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Clara couldn't control her knee as it jittered up and down as she sat in the courtroom seat in the gallery. She could see Moriarty, leisurely chewing gum, his suit impeccable and hair combed back perfectly. She remembered the red dots from snipers he had ordered and how they burned across her collarbone. She remembered tapping out Morse code behind her back while she fooled him with a wall of words. She remembered knowing that if her death resulted in Sherlock living, she would have (and would now) happily agree to that trade. Clara shook her head, trying to shake the dark thoughts from her mind. Sherlock waited patiently, like a dark haired sentinel, looking down his long nose - completely above everyone else in the room. "Jesus, Clara," John whispered. "He's not the one on trial."

Clara crossed her legs and tried to shake off the nerves. "He's going to embarrass himself," She replied. He's going to embarrass me.

"I gave him a few tips in the taxi over."

Clara gave John a look. "He didn't listen, did he?"

John sighed, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "He said he'd just be himself."

Clara's mouth dropped open. "John!" She exclaimed, then lowered her voice because the other people in the courtroom gallery were starting to stare. "That's the worst possible situation."

"You think I don't know that?" John breathed out his anger, gritting his teeth. "If you two weren't having this stupid row, that I don't understand - that nobody understands - then maybe you could've put some sense into him."

"Okay, this time, it wasn't me who started the row - he wanted to ship me off to New Zealand!" Clara shook her head, remembering what she had said to Sherlock a few minutes ago. The words had just slipped out - she'd thought it and said it. "It's complicated right now," she finished, looking at her shoes.

John frowned. He shifted in his seat so he was facing her properly. "Complicated? So you two are speaking?" Clara tried to look anywhere but at John. "Clara."

"No," She snapped. "Yes...maybe, I don't know!" She sighed, relenting. "Look, I'm trying to talk to him but he's turned back into Mister Sociopath on me. I am not leaving just because Moriarty is back and..." Clara trailed off, her anger bubbling out of her. "And then this morning, oh, don't get me started on this morning..." Clara shut her mouth, she didn't need John to know that she called Sherlock sexy.

"What the hell happened this morning?"

"Nothing," Clara said, her voice loud enough to turn Sherlock's head towards them. John and her shared a look and tried to act normal.

"Clara - you have to fix it. NO-" He cut her off. "When you two fight everybody gets involved - Lestrade smokes twice as much, Molly has to deal with Sherlock since you're not around and the clients - they end up crying. Mrs Hudson stops bringing biscuits and Mycroft is even surlier than usual. So for the sake of the British Government, kiss and makeup."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Were you not listening? New Zealand!"
"I know about Dartmoor - I doubt New Zealand could have wrecked that."

Clara opened and closed her mouth a few times before going bright red. She hadn't slept in her room at the hotel that night. They'd had too much to drink...Clara turned back to face the proceedings down below, where lawyers were getting ready and ushers were walking to and fro.

"I'm not going to New Zealand, John," She told him, looking away. "It's my job. I can't leave him."

John grew silent. "Even when he won't talk to you?"

Clara shook her head, wiping her forehead. The judge finally walked in and everyone stood. The jury followed in swiftly and obediently.

"A consulting criminal?" The prosecuting barrister started, flicking pages in her thick binder. She was a short woman with her wig jammed on too tightly but her voice radiated confidence.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, his voice bouncing off the wood panelled walls. He looked directly at Clara when he said them. Clara squirmed. Shit. She shouldn't have said that to him - she could practically smell the testosterone from the gallery.

"Your words," the barrister continued. "Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire," he explained, looking about the court.

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

The barrister tapped her pen on the paper. "But not the sort who'd fix your heating..."

"No," Sherlock replied quickly, "The sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." Muffled laughter rustled in the courtroom and the barristers hid their smiles behind their hands.

"Oh no," Clara whispered. This was a huge mistake. Why on earth did they think it would be okay to put a man with an ego larger than Jupiter in front of a jury?

The prosecuting barrister sighed, hiding her grin. "Would you describe him as-"

"Leading," Sherlock interrupted, offhandedly.

"What?"

"Can't do that," he quipped. "You're leading the witness." Sherlock's eyes flicked to the defending barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

The judge, with pale rolls of skin and impressive jowls grumbled loudly, "Mr Holmes."

Sherlock ignored the jab and turned back to the prosecuting barrister. "Ask me how - how would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr Holmes, we're fine without your help," the Judge snapped.

Clara clasped the bridge of her nose. Just shut up, Cheekbones! Clara shook her head but froze when she spied Kitty Riley, the silly reporter, taking a seat a few places behind her.

"How would you describe him, this man - his character?"

Sherlock had been waiting for this; a chance to tell the world about the top-notch criminal. "First mistake. James Moriarty isn't a man at all - he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web - a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

Moriarty, standing in his place at the other end of the court seemed to subtly agree with a tilt of his head. The prosecuting barrister cleared her throat, bringing back the attention to her. "And how long-"

"No, no, don't-don't do that." Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation. "That's really not a good question."

