"You, look over there. Look everywhere. Okay, spread out, please." Donovan shouted, gesturing to the officers to scout the warehouse. "Spread out!"

Clara jogged through the shelves, her flashlight swinging wildly from side to side. Sherlock had found them, well, thought he had found the children. John said it was something about chocolate and then he proceeded to rant that he wasn't going to do this anymore - he wasn't going to carry their conversations. Clara creeped between the shelves, wondering if the children had somehow crawled into the stacks of pallets. She turned around the corner and let out a squeal. "Shit, Lestrade!" She gasped, clutching her chest.

"Christ, sorry," Lestrade whispered, shining his flashlight into her face.

Clara turned around, locking eyes with Sherlock who was half crouched over a pile of rubbish. They locked eyes for a half second until they both flushed and looked away. At Dartmoor Sherlock had stopped her slipping in the mud of the moors and steadied her after a fright from one of the lab specimens. It was practically second nature. He had had to shove that instinct down, beat it into submission. It took every ounce of grim determination he possessed to not leap up there and...Sherlock shook his head. What was he going to do? Punch Lestrade? Stupid.

"This was alight moment ago," he said, looking up from the ashes he was crouched over. The information took over his brain, coming to conclusions. "They're still here!"

Clara raced off again. She stopped, picking up the sweet wrappers that littered the ground of the warehouse.

"Mercury," someone whispered. Clara turned around, looking at Sherlock who had briefly held the wrapper to his mouth.

"What?"

"The papers - they're painted with mercury." Clara covered her mouth. "Lethal...murder by remote control."

"Sherlock, It's killing them like in Hansel and Gretel, Sherlock..." Clara shook her head. No. She would not let these children die.

Clara gripped her torch tighter and kept on moving. She had to find them. Moriarty had done this, she was sure of it. No one would be as cruel as that man. A few frightened heart beats later, she found them lying on the cement. "Hey, hey, hey, I'm not going to hurt you - you're safe now," she said, trying to sound soothing. The little girl looked up at her with tearful eyes, her brother's head in her lap. His eyes were closed and his breathing looked shallow. "My name's Clara," she whispered, swallowing her panic. She stood up, shouting, "Over here!"

.

Clara exited the room, slightly rattled. She had comforted many children, usually aliens, but it was different when they were being interrogated. Claudette had just wanted to see her father and forget about the mess that had landed her brother in hospital. She was seven years old with two police officers wanting to know about the most traumatic experience she would probably ever endure. Sherlock marched forward to the door but Clara stopped him, her palm pressing into his chest. It made her heart rate spike. "She's in shock, remember, and just seven years old," Clara warned him. "So anything you can do to..."

"Not be myself," Sherlock finished. His words were cold and harsh - the complete opposite to his warm chest.

Clara stepped aside, her eyes lowered. He barely made it through the door when Claudette started screaming. Her sharp young voice filled the room with terror. "No-no, I know it's been hard for you..." Sherlock started, "Claudette, listen to me..."

"Lestrade!" Clara cried, helplessly.

"Out. Get out!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and shoved him out of the room.

Clara ran back into comfort Claudette, her heart racing. The girl was in tears and trembling like a frightened animal. Clara rubbed her arms, pulling the blanket tighter around her thin shoulders. "Everything is going to be okay..." she cooed softly.

Donovan opened the door, ushering in a uniformed police officer. "This is the liaison officer - your job is done. And I need a word. Now."

Clara gave Claudette one last reassuring squeeze before following Donovan down the hall. She hardly spared Sherlock and John a glance when she passed them. Donovan ushered Clara into Lestrade's empty office and shut the door roughly.

"What the..." Donovan pulled at her hair. "What the heck just happened?" Clara's brows drew together and she gave Donovan a sideways look. She had never seen Donovan not utter a whole sentence without insulting her. "Why did that kid scream?" She asked, pointing at the door.

Clara shrugged. "She's in shock - she nearly died and her brother is in hospital!"

