Her dress was black; all of their clothes were. Except for one of the students' siblings sitting in the back row—she wore jeans and a pink frilly t-shirt. Others shot the girl tearful glares, but Clara could have applauded her. Danny hated it when she wore black, wanted more color and brightness. He'd seen enough darkness in his time in the war.

Speaking of the war, Clara turned her attention back to the service. One of Danny's old friends (James or John or something) from the army was speaking, repeating essentially what everyone else had. "Danny Pink was a good man, a brave one. He fought hard for what was right, yet remained gentle and kind to all of us. He could have died in battle, could have gotten glory and honour and what he was owed. But this is what we have; this is the unjustness of human life. One moment he was here, giving and teaching and loving," the man (John, she thought, yes, that was it) glanced at Clara with a sad smile on his lips. "The next he was gone, and we are all left here to remember him and wonder how it could have happened so fast. But Danny wasn't the type to moan and gripe and let himself fall into grief. He was a man who appreciated a good story. So here we are- all the people he helped throughout his life- here to tell the best story. The story of his life."

Clara was surprised at the tears that filled her eyes as John ended his speech. It was the same sentimental shit the others spouted, yet it was more real and harsh and exactly what Clara needed. She realised she had forgotten to bring tissues. How stupid was she? Forgetting tissues for a funeral. She cursed herself as she cried harder in silence. Her grandmother sat next to her, clutching her granddaughter's wrist with a thin hand. "That's it, love. You ought to cry now," the old woman whispered.

Clara was oblivious to the rest of the service; more of Danny's friends stood and shared memories, a few funny, most sweet but silly. She had been encouraged to speak, but declined firmly. What she had to say, she would say to Danny and him alone. She had known them better than most of the people crowded into the church. They didn't need to hear the truth.

The young woman stood, and hurried out of the church. There was to be no burial; Danny had been cremated, a fact which Clara felt so, horribly sick about. That was perhaps the worst of it—the awful truth she bore and couldn't share. It also gave her a sickening sense of superiority, made her feel that her suffering was more righteous than all of these people with their wet handkerchiefs and anecdotes. The man whose speech had finally moved Clara herself to tears, John, stopped her before she could exit. "Miss Oswald- may I call you Clara?"

"Ah, yes," she replied hesitantly. She had wanted to leave early to avoid all of this- the 'sincere apologies' and 'poor dears' and 'Danny really liked yous'.

"I wanted to tell you that, well, you shouldn't have to suffer alone. They all might claim they're here for you, but both of us can see they're lying. I helped train Danny, I knew him the longest out of most of these people, I like to think I knew him best…I'm sorry, I know I sound exactly like them. But that's what I'm trying to say. I'm not, and I know you aren't either, and I thought you should know that I know you-"

"Really articulate John, nicely done," said the man next to him, thin and angular with a thick crop of dark curls and sharp eyes. "Miss Oswald, nice to meet you. This is John, and he's really not quite so daft as he seems. Very nearly though."

Something about the man reminded Clara of the Doctor. "And who are you?" she asked, perhaps a bit rudely, but the man wasn't being very polite either.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"No, sorry. I don't really stay up to date with all the London gossip and everything," Clara sighed. She wanted to go. Now.

"You wouldn't have heard of me in some gossip tabloid," he said with contempt.

"Actually, you might have," John smirked, "Thanks to Janine."

Sherlock ignored his friend. "I'm a detective. I take care of all the high-profile murder cases, unsolved mysteries, enemies to the government, et cetera et cetera."

Clara experienced a brief surge of hope, quickly followed by a plunging back into gloominess at the words, "murder cases." But Danny hadn't been murdered, and this man wasn't offering to help her. Sherlock Holmes was showing off, just like every other bloody person in this godforsaken world. "Good for you, mate," she said, turning away.

"Clara, wait-"John said. "Sherlock wanted to meet you as well, that's the only reason he'd come to a funeral with me. I honestly don't know why, but maybe he can explain."

"Er, yes. Miss Oswald, do you….know the Doctor?