A/N: Not much to say. Yay for getting another chapter up? :P Thanks to everyone who has been following and favourited. And especially big super huge thanks to QuotenCatastrophe, who has commented on just about every chapter so far. Thank you so much, dear! *hugs*

DISCLAIMER: I probably don't need to continue to put one on each chapter... it's fun when I can come up with something witty... but when I can't think of anything, it's kind of pointless. So, this time, I will do something different. I'm not going to tell you that I don't own Sherlock.

... oh, darn. I just told you, didn't I?

CHAPTER TEN:

Nothing Wrong With Me

Sherlock stopped. He saw Sheila's distressed face, saw her beginning to slump. "Sheila? Are you alright?"

He didn't like the way the other thugs were creeping closer to him. But he didn't take a step for fear of Sheila's safety. He held his hands higher as if to prove his intention not to do anything foolish. But he stole a look at John. John still had his gun. If Sherlock could distract Clarice...

Somewhere through the haze crowding her, Sheila heard a voice. This voice was different from the others. It wasn't harsh. It didn't sound like it would inflict pain on her like the others did.

"Sheila? Are you alright?"

Sherlock... Sheila struggled to open her eyes. When she did, she found herself not in the white room, but in an alleyway. The prick at her throat was a knife, and the pain in her arm was because it was being twisted behind her back by one of the thugs - Clarice.

Sherlock was looking at her, his hands held in a surrendering gesture.

Sheila's breaths came in ragged gasps. She felt like she'd been running for miles, running forever... Have to stay focused, have to stay focused...

John noticed Sherlock's sidelong glance to him. What do you want me to do? He wanted to ask. He couldn't shoot anyone in the narrow alley without taking the risk of hitting Sherlock or Sheila, if the bullet missed and ricocheted. He tightened his grip on his gun, and shot a glance at Sherlock.

"Breathe, Sheila. What's wrong with her?" Sherlock asked Clarice. He had watched closely and he knew Clarice hadn't drugged her unless there was something on the blade of the knife that had gotten into her blood. But even then, she had reacted this way before, but never this strongly. Whatever the reason, she seemed to be in some sort of shock or daze.

Sherlock was close to Clarice. Maybe close enough to try something...he glanced at John as if asking that he was ready. John looked prepared for anything. The thugs stepped closer to Sherlock, and he seemed to shy away from them, but his shuffled step turned into a lunge at Clarice and he seized the hand holding the knife, forcing it slowly away from Sheila's throat.

"Run," he grunted.

Sheila ducked under the blade, pushing off of Clarice and using the momentum to propel herself out of the way, towards John.

Clarice growled. He twisted his wrist back, trying to wrench it from Sherlock's grip. He grabbed Sherlock by the front of his shirt, but froze when John shouted, "Another move and I'll shoot!"

Clarice snarled into Sherlock's face. "You want to know what's wrong with her?"

Sheila straightened beside John, tightening her hands into fists. "There's nothing wrong with me," she said hurriedly.

Clarice laughed harshly. "You don't know do you? Not even she knows what's wrong, who she is."

"I thought I told you to run," Sherlock said, in a light, conversational tone, glancing at John and Sheila. Suddenly he bucked his head forward and cracked Clarice on the bridge of the nose for the second time that night, using the moment of surprise to release the knife hand and spring out of range of the weapon.

"PLEASE LEAVE THE ALLEY FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. THE POLICE WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE." Blared the loudspeaker. Sherlock ran out, dragging the others with him. Gunfire erupted in the alley as they left. They didn't stop until they stood front of the Inn once again.

The three stood still, panting. John pulled Sherlock's scarf and tossed it to him.

Sherlock caught it, then wiped his face with the back of his other hand and saw dark blood on it. He looked down. His bloody nose had dripped on his shirt. "Great," he huffed, "remind me to find out which jail they're sent to so I know where to send the cleaning bill." He sniffed and flicked some of the blood off his hand absent-mindedly. "We should get to the passage as soon as possible," he said, "On the good chance some of our friends escaped they'll probably come looking for us." He paused and looked at Sheila. "Sure you're fine?" He leaned against the wall, trying to find the balance between breathing and not breathing too deeply so it hurt. His hand subconsciously went to his side.

