'What do you mean you need to talk to me? Who says I'm going to talk back?' Clara snapped as she stalked across the pavement next to Sherlock. The gallery came into view but they veered around it, heading for the back entrance.

'You're angry at me,' he stated, not looking in her direction.

Clara gave him a poisonous stare. 'Fantastic deduction, Holmes.'

'Look, John wanted me to...' He trailed off, sweating in his boots. He looked something resembling nervousness. Clara raised an expectant eyebrow. 'Ugh, I cannot believe I'm actually doing this, I am forced to apologise for my past actions.' Clara looked at him strangely. 'Oh shut up,' Sherlock snapped.

'Come on, I'm waiting for this courageous apologetic speech,' Clara hummed. They reached the back of the building and Sherlock headed towards a fire door.

He rested his hand on the doorknob. 'Okay, I'm sorry that I told you to shut up. But I will not apologise for the old lady.'

He turned the handle but Clara grabbed his arm. 'Don't ever do it again. Don't ever let an innocent person die because all you want is a distraction,' she asked him stiffly.

'Clara, don't be ridiculous, it wasn't my fault she started describing him. Really, it was...' CRACK! Sherlock wheeled back as Clara slapped him.

He clutched his red cheek with his hands. Clara definitely had his attention now. 'Promise me, Sherlock Holmes, or you will never solve another case again,' she hissed through her gritted teeth, deadly serious. Her eyes burned with rage. Sherlock stared at her in awe and irritation. 'Promise me.'

He nodded. 'Promise. Cross my heart and hope to whatever it was.' He awkwardly tried to cross his heart with a pale hand.

That seemed good enough for Clara because she let go of her iron grip on his forearm. Sherlock slipped through the door and she followed. They tiptoed through a maze of corridors, avoiding any passage that had voices echoing out of it. 'Are we breaking the law?' Clara whispered behind him.

'Oh, definitely.' Footsteps suddenly echoed down the corridor they were in. 'You, me, cupboard, now,' Sherlock said and opened the door to a cleaner's cupboard. Clata's eyes went as wide as sauces.

'In there?! I am not getting in that, that cupboard with you!'

'In here or you'll both blow our cover! It's only a cupboard. Now hurry!'

'A cupboard?! It's looking a lot like snog box right now.'

'A snog box!?' Sherlock exclaimed. The footsteps were getting louder. Sure enough, a shadow started appearing round the corner. 'For god's sake Clara...' Sherlock yanked her by the arm and closed the door on the broom cupboard. All they could hear was each other breathing.

'I despise you,' Clara whispered. She was pressed up against his side and could hardly see a thing. His aftershave however, made Clara want to melt into a puddle of the amazing fragrance.

'At least I didn't get us nearly arrested,' he replied quietly. The footsteps were still echoing somewhere.

'Don't flatter yourself, cheekbones.' Clara tried to move her arms, which were pinned behind her. 'Now can we get out now?'

Sherlock responded by shoving the door open with his shoulder because his arms were pinned as well. They stumbled out, catching themselves on the opposite wall. 'See, not a snog box.'

'Let's just get on with it, kay?' Clara said, brushing herself off.

.

Through various passages, most of which Sherlock had to yank Clara back from so they weren't seen, they came across a staff room. It was in neutral white tones with a mouldy looking couch in the corner. There was a row of lockers through another door. Clara sighed. At least there were biscuits. Sherlock immediately went to the lockers while Clara opened all the condiment cupboards. 'Is this where we are meant to be?' She asked, scrunching her nose at the greenish cheese in the fridge.

'Yep,' Sherlock said while he fingered through the clothes in one of the lockers.

Clara opened a jar to find the delicious smell of chocolate biscuits. 'Mmmmm, yum. Do you want - WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!'

Clara had whipped around to find Sherlock Holmes with half of his buttons on his shirt undone. She turned back around with her face as red as a tomato. 'I'm putting on the security guard's uniform,' he said.

'You can't just strip without telling me!' She cried. 'I could have seen anything.'

'Oh don't get your hopes up,' Sherlock growled as she turned her back. Clara squeaked in protest at him. 'Look, I'm decent.' Clara turned around slowly.

