch dates today? "You're having lunch with me." He pulled out a bag of crisps from each pocket and waved them in the air.

Molly made a face and stopped following. "What?"

Sherlock stuffed the crisps back into his coat. "Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends - we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty." He turned and smiled back at Molly.

"It's Moriarty?" John uttered, face turning paler.

"'Course it's Moriarty!"

"Er, Jim actually wasn't my boyfriend," Molly said, her voice feeble but trying to be confident. She wrung her hands together as she spoke. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." He pulled out the bag of crisps again as though it was much more enticing than anything else on the planet. Molly stared at him in utter bewilderment, her mouth parted in surprise.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock didn't even look up from the microscope as Molly struggled through the door with an armload of textbooks. The sole of the shoe was like a passport. All the chemical traces had been preserved, and if they were lucky, they would be able to see what the suspect had been up to. "I need that analysis," Sherlock muttered, twisting the knobs on the microscope.

Molly snapped on a pair of gloves and let litmus paper rest in a sample. It turned blue instantly. "Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."
"Yes."

Molly rolled her eyes, glowering at the lab table.

An hour passed, then another. Sherlock had discovered the first four components present on the shoe: chalk, asphalt, brick dust and vegetation. The last one was a glycerol molecule and it had stumped him. Sherlock was muttering useless thoughts aloud about the case, his 'mental notes'. It would drive Clara mad, but she'd never leave. Sherlock smiled, remembering that she would occasionally add to them like they shared a verbal shopping list.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Molly said, looking down at the vial she was tipping into another. "Clara, I mean." Sherlock stilled, trying to appear unruffled. He didn't say anything. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." She smashed her eyes shut in embarrassment. "No, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock remarked.

Molly shuddered, brushing the comment off. "When he was...dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly..."

"You look sad..." Her eyes flicked to John who was on the other side of the room, "When you think he can't see you. But..." Molly trailed off, her mouth pressing into a line.

"What?" Sherlock was interested but he didn't dare allow the impression that he was genuinely hanging onto her every word.

"You, you don't smile when she's around. Not really, not like you just did before. I mean, you do smile but your eyes look sad. You look..." She struggled to find the right word. "Sorry - you look happy but sorry." She wasn't making much sense and seemed to realise it herself. "Are you okay?" Sherlock opened his mouth but Molly interrupted him. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad and sorry and happy when no one can see you. Well..." Sherlock could feel his heart tattooing in his chest. "I think Clara can, but...she's confused."

"But you can see me," Sherlock butted in, looking up at her.

"I don't count." This made Sherlock blink, his heart skipping a beat. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She flinched at her word choice, shaking her head. "No, I just mean...I mean if there's anything you need...it's fine."

Sherlock felt shaken, like his defences had been stripped away. "Wh-what-what, what could I need from you?"

Molly shrugged, turning back to him. "Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually." Her voice was much more assertive as she regained her composure.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "...thank you," he finally choked out, the words unfamiliar in his mouth.

Molly started to walk to the door, her long ponytail swishing away. "I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" She shook her head already knowing the answer. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll..."

"I know you don't." The door swung shut behind her.