"But she didn't scream at Lestrade, or you or me, or even Anderson!" Donovan spun around in anger. "So why did she react to Sherlock?"

Clara frowned deeply. She didn't like where this was going. "You can't really imagine..."

"Yes - that's exactly what I think happened."

Clara laughed, brushing it off but she stopped when she realised Donovan was deadly serious. "No," Clara replied, shaking her head. "He wouldn't."

"You have to admit he found those kids pretty damn easily with one shoe print to go off," Donovan argued, standing her ground.

"He's Sherlock Holmes!" Clara threw her hands up in the air in exasperation.

Donovan took a step towards her. "None of our guys could have done it."

"That's because he's better," Clara countered, teeth bared.

"Is it?" Donovan asked, her voice sharp and determined. "Hasn't he been acting strange - well, stranger - lately?" Clara looked away, refusing to answer. "Yeah," Donovan nodded, "One minute you two never shut up and now he won't even look in your direction."

"He didn't do this to these children," Clara shouted, her words shrill with desperation. "I know Sherlock - he couldn't have done this!"

"I'm sorry Clara, but the evidence just doesn't add up." With that she strode out, leaving Clara defeated and alone in the office.

.

Sherlock stalked into 221B, ripping off his scarf and pulling off his coat with considerable force. He flung them at the hooks on the wall, not caring that they crumpled to the floor. He had gotten into a taxi from Scotland Yard, needing to think. The little screen blaring useless ads had been disrupting his thoughts but the cab driver had refused to turn it off. The screen had flickered, revealing a sinister film of Moriarty retelling a story of Sir Boast-A-Lot and his demise. It was a cruel metaphor and even more shocking when Moriarty had been the driver. He had a sinking feeling that every step he made was just a useless attempt to crawl out of the trap Moriarty had laid around him. Everywhere he turned was another locked door, another pit of death to fall into.

Sherlock had sprinted after the cab after he had stupidly demanded to get out. But a stranger had tackled him to the curb when another car threatened to run him over. Sherlock had shaken his hand innocently and a second later this man had been shot dead. John was there a few seconds later, explaining about the assassins living about their flat.

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn't come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive," Sherlock prattled, sitting at the table and sliding John's laptop towards him. "I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me..."

"...the others kill them before they can get it," John finished, gazing out the window.

Sherlock tapped on the laptop, bringing up the wifi networks surrounding them. There were a multitude, all in foreign languages. "All of the attention is focussed on me. There's a surveillance web closing in on us right now."

Sherlock's mind drifted, back to the Doctor when he had first met Clara when she couldn't work out the wifi. Clara once had not known how to use a USB but now she could probably hack into Mycroft's laptop remotely. Sherlock shook his head, he shouldn't think about Clara. Not now when...when things were difficult.

"You're thinking about her," John said. He hadn't even diverted his gaze from the street outside. Sherlock stiffened, pretending to type on the laptop. "You can't just ignore her and hope she disappears, Sherlock," John insisted, crossing his arms. The vein twitched in his temple. This was serious then. "She's right in the thick of this - whether you like it or not."

Sherlock avoided John's stare and walked towards the hall. "We need to ask about the dusting. MRS HUDSON!" He shouted with an added edge of bitterness.

.

"Lestrade," Clara demanded, her tone bewildered. "Lestrade," she repeated with double the force.

"What do you want me to do, Clara?" He asked, kicking the tire of his car. His voice echoing around the parking lot. "I'm up to here in shit right now," he continued, holding his hand up to his neck, "And this is the last straw."

"You can't honestly believe-"

"Yes! I do," Lestrade interjected. "Yes, no, I don't know - but you have to admit that it is plausible."

"Sherlock wouldn't-"

Lestrade rubbed his face, closing his eyes for a brief second. "I've known Sherlock for years and Donovan was, is right - one day we will be standing around a body and he will have put it there."

