"But," Sherlock continued, still right in her ear, "we're probably being bugged at this very moment."
Clara felt a thrill shiver up her spine, and it wasn't only because they were being watched and listened to.
Sherlock leaned back and looked at her pointedly. "It seems dangerous, this person watching you," he said with a little nod.
"So we really do have to stop," Clara said loudly, playing along. Sherlock winced and gestured for her to keep her voice down. "I don't want anybody to die," she said, at a normal tone this time.
"I suppose you're right. But we can meet for coffee, tomorrow, right? I have a…book I think you might be interested in. By a Pond fellow. About the…architecture of towers."
Clara struggled to keep down a smile. "Be a little more obvious," she couldn't resist adding. He glared. "About…your…intentions of….dating me," Clara improvised wildly.
"I promise to be nothing but professional," Sherlock said, continuing to glare.
"Sorry," she mouthed. Aloud, she added, "Coffee tomorrow. The Pond book, about towers. Ten a.m.?"
"Perfect. Let me escort you out, Miss Oswald." He was still annoyed about her dreadful acting skills.
Clara arrived at the Tower of London the next morning with twenty minutes to spare. She had gotten a bit carried away with the lovely conspiratorial plan-ness of it all. But so, it appeared, had Sherlock, for he was leaning against the fence, looking out across the Thames.
"Hey," she said, walking towards him with hands in pockets and a smile on her face.
"Clara," he said, looking at her with something approaching warmth. "Well? In we go."
"Yup." Clara lifted half the stack of papers out of his arms and together they walked towards the gate.
"We're here for…uh, Pond," Sherlock said to the guard at the entrance. "And I'm with Scotland Yard, if that helps." He whipped out a very official-looking badge.
"Er, right," the man said. "Let me take you in to my boss."
The guard led them through the throngs of tourists already filling the Tower grounds and into the White Tower. They were then handed off to a disgruntled secretary, who asked a few questions and brought them to a basement office, where another secretary asked more questions, and finally brought to the desk of—"Mark! Mark from the phone call!" Clara said, excited.
The receptionist looked confused before recognition passed over his face. "You're from the phone call! About the Doctor!"
"Yup!" she said.
"Alright, catch-up session over," Sherlock sighed. "Can you please get us to Kate?"
"Of course," Mark said eagerly, and placed a phone call. Minutes later, Kate Lethbridge-Stewart was walking out of an elevator on their left. Clara could have hugged her.
"Clara! And you must be Sherlock," Kate said, taking in the piles of paper in their arms. "You haven't already-"
"We've finished. Now the TARDIS?" Sherlock said, rather rudely, and Clara shot him a look.
"Er…." The blonde woman started, clearly caught off guard. "I'll just have to look some things over. Mark, bring them through to the sitting room." And she stalked off with their pile of papers. Clara looked at Sherlock nervously, but Mark was soon scrambling to do Kate's bidding. He gestured the pair of them into a small room, outfitted with a few simple chairs and one table. Clara sat down, but Sherlock remained obstinately standing. With a few apologies and encouragements, Mark backed out of the room, leaving them alone.
"What's up with you?" Clara asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You're being all rude. You're standing."
"If standing is rude, Clara, then you might as well arrest me."
She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."
"If you must know….I'm being like this because you aren't. You're treating this like one big happy adventure or something. You arrived at my flat yesterday, having been up all night crying and paranoid, because you'd been threatened. This isn't a game."
Clara was stunned speechless for a few seconds. "I know it's not a game. I just- I feel good doing something. Feeling like we're getting somewhere. And what about you? All the we're not stopping for the world stuff? I know you. I know you love it just as much as me. The thrill of the chase, or whatever."
"You don't know me," he bristled, and Clara felt as if she'd been slapped. But he was right, wasn't he? She didn't know him. Not at all.