Clarissa.

This is my first ever attempt at writing fan-fiction. I would really appreciate constructive criticism or any comments you can offer, positive or negative, you can leave them at the bottom :)


 

-1984

He stood trying his best not to breathe, but he was shaking so vigorously he was sure it was destroying his attempts at remaining silent. He could see through the crack in the door hinge as she stood up and flicked the little tube away. She shook out her thick black hair, which she had tied up to keep it out of the way, before using the white lace table cloth to wipe her face. Sherlock hoped it was over, that she would leave without seeing him. But then what would he do? The woman looked around, Sherlock clasped his hand over his mouth when he thought her eye passed over his hiding spot, but if she saw him, she didn’t take any notice. She poked around casually, looking at books on the bookshelf, fingering trinkets on the mantle, analysing family photos. He felt his hands getting damp, before realising that his eyes were pouring with tears.

He had stood there for another half hour before that woman finally left, taking nothing with her. Mycroft had never woken up. Sherlock stepped away from behind the door, unprepared for what he knew he had to face that was lying on the floor of the living room. He had managed to calm his shaking whilst she had wandered about his house, including helping herself to the last of his mother’s wine. As if she hadn’t taken enough from her.

He stepped out of his ground-floor bedroom. And there she was, just laying there, her eyes still open and almost looking directly at him. He side-stepped so she wasn’t looking at him. There was nothing he could think to do. She was dead. His mother was murdered. By some woman he had never laid his eyes on before. His mother clearly hadn’t either from her exclamations. He bent down and held his mother’s face in her hand and closed her eyes. She was ice cold; unnaturally cold for someone who died less than an hour ago. Her skin had also become strangely pale, as if all the blood had left her body. But there was no blood on her.

Although he had technically witnessed the murder, he never saw how she did it. His mother had protested as she got closer to her, and then they were only half in his line of vision, then he’d heard a gasp and...Nothing. A few seconds later, the murderer had stood up, leaving his mother lifeless on the floor. Sherlock looked around the floor, trying to find it, the only thing that could be a clue to the crime. There it was, under the table. He picked the small piece of tubing up, looking at it closely. It was about three inches in length, with a small splatter of blood at one end. He looked at it closer; there was no way this could have been used as any sort of weapon. He looked back at his mother. There were no signs of bruising, or any blood that would indicate any other kind of injury.

“Plasmavore,” a serious but soft voice from the far corner of the room made Sherlock jump. He looked up and saw a man he had never seen before sitting in his grandfather’s old armchair.

Startled, Sherlock leapt to his feet. “W-what?”

The strange man leapt to his feet with an unusual amount of energy. “Plasmavore. The lady who was here, the one who...” he paused looking down at the dead woman, a mother of two. “I’m sorry.”

The man took another step forwards, allowing the moonlight shining through the window to fall upon his long, brown coat. He was tall, at least six feet, with thick brown hair and a serious expression on his face. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, revealing a brown and blue striped suit. He was wearing white American trainers on his feet. Before Sherlock regained the ability to speak, the man said, “I’m the Doctor, by the way. What’s your name?” The Doctor knelt down next to Sherlock’s mother, and looked deep into his eyes.

“Sherlock. Holmes. What are you doing here? What’s a Plasmavore?” Sherlock looked back at his mother, but didn’t touch her. He could imagine her as sleeping or unconscious if he didn’t feel her icy skin. The Doctor put on some glasses and took out a device from his coat. He extended it and a button made an electric blue light shine over his mother’s body as he seemed to scan her with it and then look intently at the gadget, before putting it back in its place in his coat. After seeing Sherlock’s intrigued expression he said, “Sonic screwdriver,” and smiled at the little boy.

“A Plasmavore is an alien.” The Doctor waited for Sherlock to question this, or react in some way, but the little boy’s face remained straight, so he continued, “They are from another galaxy a very long way away. They survive on blood.” He took the tube off Sherlock, gesturing it. “However, they are less animalistic than their ancestral vampires, and this is their cutlery.”

“Why did she have to come here?” Sherlock accepted that what the Doctor said was true; it explained the state of his mother.

“I’m sorry. There is no reason. To her it was just another house, just another woman. She just wanted to feed,” the Doctor replied, putting his hand comfortingly on Sherlock’s shoulder. Even though he felt no threat from this strange man, he stood up straight at the touch and took a step backwards, trying to hold back tears. The Doctor stood up slowly, a concerned look in his eye as he removed his glasses. “This isn’t the first person she’s killed. But I’m going to make sure it is her last.”