She squinted through her fingers, hoping he wasn't lying. Sherlock was wearing a rather stylish disguise of a blue shirt with lapels and his own black slacks and a police jacket. God help her heart, he was wearing the cap too. 'You look...' She trailed off her eyes getting distracted again.

'Yes, like a guard, now let's go.'

'Well, I was going to say you look rather dashing but whatever floats your boat,' Clara muttered softly. Sherlock threw his shirt and coat at her. He grabbed her arm, seemingly knowing the layout of the building. They ended up in a lone corridor with double doors at the end. Clara stepped towards them but Sherlock put an arm out. 'No. You stay here and wait for me. The painting is just on the other side and I want a good look at it.'

Clara clutched his clothes aggressively. 'Why can't I go and look at it?'

'I am the one in the disguise. Now wait here.'

Before she could offer any other alternatives Sherlock was already through the doors. Clara could just peer through the glass portholes. She cursed her short legs for the millionth time. The room was pure white with one stand holding the famous resurrected artwork. Two rows of free standing posts were roped together with red cord to form a path to the picture. There was no other furniture of any kind. Sherlock peered inquisitively at the painting. He scrutinised it with his gaze knowing, just knowing it was a fake. There was no other reason why Alex Woodbridge was murdered. Clara's eyebrows rose when Sherlock went to the extent of actually touching the painting. Fake or not, it looked like a masterpiece. 'Uh...Sherlock...?' She muttered to herself when the man got down on his knees and looked at the painting from that angle. Clara clutched her head. Weirdo. At least he was up quickly.

Clara's breath hitched when an elegantly dressed woman sauntered into the room. 'Don't you have something to do?' The lady asked stiffly. She had a strong Eastern European accent.

Sherlock didn't turn around. 'Just admiring the view.'

'Yes lovely,' she snapped. 'Now get back to work.'

Sherlock spun around and walked towards her. 'Doesn't it bother you?'

'What?'

'That the painting is a fake?' He snarled. Clara would have been trembling in her boots if she was in the lady's position.

The lady frowned at him. 'What?' She spat angrily.

'It's a fake, it has to be. That's the only possible explanation.' He was closer to her now. Like she was prey. He glanced at her identification badge. 'You're in charge aren't you, Miss Wenceslas?'

'Who are you?' Wenceslas demanded.

Sherlock was in her face now. Staring her down. 'Alex Woodbridge knew the painting was a fake, so someday sent the Golem to take care of him. Murdered and dumped in the Thames. Was it you?'

'Golem?' She repeated. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'...Or are you working for someone else? Did you fake it for them?'

'It's not a fake!' She snapped, straightening her suit jacket.

'It is a fake.' Sherlock rubbed his jaw. 'Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. Has to be.'

Miss Wenceslas pointed a delicate finger at him. 'What are you on about? I could have you sacked you know, on the spot!'

'Not a problem,' Sherlock shrugged. Clara grinned from her hiding place.

'No?' Wenceslas raised a manicured eyebrow.

'No. You see, I don't work here. Just popped in to give some friendly advice.'

'How did you get in?' She demanded.

'Oh, please,' Sherlock replied scornfully.

'I want to know.'

'The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight.' He began to walk away and took off the cap.

'Who are you?'

'Sherlock Holmes.' He dropped the cap onto one of the posts with perfect aim.

Wenceslas crossed her arms. 'Should I be impressed?'

'You should be.' Then the jacket came off, deliberately dropped to the floor. Clara thought her ovaries would explode (Yes your author said that and she has no shame). Sherlock almost danced out of the room, shoving the door open as pompously as he could after wishing Miss Wenceslas a nice day.

Clara peeled herself off the wall she had graciously positioned herself a moment before. She handed him his shirt but shrugged on the coat. The ends trailed on the ground. She strutted ahead of him and flamboyantly flicked the collar up. 'Very funny,' Sherlock growled.

'Humph. I think I'd make an excellent Sherlock Holmes.'

'Strange aspirations for the vertically challenged.'

Clara shoved him into the wall. She wasn't sorry.