10.

Nikita dragged herself to her feet and leaned against the railings, grimacing at the pain. Ow. That really hurts. Well, better get moving before Clint finds me and puts an arrow in me. She started to limp away and immediately froze as an arrow thudded into a wooden plank not inches away from head. Oops. Too late. Nikita gave a quiet, involuntary shriek. But if Clint was shooting at her, she had no time to lose. She forced herself to ignore the pain and sprinted best she could for cover. She reached a large round tank containing goodness knows what and hid behind it, gasping for breath. Where on earth was he? She risked a swift glance back at the walkway she'd just come from. Not a sign of life.

Great. Now what? Go back? No good. That's probably where he is. Go forward? Well, it's a pretty long sprint from here to the exit. I can hardly walk, certainly can't run very fast. He'll pick me off before I get halfway. I can hardly jump over the railings either side. So it looks like I'm going to have to stay here and pray for a miracle. Or Natasha. Or just pray Clint won't actually kill me. That didn't seem very likely. Clint had had a big hand in crippling the ship, and already killed a number of agents. Why would he hesitate to kill her?

Sherlock opened bleary eyes. Ow. His head hurt, a lot. He shakily raised himself on one elbow, and gingerly felt the back of his head, then looked at his hand. Blood. Fortunately there didn't seem to be too much of his. Sherlock's vision cleared, and he looked around for Nikita. She was nowhere to be seen. Something had obviously happened. The last thing he remembered was the floor disappearing from under him and tumbling to the ground off the stepladder. Everything seemed to fine now, but where was she? Sherlock got to his feet and immediately sat down heavily again. The room was spinning, and he felt uncharacteristically confused and out of control.

Footsteps. He stiffened. Much too heavy to be Nikita's. Army boots, I'd guess. Purposeful, no hesitation. He – it is male, of course – knows exactly where he's going and what he's coming for. Something important has just occurred, although unfortunately I was unconscious and missed it. Inconvenient, to say the least. Yet he isn't calling out to see if anyone's here, or if we are alright, as I imagine any other member of staff on board would do. Hm. In my current state, it might be best to hide.

Sherlock proceeded to do just that. He stumbled to his feet again, and ducked out of sight behind one of the control boards. A man appeared, and stopped in the middle of the room. He looked around, and Sherlock noticed with a chill that his eyes were an icy, unnatural shade of blue. His face was completely blank and impassive. He was clearly a soldier, and Sherlock noticed with surprise he carried a bow and a full quiver of arrows. His eyes danced over where Sherlock was hiding, and then he turned and looked over the railings.

Those few extra seconds had given Sherlock more or less the time he needed to recover. However it seemed best to stay where he was for now. Sherlock watched as the man focused on something below them. Then he drew out an arrow, and swiftly fitted it to the bow. An expert, Sherlock thought. The man didn't immediately fire. A normal man would have missed it, but Sherlock saw an almost imperceptible shake in his left hand, the one holding the string. He doesn't want to do it. Something is forcing him to do it. The inward battle was over in seconds. The arrow left the bow so fast Sherlock barely saw it. He did see the man's face though. A split-seconds' emotion flashed over his face. Relief. Whatever he's shooting at, Sherlock thought, he's missed.

He was right. Down on the hidden walkway beneath them, someone gave a small, hastily smothered shriek. Sherlock's blood ran cold. It was Nikita. There was no time to be lost. The man was already fitting another arrow into his bow. The slight tremor in his hand that had caused him to miss before was gone now. Sherlock stepped out of his hiding place and without a second thought ran towards the man.

Clint Barton never saw the man in the funny coat until he barrelled into him at full speed, knocking them both to the floor, sending both the arrow and the bow sliding across the floor, well out of reach.

Clint struck out with his elbow, striking Sherlock on the chin sufficiently hard to knock him back. Clint struggled to his feet, eyes on his bow. This weird stranger – he certainly wasn't anyone to worry about – wasn't a priority. Nikita was. She had to be taken out. Loki had told him to.

He'd expected him to be knocked out, at least dazed, but Sherlock shook his head and tackled him to the floor again. Clint struggled free again, and in the millisecond he took his eyes of Sherlock, found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. His gun. Poker-faced, Clint reached for his own gun. As he'd expected, it wasn't there. Sherlock grinned. 'Yes, this is yours. Tell me, why didn't you want to shoot Nikita Romanoff? I'm guessing those were your orders.'