With that the Doctor turned down into the hallway and walked out of the door. Sherlock ran to the window in the hall. He saw the Doctor get into a police box; but he’d just told him that woman was an alien! The police would never believe that! He was about to run out and object to his actions when he saw a bright light appear at the top of the box. A bizarre warping sound filled his ears and the box gradually faded away, into nothing. It had just disappeared right in front of him.




­-2010

 

Sherlock, we need you down here. –L

Is Anderson there?-SH

No. –L

Text me the address.-SH

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and flew down the stairs, almost knocking over Mrs Hudson who had been taking up tea for him. After Lestrade she was the only person he had real contact with. Although what was real contact when it was Sherlock?

He hailed a taxi before he had even shut the front door to 221B Baker Street. He told the driver the address Lestrade had texted him and arrived at the scene of the crime within 10 minutes. He strode past the police officers, disregarding any attempt at protest, under the yellow tape and into the small, terraced house.

The moment he entered the hallway he absorbed the contents of the house; tacky trinkets, photos of children and presumably their parents. Antique grandfather clock next to the staircase, one pair of dusty pink slippers next to that: the house belonged to a widowed elderly lady, with grandchildren.

“Sherlock. In here.” Lestrade poked his head out of the kitchen. “Out! All of you out!” He shepherded the forensics and investigators out of the room before Sherlock did it himself.

“So what’s so special about...?” There had to be something special if Lestrade was going to call him out to the death of an old woman. However, it took him mere seconds to realise exactly what had happened here. He felt himself tense up, his face drain.

“What’s wrong with you? Sherlock, look. This lady has no stab wound, no bullet entry, nothing. And yet the cause of death is blood loss.” Lestrade stared at Sherlock, waiting for him to emerge with a witty comment insulting his intelligence, telling him that he missed something vital and obvious. But he just stood there, staring at the old lady’s corpse, his eyes wide as if the woman was his own mother. Of course she wasn’t though. “Sherlock? Focus.”

“I’ve got to go,” Sherlock said to himself more than in reply to Lestrade. His face returned back to his usual determined look, he pivoted on his right food and walked out of the house with the same urgency as he walked in.

He stood in the middle of the road; it had to be somewhere close by, it had to. He looked all around, but all he could see was two lines of terraced houses, groups of citizens gossiping about the crime, and a series of official vans and cars. He looked down the end of the street, and caught the glimpse of a long brown coat flying around the corner of the end house. Whipping his own coat round, he turned and ran for the end of the street, knocking into people where he couldn’t avoid them. It was times like these he wished there was someone with him. Not necessarily for the company, but for the chasing. Someone faster than him could come in use. He reached the end of the road and skidded around the corner before coming to a sudden halt when he saw it. The police box. And the door just shut! He sprinted over to where it stood on the pathway, determined to not let him get away again. He hesitated before pressing his hand against the door...

The door was open. He expected to step in and find himself literally face to face with the mystery Doctor from his childhood, but when he pushed the door open a huge room was revealed to him. It was bigger on the inside...

The floor was a grating that hid an intricate web of wires and foreign, no, alien, technology. The ceiling was domed and seemed to be supported by a series of columns in bizarre shapes. The centre of the room was something even he could not explain. At the centre was column. Different to the other ones; it was part of machinery, a tube with more tubes within that glowed a soft blue. Around this centre column was some kind of console. It had a bizarre range of buttons, levers, and switches. On the far side of the console the Doctor was pressing a series of buttons. He didn’t look up. It only just occurred to him that he looked exactly the same as he had done all those years ago on that dreadful night. Exactly the same; he hadn’t aged a day.

Any ordinary human would be utterly baffled, but of course there was only one explanation for this.

“You’re a time traveller.”

“Aren’t we clever! Welcome to the TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimension In Space.” The Doctor abandoned his console and walked around, hands in his pockets, and leant against a rail, beaming at Sherlock. “Sherlock, wasn’t it? How old are you now? How old were you then?”

