(Vermeer, Verqueer. So I'm here to ask for constructive criticism. If you have suggestions for how to improve my writing, go right ahead. Well, okay, I really only included this A/N to include that Vermeer Verqueer thing, but I had to make it seem useful. Anyway, enjoy the story or whatever. C'ya.)

     "It's a fake," Sherlock insisted. "It has to be."

     After the Golem left, you realized he wasn't going to be found anytime soon, and you and Sherlock still had a case to solve. So you went to the painting, and on the way asked John how he'd known where you and Sherlock were. He said he didn't, but that he'd come here with Lestrade so they could see the painting on their own and make some inquiries to try and find out why it was a fake.

     Now, all of you- You, Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Ms. Wenceslas, the owner of the Hickman gallery- stood in front of it. Sherlock was frantically scrolling through his phone, reading at a lightning-fast speed, searching for something to help him figure out why the painting was a fake. You simply stared at the Vermeer artwork. There was something about it...

     "This painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Miss Wenceslas defended.  

     Sherlock glared at her. "Well then it's a very good fake, isn't it? You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

     Wenceslas gave him a hard stare. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself... and your friends... out?"

     Lestrade started to say something, but a phone started ringing somewhere. Sherlock fished out the pink phone from his pocket while you closed your eyes entered your 'mind palace,' as Sherlock would call it. For you, it was more of a mind... library. What it was didn't matter. You were using it to search for the answer, the answer to this painting. What about it was making you tick?

     "The painting is a fake," you heard Sherlock say. He was talking into the pink phone. There was a short silence. "It's a fake, that's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." Poor Sherlock, he was so clueless sometimes. That wasn't how it worked- he had to prove it. But he couldn't. 

     That's what you were trying to do, pulling books of information off the shelves of your mind library. Where is it, where is it!?

     "Oh, come on, proving it's just a detail. The painting is a fake! I've solved it, I've figured it out!" Sherlock's voice penetrated again through the walls of the library. Books were flying off the shelves now of their own accord, but you still could not find what you were looking for.

     You grabbed one thin book that had been suspended in midair and flipped through its pages. Words floated in the air around you, words describing the mythology of various constellations. You were getting closer.

     "Okay, I'll prove it," you heard Sherlock say. His voice was lined with defeat. He was desperate. "Give me time. Will you give me time?"

     You heard a new voice through the walls of the library. Oh gods. It was a child. He was counting down. "Ten...."

     Your worldly body tensed, but in your mind 'palace' it was running through the aisles as books flew of the shelves and floated to you. Sometimes you could tell without looking when the books had the wrong information and you would push them away, but at other times, it was harder to tell, and you would have to read a few pages to see if it was the right one. 

    "Nine..."

     "It's a countdown," Sherlock said. He sounded closer. He must have been staring at the painting too, standing beside you now. "The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?"

     "Eight..."

     Book after book after book. Some were tiny pamphlets, others giant novels of knowledge.   

     "Seven..."

    You saw one book with a page that was literally on fire. It wasn't burning. The fire was the knowledge it held. Still, not the right book.

     "Six..."

     Somewhere out there in the real world you were aware of Sherlock frantically speaking, but your brain had automatically zoned out all other voices except for the boy's.

     "Five..."

     A book hit you in the face, making you stumble. You shook it off and stared at the book in shock for just a moment, but it felt like minutes.

     "Four..."

     You grabbed the floating book that had slapped you while others whirled around you, begging for you to read their pages. The one you held now automatically started turning its pages for you, until suddenly it stopped.

     "Three..."

     You stared at the page. It was a map; a map of the stars. Alex Woodbridge's map. And in one corner there was a circle of red ink with a very clear title beside it. On the other page directly beside it was an image of the Vermeer painting.

     "Two..."

     You shut down the mind library and were brought into the real world, heart racing. You grabbed the phone out of Sherlock's hands.

     "The Van Buren Supernova!" you shouted. 

     Everyone stared at the phone anxiously. Silence.

   And then, a desperate cry for help: "Please. Is somebody there? Somebody, help me!"

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding and handed the pink phone to Lestrade. "There. Go find out where the boy is."

     You turned around to face the painting, leaving Lestrade to do as you said. Although you couldn't see, John and Sherlock were staring at you with faces of shock and wonder. On the other hand, Miss Wenceslas's gaze was one of fear.

     "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called," you murmured, staring at one bright star in the painting. "Exploding star. Only appeared in the sky in 1858."

     John laughed, out of breath from the stress he'd just been under. "So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?"

     You turned around and smirked in Miss Wenceslas's direction. "It wasn't."

---------

   "What are we looking at, Inspector?" Sherlock asked, doing that hands-under chin thing that you hated to love. To his left sat a very guilty-looking Miss Wenceslas, and to her left sat you. John had gone off to work on the Bruce-Partington Plans case.

Lestrade, on a chair facing Wenceslas, glanced at his notes. "Erm, criminal conspiracy, fraud- accessory after the fact, at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flat-"

"I didn't know anything about that!" Miss Wenceslas protested desperately."All those things, please, believe me."

You nodded to Lestrade. She was telling the truth.

"I just wanted my share," Wenceslas said. "The thirty million." Weceslas sighed. "...I found a little old man in Argentina. A genius, I mean, really. Brushwork, immaculate. Could fool anyone," she murmured. You scoffed and she gave you a distasteful look. "Well, nearly anyone." She looked down guiltily and continued, "I didn't know how to convince the world it was genuine." She grimaced. "It was just an idea... A spark which he blew into a flame."

You and Sherlock looked at each other with alarm. "Who?" you asked Wenceslas.

"I don't know," she said, only for Lestrade to scoff at her. "It's true!" Wenceslas insisted. "It took a long time, but eventually I was... put in touch with people. His people. Well, there was never any real contact. Just messages... whispers..."

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock demanded, enunciating each word slowly.

Miss Wencaslas opened her mouth to answer, but then fear overcame her. Tears welled in her eyes. She took a deep breath and nodded. "Moriarty."