"Fine," Sheila said, taking a deep breath and leaning up against the wall alongside Sherlock. She swallowed. The events in the alley remained nothing but a blur, and the memories that she knew she didn't have kept repeating themselves in her head.

John panted, his heart still beating wildly. He immediately noticed Sherlock's hand go to his side. "You alright?" He asked, voice tense.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, gingerly pushing off from the wall. "Yes. Fine. Of course." He hastily put both hands into his pockets. "I'm going up to our room to get the torches. Maybe we'd all better go this time. Safer than waiting in the street."

Their room was untouched, apparently, which was a relief. With the recent events, he'd thought it might be ransacked. He snatched up two torches from the dresser top and tossed them to the others.

"I have an LED," he explained, pulling the slender penlight it of his pocket to show them. He winced a little with the movement. He turned away briefly to clean the blood off his face with some tissues. He snuck four Tylenol pills from the bottle by John's med bag when his back was to the others.

"Ready then?" He asked, turning back around, picking up his spare gun from the drawer in the table by his bed. His other one was still in the alley.

John shook his head. "Not so fast. We're not going until we make sure everyone is alright." He looked pointedly at Sheila.

"There's nothing wrong with me." Sheila didn't make eye contact. "I'm fine."

"Obviously, you're not," John said. "You looked like you were going to pass out in the alley."

"I'm better now," Sheila protested. "Honestly." She glanced at Sherlock. "Besides, he's the one who snuck pills from your med bag."

John turned to Sherlock in surprise, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Sherlock...?"

Sherlock kept his face totally innocent, and yet somehow he managed to look a little defiant at the same time. "Sherlock what?"

John glared at him. "What did you take?"

Sherlock glared at Sheila. "Nothing."

Sheila smirked. "Why are you so defensive then?"

"Maybe because someones accusing me of something to get herself off the hook," he said, smugly.

John tried to glare at both Sheila and Sherlock at the same time. "Alright. Both of you. We're not leaving this room until you either let me examine you, or you tell me what's wrong.

"John, we are walking, talking, breathing, and neither of us are bleeding. We are fine. Now let's go," Sherlock said, trying to brush by John. He wished he'd have just let the stupid pills be. He'd been too occupied during the confrontation in the alley to notice much discomfort, but afterwards he'd not been very successful in trying to ignore it. But with the big deal everyone was making of it, might have been better to leave it alone.

John wasn't having it, and Sherlock winced and hissed with pain when John grabbed his arm and stopped him with a jolt. "I was beat up before you arrived, alright? Some bruising most likely, but I'm fine." He glared at Sheila. "Happy now?"

Sheila didn't respond, but John shook his head. "No, I'm not happy. Take off your coat. Now."

Sherlock stared John in the eye for a minute, but the army doctor didn't budge. Sherlock sighed. He shrugged off his coat and threw it down on the bed. He apparently found it more tolerable at the moment to ignore John, so he looked past him at Sheila. "What did he mean, in the alley? 'You don't know what's wrong with you or who you are?' How does he know you?"

John stepped nearer to Sherlock. "Lift up your arms," he instructed, but glanced back to watch Sheila.

Sheila looked away. "I don't know."

Sherlock complied, jaw tightening and gaze hardening but his face remaining otherwise unmoved. "You know something," he prodded, but not harshly, "You remembered something in that alley that upset you. Something you don't want to think about."

Sheila swallowed. "No. There must have been some drug or something in the knife, or the air, that affected me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "There could have been," he said, slowly, "though not, I think, in the air. The thugs themselves would have been affected, not to mention John and myself..." his voice didn't seem to indicate he believed it. "Ow, John! Why are you poking me?" Sherlock snatched his arms back to his body protectively and stared at John with a betrayed look, like a kid whose mother just poured peroxide on a skinned knee after promising to make it feel better.

John narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock, stop acting like a five year old." He took Sherlock's arm gently and moved it away from his body, pressing on his ribcage.

Sherlock was quiet and let John do what he wanted. In a moment he said in a sort of hurt voice, "For your information, a five year old would be screaming at the moment. Do you know how much self-control it took for me not to throw you across the room just now? It bloody hurts, John!"

He looked at Sheila who still had a smirk on her face. "Oh, stop it. Don't look like that. He said both of us, so you're in for it, too."

John rolled his eyes. "How much does this hurt?" He asked, pressing against Sherlock's ribcage.

Sheila continued smirking, but movement outside the window caught her attention. She looked out, trying to see what it was.

Sherlock tensed, and his breath came out in a little hiss. "A good bit, John, actually," he managed, in a forced cheerful tone that was still somewhat breathless.

He noticed Sheila peering at the window. "I wouldn't get very close," he warned. "At the moment we don't know exactly what we're dealing with. Those thugs certainly weren't sure-shots but they could have one on their side."

He looked back at John, impatiently. "Well? Can we go anytime soon or not? Sometime before tomorrow would be marvelous."

"Not before I wrap your ribs," John said. "It's probably just a small fracture, but." He turned to grab some medical tape from his med bag. "And you might want to take those tylenol."

Sheila turned back away from the window. "I think there's someone out there," she said, her voice low. "And they've been watching for a while."

Sherlock looked up immediately at Sheila's announcement. "Who?" He asked, "Did you see them?"

"Not very clearly," Sheila admitted. "But it looks like there's a man out there. He appears to be by himself."

Sherlock stood up from the edge of the bed.. "Sorry John, change in plans. Looks like the Tylenol will have to do me for now." He picked his coat back up and slipped it on, wincing a little bit at the movement. "Oh, listen, when we get back home I promise to sit quiet and rest up and follow all the doctor's orders, and then you can fuss all you'd like. But things are happening. Sheila," said, looking past John's irritated scowl as he tied his scarf back on, "was the man holding anything, that you could see?"

Sheila closed her eyes, then nodded once, then paused. "He had his right hand near his waist, but he was wearing a coat, so I couldn't see if he had anything in his hand. The window sill cut off the rest of my view from the waist up."

"Alright. It would probably be wise to move out as soon as possible. We might have to sneak out the back way. Seeing as how he is watching us we don't want him to realize we're leaving, or he may just decide to come say hello. We should somehow make it look like we're just stepping out of the room for a minute." He looked at the others and then glanced around the room, as if searching for inspiration.

Sheila glanced up at the ceiling, then a smirk came to her face. "How... distracting should we be?"

Sherlock shrugged, hiding a grimace of pain. "Doesn't matter as long as we get the desired result. The end justifies the means, I believe the saying goes."

Sheila smirked. "Alright then. You might want to move quickly." She exited the room and went out into the hall, and John started to follow her. A split second later, an ear-piercing alarm ripped through the building, and the sprinkler system turned on above their heads, drenching them.

Sherlock snatched some things out of John's med bag and shoved them into his pockets, following them out into the hall. "Well," he said, slinging his head a little to throw the dripping curls out of his eyes, "That was inventive. Let's go."

They ran past the panicking guests in the halls to the back door and ran outside. Once out in the dark night again, Sheila smirked at Sherlock. "Your hair looks like a wet dog's."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Likewise. If we could make our way to Dewer's Hollow as quickly as possible, that would be spectacular. As a matter of fact," he said, peering at something over John's shoulder in the dark, "I think we'd better start running if we don't want another hold up." He whirled around without waiting for an answer and pounded off into the dark.

Clarice stepped out of the shadows in the other direction and snarled through his bloody lip. "Thought you'd got away with your police friends huh?" he growled, and lunged forward.