“I was 8. She killed that old lady. Does she time travel too?” It seemed to be the first time Sherlock can remember he had so many questions that he couldn’t answer for himself. Ironically, it felt alien to him. He walked further into the TARDIS, not making eye contact with the Doctor. He ran his fingers around the edge of the console as he walked around it, mentally examining everything. It made no sense. He looked at the Doctor sternly. “How does it work?”

“Wibbly, wobbly, doesn’t matter,” the Doctor muttered, waving his hand at him, leapt down to the door and grabbed his coat. “You coming?” He stepped out of the TARDIS, shrugging his coat on.

Sherlock, where did you go? -L

He ignored the text and followed The Doctor outside.

“Right,” started the Doctor, “we need to follow her. This way!” He whipped out his sonic screwdriver that he had used all those years ago, pointed it down a road, and ran.

The two men ran around London for 20 minutes, their long coats billowing in the wind. The Doctor led, and it seemed his screwdriver led him, dashing down main roads, dipping into narrow streets before coming out of them the same way because the screwdriver made a more urgent sound. Half way down a road lined with traditional London town houses the Doctor came to an immediate halt, making Sherlock run a few meters further.

Sherlock turned back to stand next to the Doctor who was pointing his sonic screwdriver at a house, his facial expression now grave.

“In there,” was all he said.

“Hang on!” Sherlock protested. He hated not knowing exactly what was going on. “First explain how you know she’s here. You say she’s an alien. You have a time-travelling ship that is bigger on the inside. I can accept that. How do you know she is here? How dangerous is she?”

“I put a tracker on her of course!” Well, of course. He didn’t like the tone this Doctor used; he didn’t like someone knowing more than him, he having to ask questions. The humiliation. “As for danger, well.” He looked up, mentally working out the risk, but coming to a vague conclusion, “let’s hope she isn’t looking for dessert.”

Sherlock put his hands together and leant his head against them for exactly 4 seconds before heading up the stairs to the house. Turning around before pushing the door knob he said, “You coming?” The Doctor chuckled and bounced to the door, allowing Sherlock to enter first.

The floor was tiled alternate black and white, and impeccably clean. The only item in the hall was a small, white table with nothing on it. The house was completely silent. Completely unlived in.

“Do you have a plan?”

“Never.” The Doctor gave a sly smile before strutting down the hallway, poking his head into the living room, and then the kitchen, and then the dining room, where he stopped and grinned at the room.

“Ah! Doctor! What a delight,” a velvety voice emerged from the dining room. Sherlock strode up to where the Doctor was standing and got a look at his mother’s murderer. Her hair was just as jet black as it had been, but it was so shiny the light that reflected off her head resembled a gleaming white halo. The sick irony angered Sherlock.

He took a deep breath, “Who are you?” He took a step into the room, his eyes furiously fixated on the woman. He wasn’t scared of her, but his mother was one of the very few people in his life he had truly cared about and loved. And this woman, no, alien, killed her. He needed an explanation.

“My dear boy! My name is Clarissa. No need to ask who you are; you have your mother’s eyes,” she sneered at him with a hideous smirk. At this last comment Sherlock clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “Delicious,” she muttered to herself, “I remember it like it was last week. Actually, it was last week!” She pulled out a small, circular device. It was bronze with a complex pattern and a button in the centre.

“That doesn’t belong to you.” The Doctor put his hand out for it.

“What? You expect me to just hand this over?” She threw her head back and laughed before looking back and the Doctor, a devious glint in her eye, and pressing the button. With a flash of blue light she was gone.

“Arrrhh!” Frustrated, the Doctor flung round and ran out the door. Sherlock was on his heels in seconds. Less than a minute later they’d arrived back at the TARDIS. The Doctor ran inside and started pressing buttons. Sherlock stood in the doorway, not sure what he should be doing. “Well don’t just stand there! Hold this down...and this up,” he pointed to a lever and a knob. Sherlock did as he was told.

“What are we doing?”

“That disc she had,” he shouted as the TARDIS began to shake and they both clung on tight as the central column ‘VWARPED’, “is part of the TARDIS. It’s like a small, portable time-travel machine. But it’s like an emergency capsule that should only ever be used in dire emergencies. It saps the energy from the TARDIS, which makes it harder to follow her. But, it does mean we can follow her. And I can limit what she can do with it; I can change the settings from here.” He started pressing buttons on the screen. “She can only travel in time, not space. And within a 20 mile radius of her last transportation.” He looked up at Sherlock, beaming, clearly pleased with his work. “We are a few minutes behind her because the poor girl’s working a bit slower,” he said patting the console. “But we’re here! After you.” Sherlock headed out of the door. Although he hated the depressingly boring emotions of normal people, he couldn’t help but be bewildered and confused by the impossibility of the TARDIS. Of course it wasn’t impossible, though.

