Ten

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Dean pushed himself up off the floor of the concrete room to sit up, causing water to run down the back of his neck and under his shirts with glee roughly equal to that of a five-year-old in knee-high rain boots.

"Gaah - come on!" he protested. "Goddamn ass-crack of the slimiest city I ever seen! Next time we're so going to Florida!" He paused to look at the man lying out cold on the floor. "Sherlock? What the-" His head turned to the wall on his right. "Sam!" His brother was roped to what appeared to be some kind of overflow water pipe about two feet wide, his shaggy head lolling down to his chest. Dean jumped to his feet and crossed the room, grabbing at his brother's head. He raised it quickly. "Sam! Sammy! Hey!"

Sam's eyes creaked open and he gave a groan. His eyes rolled loosely in his head until they flashed past Dean's face. They back-tracked hastily, and he found he was able to keep his head up by himself.

"You ok? Say something," Dean urged.

"What the fu-" He coughed roughly, his throat sore.

Dean grinned in relief. He made his hands let go of his brother's face to steady his shoulders. "You ok?"

"I think," Sam grumped.

"What do you remember? How long you been down here?"

Sam blinked and looked around, confusion twisting his features. "Down here? Where is here?"

"Just - what's the last thing you remember?"

"Telling some guy I don't know London."

"What? When?" Dean demanded. He got up and shifted to the side, looking the ropes over. It appeared to be three wraps of thick rope, knotted like rats' tails around Sam's wrists.

Sam's gaze fell on the other man in the room. "Is he that Sherlock dude?" he asked with disbelief. "What the hell happened, man?"

Dean grabbed at the ropes hurriedly. "You got me. Last thing I remember was being in a movie theatre, watching all this play out in front of us."

"Us?" Sam asked.

"Yeah - you were there too. 'Cept it wasn't you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sam, shut up and help me get these ropes off you."

Between their pulling, teasing and yanking, the ropes finally gave enough that Sam could slip his arms free. He began to keel over on his side, about to fall to the floor in gratitude - until he realised it was covered in an inch of rainwater. He made himself slump back against the large pipe instead.

As he was picking himself up, Dean was already crossing the room to Sherlock. He slapped at his face and the detective shot upright, making Dean spring back.

"-Pirelli Scorpion Winter tyres!" Sherlock blurted. His eyes darted about before landing on Dean. He sniffed and appeared to compose himself, pulling the collar straight on his coat. "Where are we?"

"Wait, stop," Dean ordered, his hands out. "Listen for a minute."

Sherlock looked round Dean to Sam, who was now getting to his feet with the aid of the pipe, shaking his long limbs out. "I was right!" Sherlock cried.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Sam," Dean said, getting to his feet and turning to look at his brother. "What - exactly - is the last thing you remember?"

Sam rubbed at his right wrist and the bright red chafing on it, sniffing. "It's fuzzy. But I know it was when we were outside the pie shop. You were hungry, you saw the food, and that was that. You went in. John said something about picking up around the flat. Sherlock went up after him to stop him… uhm… messing with… something. Then this car stopped and some guy asked me for directions."

"That was three days ago," Dean protested.

"What happened next?" Sherlock demanded.

"Uhm… I was just saying I didn't know London, that I was a tourist… and then I was shaken awake by my brother. I have no idea how I even got down here," Sam said.

"You mean you been down here since the first night we arrived?" Dean gasped. "You can't be serious!"

"It fits," Sherlock nodded. "Just out of curiosity, Samuel-"

Sam raised a finger. "Hey - my name's not Samuel."

"Thought so," Sherlock said smugly. He looked at Dean and his eyes narrowed. "You look surprised. To be here. Why?" he wondered.

Dean looked at Sherlock. "I was in a movie theatre - a British one. Sam was with me - but he wasn't really Sam. We were watching this movie, only it was memories - mine plus someone else's. Like, I could see what I knew had happened," he said slowly, with effort.

"How could you be watching someone else's memories?" Sam asked innocently.

"I don't know!" Dean said irritably. "The water dripping in my eye woke me up, ok?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "The last thing I remember was being outside this door looking in."