"Mr Holmes!" The Judge hollered, eyes bulging. Clara and John both crossed their arms angrily.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up." Sherlock raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "I felt we had a special something."

"Miss Sorrel," the grumpy judge started, glaring at the barrister, "Are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?!"

"Two minutes would have made me an expert," Sherlock replied quickly, glancing smugly up at Clara. "Five was ample."

"Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the jury."

Clara squished her face between her hands, praying that Sherlock wasn't about to do what she thought he would. "Please, please, please, shut up, don't-"

Sherlock had already turned to the jury, eyes narrowed and picking them apart like a biologist dissecting a heart. "One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City. The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad, judging by her shorthand..."

"Mr Holmes!" The judge yelled, jowls wobbling like jelly.

"Clara?" John said as Clara jumped up shuffled towards the stairs.

"I am not sitting here and watching him playing his stupid games and showing off," she spat, her skin bristling. She wouldn't watch him make a fool of himself - a murderer's fate was in his hands at the moment and all Sherlock cared about was impressing a girl.

Sherlock's voice dropped as he saw Clara jog up the steps out of the corner of his eye. He trailed off briefly, puzzled, before launching back into his deductions. "Seven are married and two are having an affair - with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." He turned to the judge, poised with that smart-alek smile. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

"Mr Holmes. You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess. Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt." The judge finished sternly, eyeing Sherlock with his beady black eyes like black currants shoved into dough. Sherlock looked at the ceiling in denial, knowing that he was intellectually higher than any other person in the room. "Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?"

Sherlock seemed to consider the question. He opened his mouth, lips parted, ready to speak...

.

"Your phone has been buzzing a lot," Molly noted, delicately sipping through a straw and giving a pointed glance to Clara's phone, which was blipping from her handbag.

Clara rolled her eyes. "Don't worry about it, Mols."

"I saw the papers."

Clara swirled her milkshake and bobbed a blob of ice cream up and down. They were sitting in a little cafe, a block from St Barts. Molly was on her break so Clara had called, wanting to be away from a certain silly detective.

"Is Anderson still being an ass?" Clara prodded, steering the conversation away.

"Yes, but," Molly stuttered, fiddling with the base of the glass. "What's going on with you and Sherlock? I mean, everyone is confused - Lestrade says you two are fighting and John did too but then you were at the trial and Mrs Hudson has been talking and..."

"Nothing is going on between me and Sherlock" Clara exclaimed, her words harsher than she meant them to be. Why does everybody care about what happens between her and Sherlock? Didn't they have their own lives to live? Clara felt guilty though. Molly had been desperately in love with Sherlock since before Clara had met her. She hadn't told Molly about Dartmoor - about dinner.

"Why did they think you were married?" Molly frowned, but tried to keep her voice light.

"The press make stuff up all the time," Clara brushed off. She'd lost her interest in the chocolate milkshake before her.

Clara's phone hadn't stopped blipping since the start of their lunch. "I think you should answer that," Molly insisted.

Clara pulled her phone towards her, apologising. There were missed calls from John and Sherlock alike. Clara read the texts. She stifled a laugh.

"What?" Molly asked, a tentative smile on her face.

"Sherlock's gotten himself arrested, but for some reason only I can sign him out." Clara couldn't control her grin. "Do you want to go see a movie or something?"

.

"Eight hours," Sherlock snapped, his voice venomous. "You left me in there for eight hours!"

"It's your fault for being clever," Clara retorted, hanging up her coat as she entered 221B.

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap."

"What happened, John?" Clara asked, spying him tapping away on his laptop. "You saw the whole thing, right?"

"Like you said it would be," John answered, glancing at Sherlock. "The other barrister sat on his backside and never even stirred.

"What - so he's not mounting any defence?" Clara exclaimed.

"He's Moriarty, he does what he wants," Sherlock sniffed, leaning on the mantlepiece. "Pentonville Prison, Bank of England, Tower of London...Three of the most secure places in the country and Moriarty breaks in, no one knows how or why."

Clara flopped into John's chair, yawning. "He ended up in custody..." She muttered. Sherlock looked at her, then at John. Clara shut her eyes. "Don't do that, Cheekbones."

He frowned. "Do what?"

"The Look."

"Look?"

"You're doing it again," Clara sang.

"Your eyes are shut!"
"She's right though," John said.

Sherlock threw his hands into the air. "Well I can't see it!" Clara, eyes still closed, pointed to the mirror over the mantelpiece. "It's my face," he stated.

"What a grand deduction," Clara snorted, opening her eyes to laugh more. "It's doing the 'We both know what's going on' face."

"Well, we do."

"No. I don't, and John certainly doesn't - which is why The Face is so annoying."

Sherlock sighed and started to pace. "If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there." Sherlock dragged a hand through his hair, ruffling the curls in confusion. "Somehow, this is all part of his scheme."