He knew immediately where they were. They’d landed not far from Leister Square. It was a Saturday afternoon, so it was very crowded. Easy for someone to become invisible. Unless you have Sherlock’s eye: Two minutes, on a work day she’d be half way across the Square, but it’s unusually busy, even for a Saturday. She can’t have gotten far at all with the hustle and bustle. On his tiptoes he scanned the crowd, and had spotted her shiny, black mane by the time the Doctor had locked his box.

“This way!” Sherlock led the way this time, pushing through the crown, almost knocking over several people who yelled abuse and the two men. Clarissa turned around after hearing this when they were about 10 metres behind her. She picked her pace up, jogging as best she could on her 4 inch black stilettos. She darted down a dark alleyway, presumably hoping to find a sneaky way out onto another street. As she pivoted, something small fell out of her pocket. The Doctor ran after her as Sherlock bent to pick it up and slide it into his pocket. The alley was a dead end.

“Ah! You got me, Doctor, you’ve got me,” she cackled, turning around to face him, smearing that smirk onto her face. The Doctor stood in front of her, his arms at his side, feet slightly apart, almost like in a western film.

“You cannot continue to kill people, Clarissa. They are innocent lives! Why are you on Earth anyway?” The Doctor cocked his head to the side slightly, looking at her straight into the eye so intensely it looked as if he were examining her soul.

“I’d heard so much of this beautiful planet, thriving with humans. They are rumoured to be one of the most delicious species this side of the universe,” she said, flickering a look towards the human Sherlock.

“Doctor, she must have been in your TARDIS at some point. How did she escape? And with this?” Sherlock pulled out the little device that Clarissa had used to teleport. He tossed it back to the Doctor. He noticed the look on Clarissa’s face turn from cocky to scared. She had no way of escape now.

“That’s a long story,” the Doctor said, playing with the intricately beautiful device in his hands. Clarissa was watching his hands intently, like a puppy watching a bone, hoping for some insane reason he’d give it back to her. “Catch.” He threw it to Clarissa. “Just promise you’ll leave Earth. And don’t come back.”She flashed a gleaming grin before pressing the centre button and vanishing.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock shouted at the Doctor, walking up to him, his brow creased with anger and frustration. “She killed my mother!”

“I know. She also killed 28 other innocent people on this planet alone. Which is why I set the co-ordinates on the teleport to a planet near the Fornax A galaxy.”

“What’s there?”

“Fornax A is a radio galaxy, with a black hole at its centre,” he said solemnly, turning and walking away. Sherlock looked down, considering the implications of that. This kind of thing had never been important in his life before, but even he understood what that meant. He followed the Doctor. The previous mayhem of the crowd had now reduced to a hum that Sherlock barely noticed as he returned to the TARDIS.

“What about the TARDIS? You said that device drains the power.”

“It’s destroyed,” the Doctor replied simply, busy pressing buttons. The energy he had previously been bubbling with had drained. He seemed stiff now, and looked older.

When the TARDIS came to a standstill he gave Sherlock a quick smile before opening the door to let Sherlock out. They’d arrived back where Sherlock had first found the Doctor, around the corner from the crime scene.

“So this is it, Doctor,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“It was nice to meet you, Sherlock. It really was.” He put his hand out and Sherlock met it with his own. He looked the Doctor in the eye, seeing a pool of knowledge and impossibility beyond that of the TARDIS, and simply gave him a small smile of appreciation before turning around and heading back towards the old lady’s house. He didn’t turn his head as he heard the sound of the TARDIS fading into time and space.

Lestrade came running towards him as Sherlock. “Where did you go?”

Sherlock walked straight past him. “The old lady. Close the case and bury her.”

“What? Sherlock, what are you on about?” Lestrade stormed after him, never had he come out with anything this ridiculous.

Sherlock turned his head back. “Close. The. Case.”

Sherlock walked past the house, through the police officers, forensics, and crowds of nosey people with their dull, little lives, and walked back to 221B Baker Street, knowing that his life, too, was dull and little compared to other’s.