Clara took a step back. What was happening? Why was everyone turning on Sherlock? Why was everyone turning on her? "This is just Donovan and Anderson getting inside your head!" She snapped.

"This is above my head now," he countered, shrugging and finally opening the door, "I'm just following orders." He got in the driver's seat and Clara reluctantly slid into the passenger side.

They drove to 221B in silence, Clara drowning in her thoughts. They were going to arrest Sherlock. They were going to arrest the one man who actually had a chance against Moriarty. They were sealing their own deaths. Clara felt, above all, alone. Mycroft, the Doctor, Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Donovan...they all disagreed with her. She had no one to turn to, not even her precious Cheekbones. Clara got out, slamming the door and glaring at the flashing lights on the police cars. They really did think he was a kidnapper. Lestrade and Donovan both beat her up the stairs.

"Don't barge in like that!" Mrs Hudson scolded, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. Clara offered her a brief apologetic smile before rushing after the detectives.

"Have you got a warrant?" John demanded. Clara had never seen him so angry. It made her chest warm with pride.

Clara walked over to Sherlock. He was putting on his coat and scarf calmly. "Sherlock..." she started, not sure what to say. "You can't just let them-"

"Yes, Clara. I can," he replied, voice smooth as silk. "It's okay," he added, though Clara barely heard it over her own heartbeat.

An armed officer clicked a pair of handcuffs around his left wrist. "Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade declared, "I am arresting you on the suspicion of abduction and kidnapping." The cuff closed around his other wrist, pinning his arms behind his back.

"He's not resisting," John blurted. He looked at Clara, at anyone, desperately. "Clara?" But she was as helpless as him.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock murmured.

"No, it's not alright - this is ridiculous!"

Lestrade motioned for the officer to march Sherlock down the stairs. Mrs Hudson was sniffling by the door. John took a step towards Lestrade, brows lowered, "You know you don't have to do-"

"Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too," Lestrade snarled, before stomping down the stairs. Clara rubbed Mrs Hudson's arm before following. She was not going to let Sherlock or Lestrade out of her sight.

The night air and damp pavement welcomed them outside and Clara immediately beelined for Lestrade. "It's Sherlock, Greg - you cannot be serious," she hissed, her breath creating a warm cloud in the chilly air.

"I can't just click my heels three times and spin in a circle and wish for this to go away - all the evidence points to him. My career is practically ruined, so go and badger somebody else!"

Clara gritted her teeth and stormed away, heading back to her door. She would ring Mycroft, yes, that was a good plan. She stopped in her tracks when the pudgy Chief wandered out of 221B with a bloody handkerchief pressed to his nose. A second later John was escorted over to Sherlock and they were handcuffed together. "John?!" She exclaimed. She would not be able to bail them both out! "Christ," she muttered to herself. This was the worst night of her life. Clara shook her head and searched her pockets for her phone.

Suddenly, the police car radios erupted in a high pitched squeal of feedback, as well as the earpieces the uniformed police officers had. Their legs crumpled as the pain seemed to take over their entire bodies. Sherlock reached over, yanking John's hand with him and snatched a pistol from the nearest officer. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, waving the firearm, "will you all please get on your knees."

"For fuck's sake," Greg barked. He stumbled to the ground when Sherlock let off two shots into the air.

"Now would be good!" He lowered it, pointing at the barrel at the officers.

"Do as he says!" Lestrade growled, finally relenting. The men and women started to back away and kneel, albeit slowly.

The gun finally turned onto her. Clara arched a brow. Really Cheekbones? This was going to go down well later. His eyes narrowed and glinted with amusement. It wasn't every day you got to threaten someone with a gun. No exceptions. Clara drew in a breath, biting her cheek. She eventually kneeled, her stockings becoming damp.

"Just-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a...you know..." John struggled for words, his hand dangling uselessly underneath the pistol.

"My hostage," Sherlock finished, loudly. He proceeded to place the barrel flush to John's head. They backed around the corner and that was the last Clara saw of them.