Dean snapped his fingers. "The 'shifter must have doubled back and clocked us from behind - threw us in and made a run for it."

"Shapeshifter - London - tracking a-. Oh man!" Sam heaved. "If I'm down here - is he pretending to be me?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. He turned to the door. "We need to leave." He went to the exit and tried the handle - finding it immoveable. He rattled and pulled at it, but the door refused to budge.

"Put your back into it," Dean said. He looked at Sam. "You sure you're ok?"

"Yeah. Just… tired. And hungry. And wet," Sam sighed. He flicked water from the sleeves of his jacket. "Son of a bitch."

"That's just what I said," Dean said, going to the door. "Then I taught my doggie a new trick." He lifted his right boot and propelled it into the door right by the handle. It flew round its arc and smashed into the wall outside.

"You watch too much Batman," Sam grinned, even as he made for the open door.

"Wait," Sherlock snapped. The Winchesters looked at him. "When we get out of here, the creature will look like Sam and have John at gunpoint. Do we have anything that can kill him?"

"Maybe that knife you took from his stash," Sam said to Dean eagerly. "Have you still got it?"

"Oh yes, the knife Dean gave the shapeshifter for safe-keeping, which subsequently disappeared - there's a shocker," Sherlock said with enough sarcasm to sink the Titanic.

Sam frowned at Dean. "Dude, why would you-"

"I didn't know the other Sam was a fake!" Dean protested.

"Then… what about a gun and some silver bullets?" Sam asked.

The other two looked at him.

"Sam," Dean said patiently. "We tried that. John's got a gun."

"I thought you couldn't have guns in the UK?" Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "We been over this. Basically-"

"I haven't," Sam said shortly. "I been down here since we were outside the pie shop. Never even seen their place."

"Alright, ok, I got it," Dean said. "So listen: John used to be a soldier. He kept his gun, Sherlock got silver bullets for it, but now fake-Sam has it and John."

"Why does fake-me have the gun?" Sam asked.

"Ask your brother," Sherlock said archly. He went to the door and stepped out, stretching out with a hearty sigh.

Dean looked at Sam. "I promise I will explain all this when the freaky bastard's dead and we're on a plane to any one of the fifty states," he said. "But for right now, let's just kill it and stop it from killing John, shall we?"

Sam shrugged. "Ok. Oh - how are we going to know who is who when we catch up with him? Now we look the same." He gasped. "Wait - if he was copying me and I've just woken up, then he knows, right?"

Dean huffed. "He will - but this psychic thing stops when you wake up, doesn't it? He'll only know what's happened up until you woke up. He won't know what we been talking about since then, right?"

"Uhm… I think. Probably."

"What was the cinema called?" Sherlock asked suddenly, pocking his head in through the door.

"What?" Sam asked, confused.

"The movie theatre," Sherlock snapped. "What was it called?"

Dean turned and looked at him. "Never found out."

"Wasn't the name printed on the ticket?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh - no," Dean said, his face going through tortuous flipping routines as he tried to recall.

"What theatre?" Sam asked.

"The one I been in since-. Forget it. Look, basically you know about a theatre and he doesn't. Now we can tell the difference between you two. Let's go," Dean nodded, going for the door.

"Where? What are we doing?" Sam asked, hurrying to keep up as Dean stepped out of the door and into the intersection tunnel.

Dean snorted with a definite lack of mirth. "We're going to find him and kill him."

"After we get John back," Sherlock said.

"Fair enough," Sam shrugged. He folded himself out of the door and followed as Sherlock and Dean pointed torches down the intersection.

.

.

The shapeshifter let the gun list, watching John idly.

John leant his shoulder against the wall, clearly not prepared to entertain anything further that smelt like an accusation. "They've been gone a long time," he said.

The shapeshifter didn't answer.

John's eyes ran up and down his captor. "We went and looked and didn't find them. I wonder why."

The shapeshifter shrugged, before batting at the wet knees of its jeans. "It's a big place down there."

"But they'd have to have come back this way at some point."

"Two of the tunnels down there lead to the outside," it said off-hand.

"Oh," John nodded. "Wait - how would you know that?"

"We were just down there," it said slowly. "I saw them."