Sherlock underestimated the quickness of the other man. Quick as lightening, Clint grabbed Sherlock's wrist and twisted. Sherlock yelped with pain and surprise and dropped the gun. Clint made a grab for it, but in doing so loosened his grip on Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock yanked his hand out of Clint's grip, and kicked the gun over the side of the platform.

A gun dropped in front of Nikita as she sheltered behind the tank. Ooh, she thought. That'll be handy.

Sherlock could feel sweat dripping off the tip of his nose. His head was throbbing worse than ever and his vision kept blurring. Clint sensed his enemy's disadvantage. He used the opportunity to get a small yet potentially lethal knife from his utility belt. I'm not doing well, Sherlock thought wearily. The room span again. He was vaguely away of Clint pushing him backward. He fell back and hit his head (again!) against the hard concrete floor. Clint stood back, breathing heavily. Good thing he was already wounded, he thought. Sherlock made one last attempt to get up, but his vision was already dimming. He would pass out any minute now. A dull pain in his side caught his attention. Sherlock gingerly touched the spot. He was bleeding. Great. I've cracked my head open, possibly sprained my wrist, now I seem to have been stabbed. Marvellous. Then he lost consciousness.

Once he'd seen his opponent unconscious, Clint returned to the task at hand. Nikita was gone, of course. But it didn't take a brilliant soldier and master tactician (which he was) to work out where she'd gone. He jumped over the side, ruining a perfect landing when his right knee gave way and buckled under him.

'That'll be Sherlock.' Nikita called. She knew there was nowhere she could go. She couldn't escape, and she knew it. Instead she resigned herself and stepped out from her hiding place. 'He's got all sorts of tricks. Lucky for you he was already a bit woozy from that knock to the head.'

'How do you know?' Clint found himself replying mechanically.

'I just do.' Nikita replied briefly, pointing the gun at him.

'Somehow I don't think you'll shoot me.' He said, taking a cautious step forward. Nikita didn't move.

'How do you know?'

Clint smiled woodenly. 'I just do.'

Nikita sighed and lowered the gun. 'It's not loaded.' She threw the useless gun to the side. 'Tell me, what does Loki want to do?'

'You already know.'

'I don't mean with Earth. I mean with you, and Erik, and all the others he's brainwashed. He'll probably kill you, you know.'

Clint said nothing, but continued advancing along the walkway.

'Because then you won't be useful.' Nikita continued. 'So you'll have killed me, and all the others, for absolutely nothing.' She coughed slightly. 'You know, all the people who – ahem – care about you.'

Clint still remained silent, but he stopped walking towards her. His hands clenched and unclenched slowly, and Nikita worked on her advantage.

'Look, Clint, I know Loki's got a hold on you. You've got to fight it. Please.'

Clint lost his momentary struggle. He began walking towards her. 'Did you really think that would stop me killing you?'

Nikita suppressed a smile. 'No.' Her gaze fell on something behind him.

Clint's eyes widened. He spun around, to face Natasha, but she was already too close for him to shoot an arrow at her. The last of her energy, which had been keeping her on her feet, left Nikita, and she sank to the floor, wearily watching them fight.

Natasha watched them drag away the unconscious Clint. Her impulse was to run after him and make sure he was alright, but she had other priorities.

'Kita? You OK?'

'I'm – OUCH – fine. Really. A broken rib or three, nothing a few painkillers won't fix. Talking of painkillers, Clint's going to have the mother of all headaches later.'

'Probably. Presuming we can undo whatever Loki's done to him.' Natasha's walkie-talkie buzzed. She answered it, and the colour drained from her face.

'What?' Nikita's voice sharpened. Suddenly looking tired, Natasha sat down beside her sister.

'Phil's dead.'

'Phil Coulson?'

'Yep. Loki killed him. Loki's escaped, having shot Thor down the emergency ejection shaft –'

'So Thor's dead?'

'We don't know. Banner's gone, he jumped out to attack a plane, and then fell. He might be dead too, we don't know. And...' she sighed, and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, 'your brother, Sherlock? He's in a bad way. He took a nasty crack to the back of the head, and Clint must have managed to stab him. He's lost a lot of blood. Fury suggests you get down to the infirmary to see him. They just found him a few minutes ago. Whatever happens, it's over. You know the Avengers thing that Fury was trying to get going? It's finished. Gone. I don't think anything can save us now.'