The next morning, Clara was rudely awaken by aggressive knocking at her door. She sat up groggily, struggling to focus, and squinted at the clock, 3:40 A.M. Her eyes widened in shock.
"Who on earth could possibly be here at this hour?" she muttered, pulling on her robe as the knocking grew. She stubbed her toe against a chair leg on her way to the door, letting out a muffled curse and clutching her foot in pain.
The knocking grew louder.
"I'm coming!" She scowled.
Clara opened the door, only to see Sherlock standing there, looking way too put together for this time of night!
Clara groaned not bothering hiding her disbelief.
She dropped her head against the doorframe, staring at him.
"Sherlock, seriously? What are you doing here?" she mumbled, trying not to yawn.
He just looked at her, not bothered in the slightest.
"What, is it a bad time?" Sherlock replied.
She shot him a look that could kill.
"It's nearly four in the morning," So, yeah kind of," Clara snorted.
Sherlock just shrugged.
"I'm simply responding to your request for assistance," He retorted, in his annoying matter-of-fact tone.
Clara stared at him, baffled.
"Have you ever heard of sleep?"
He rolled his eyes impatiently.
"
Sleep is so boring. Now, shall we proceed?" Without waiting for permission, Sherlock strode inside, his coat swishing behind him.
Clara could only sigh, closing the door after him. "Sure, why not," she muttered under her breath.
Once inside Sherlock studied the living room. He wasn't impressed, it was no different than any other living room he had ever seen. Quite dull, really.
Clara sighed.
"Okay, now what," She said frustrated. "And this had better be important." She grumbled
wishing she was back in bed.
Sherlock looked at her.
"My dear Clara, everything I say is important." He scoffed.
Clara rolled her eyes but decided to listen the faster he had his say the quicker he'd leave.
She leaned her back against the door, folded her arms and looking at him unimpressed.
Sherlock settled into a wooden chair, folding his hands in his lap.
"Tell me about Danny," he said.
Clara blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the question.
"Sorry?" she replied.
Sherlock exhaled, a hint of impatience in his voice.
"Danny. Who was he? What did he do?" Sherlock pressed. "Convince me why I should care about this man."
Clara dropped her gaze, searching for words. After a pause, she began, "He was a teacher. He served in the military." She hesitated, then added, "He was a good person."
Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes.
"Of course he was," Sherlock grunted unimpressed. "Do you have any photos?" He asked.
A small smile flickered on Clara's face as she fetched a framed picture of Danny in uniform. Sherlock studied it closely.
"Perfectionist," he remarked, noting the precise tilt of Danny's hat. "He looks intense yet laid back, probably enjoyed classical music. And I'm betting he was a Bud Light man."
Clara stared at him, astonished.
"How could you possibly know all that?" She asked.
He just smirked.
"I'm that good," He replied, settling back in his seat. His gaze sharpened. "Now, tell me what happened the night Danny died."
Clara's shoulders sagged, her eyes becoming sad as memories from that night came back.
She took a shaky breath.
"Well, I was here," she said quietly. "I'd just finished grading some papers," She frowned. "Danny was running late because of a teachers' conference or something," Clara recalled. She swallowed, "He texted saying he'd be home late, that he'd grab a cab and… and that was it just nothing…." Her voice wavered.
Sherlock sat there in silence for a brief moment before speaking again. "You didn't call the police?" he asked, leaning forward.
Clara shook her head.
"Why not?" he pressed.
Clara shrugged.
"I didn't expect anything to be wrong," she said softly. "He'd been late before and being a teacher, things happen. Sometimes a student needs help, or a parent just shows up… I thought it was normal…" She trailed off, regret flickering in her eyes. "But maybe I should have." She said softly.
Sherlock nodded slowly.
"And the police told you it was suicide, partly because of his military background and their basic stupidity," He concluded.
Clara's expression hardened. She shook her head.
"They're wrong. I know Danny would never do that."
"Of course he wouldn't. Only an idiot would think so," Sherlock said, scoffing.
She looked at him, surprised. "So, you believe me, then?"
He stood, sighing.
"Isn't it obvious," he replied, gesturing around the room. "Look at this place, it's utterly dull."
Clara shot him a wounded look.
He paused, smiling. "That's precisely why it suited him. Everything here, the awards, the neatly ordered books, the military honors, all screams a life of stability and purpose.
Why would he throw that away?"
Clara slowly moved to the couch, looking at him.
"So, how do I prove it?" she asked.
Sherlock's eyes lit up as he moved closer.
"We simply begin," He declared with excitement in his voice.