"I didn't. Must have been when you got lost and I had to wander around until you caught me up." He gasped, staring. Then he shook his head as he looked at his feet. "Oh… great. That's just great. Typical. Bloody typical."

"What is?" the shapeshifter asked, straightening.

"It's you, isn't it?" John said, his smile rueful. "Buggering hell. Bloody sodding hell. Just once I'd like to be the one who figures it out before I get held at gun point."

"Of course it's not me," it shot back. "It's down there, somewhere - or it's Sherlock. It's in the tunnels."

"Sure? Maybe it left down one of those exits only you knew about," John smiled.

"Sherlock was sure it was you."

"That… makes me a decoy," John said.

There was a squeak and a scrape, and a torch appeared over the edge of the formerly barred hatch in the ground. Sherlock hauled himself up and over, getting to his feet and dusting off his dark blue coat.

"Well," he said grandly, looking up at the shapeshifter, "that was an adventure." He looked at John. "Still here, are we?"

"Did you find anything?" John asked urgently.

"Yes," Sherlock said, stepping away from the hatchway. "We found a lot of water and some very interesting slime."

"We went down there - we couldn't find you," John said nervously. He eyed the shapeshifter.

Sherlock's amiable eyes went to the creature too. "Oh? Whatever made you venture down there?"

Dean's head appeared through the hatch and he pulled himself up. He glanced at Sherlock as he got to his feet, flipping the torch round in his fingers to land on the shapeshifter and the gun still in its hand. His eyes went to Sherlock, then the creature who looked like Sam.

"We waited, and we got worried," the shapeshifter said. "So we came to find you."

"Sherlock," John said quickly. "He's not-"

"Not a patient man, yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted. He ignored John's plaintive look to turn on Dean. "Why don't you take over from Sam, hmm? He's been holding that gun on John-the-shapeshifter for ages."

"Sam, give me that," Dean said, his voice firm, as he walked over to the creature. "You get some bags of slime samples from Sherlock." He put his hand out for the gun.

The shapeshifter took a step back. "Sherlock might be the 'shifter," it said slowly.

"Sherlock," John said urgently.

"When we want input from the shapeshifter we'll ask you for it," Sherlock hissed at him. "Stop interrupting!"

"But Sherlock-"

"Will you be quiet!" Sherlock raged. "We've caught you! It's over! You lose!"

"But I'm not the shapeshifter - Sam is!" John shouted.

The storm drain fell silent. The four people looked at each other - just looked.

Dean recovered first. "You don't think I'd notice my own brother bein' a 'shifter?" he tutted at John. He looked at the shapeshifter. "Come on, Sammy, give me a turn." He stretched his hand out again for the gun.

But the creature stepped back. It raised the gun at Dean. "Get away from me," it said clearly. "I know what you're doing."

"I'd be very surprised if you did," Sherlock said haughtily.

The shapeshifter took another step back, edging back toward the empty tunnel that led further into the storm drain. It risked a quick look over its right shoulder to fix it in its mind. "I know you've found the real Sam down there. I know you've woken him up; psychic connection, dumbasses," it snarled.

"You knew he was the shapeshifter all along?" John asked Sherlock. "Then why didn't you-"

"He was probably trying to get Dean to take the gun off me. He must have thought I'd try to bluff my way out of this, pretend to be Sam for as long as possible. He was going to use that against me to get the gun - and then shoot me," the shapeshifter said. It looked at Sherlock, moving its aim to him. "I'm not an expert on humans, but I'm pretty sure silver rounds will kill everyone here."

Dean's foot slid to his right. The shapeshifter moved its aim to him. "So you shoot all of us," Dean said. "What then?"

"Then I continue on as Sam. I just need to find him and put him back under, just for a little longer."

"Under? Why?" Sherlock demanded, taking a step forward.

"Stop!" the shapeshifter cried angrily.

Sherlock's hands went up in surrender. "Just tell us why," he said calmly.

The shapeshifter glanced at all of them. Dean moved more to his right, prompting Sherlock to do the same. "I said don't move," the shapeshifter snapped.

Sherlock paused, half behind the wider Winchester. "If that gun goes off I stand a better chance of survival back here."

"Thanks," Dean grunted.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said brightly.

The shapeshifter grinned, an evil imitation of one of Sam's friendly face-stretchers. "Man after my own heart. Or, at least, my copy of Sam's heart." It paused. "No, I'm not explaining for you, because very soon you'll all be dead, I'll actually be Sam full-time, and I can pick off anyone I want to use them to go anyplace I want."

"Idiot," Sherlock scoffed.

"Excuse me?" the shapeshifter demanded.

"Idiot," Sherlock said, much more loudly. "You're trying to copy Sam down to the last detail - you want to usurp him, become him. You've laid all this to trap him, used him for the past few days, and all you need is a little longer to actually become him. Once you've done that, how can you just shed his skin and become someone else for the ten to twelve hours you'll need to get back the States? Assuming that's where you'll be going."

"Ye-ah…" John said slowly. "Won't that undo all the copying work you've spent days working on?"

"I don't need to change shape. I'll just get a passport with his face on it," the shapeshifter blustered.

"Uh, you probably shoulda checked who were you stealin' before you took his face," Dean said. "Sam's wanted in a few states for grave-robbing, murder, that kind of thing. You and me, well, we know it ain't that at all, that he's really been killing evil bastards like you." His eyes wanted so badly to dart to the tunnel mouth, but he made sure they stayed on the creature. "But the police ain't going to care when they spot you strutting about like you're enjoying your new face. You'll be arrested, and cos all the evidence does actually prove he has killed people, you'll be on death row." He paused. "Tell me, say you do replace Sam - is it permanent? No more shifting, no more ability to change your face, your hair even?"

"Stop trying to make me angry," the shapeshifter warned.

Dean put his hands up in surrender. His eyes went to the tunnel, then to Sherlock over his shoulder. "I don't think he thought this through," he said maliciously.

"I have to agree with you there," Sherlock smiled.

Dean turned back and looked at the shapeshifter. "Here's a thought: you give me the gun, and I put an end to all your troubles."

The shapeshifter grinned, then began to chuckle. "You actually think I would give-"

A shape hurtled out of the tunnel. It collided with the creature. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Elbows, knees, guns and certain death flailed about on the slimy wet floor.

John and Sherlock leapt back against the far wall. Dean sprang forward. A boot connected with his chest and he was flung across the open space. He smacked into the wall with a dull crack and slid down to the floor. John scrambled over in the moist dankness to check his pulse. Dean waved him off but John still helped him to his feet. He kept a good hold on his arm until it was obvious Dean needed no help with his balance.

"Alright, stop!" came Sam's voice, thick with exertion.

Everyone turned and looked. Two identical Sams - even down to their jackets, shirts and wet jeans - were glaring at each other, panting to get breath back. The one holding the gun took a few steps back. Dean looked from one to the other.

"How do we know which one's which?" John asked in a small voice.

Dean backed up, his eyes studying both men.

Sherlock came forward. "Easy," he said. "Will the real Sam please tell us the name of the cinema that Dean thought he was in whilst he was out cold?"

Both Sams looked at Sherlock, flipping wayward hair out of their eyes in a move so synchronised it appeared rehearsed. "It didn't have a name," they both said.

Sherlock blinked. John, behind him, slapped his left palm over his eye socket so harshly the sound echoed round the area.

"How do you know that?" Dean asked.

"You told me," both Sams said - then looked at each other, annoyed.

"How can he know that?" Dean demanded of Sherlock. "One of them never heard me say that."

Sherlock's eyes went up and down the Sam with the gun. "One of them heard you say it. The other one… perhaps… was present in the theatre itself."

"You mean I was sitting next to some kind of 'shifter nutjob the whole time I was in there?" Dean asked, his face a puzzle vexed by missing pieces. Then it screwed up in a dictionary diagram of 'horrified'. "Eeyiuu."

"You asked why a cinema, why you were watching memories all over again," Sherlock rattled off. "Perhaps he was in there with you, part of this psychic bond, watching your memories but letting you see his side of them too - to see what you'd do, to see how to get away with it!"

"Son of a bitch," Dean marvelled. He looked back at the Sam with the gun. "You been snoopin' in my head? To get memories?"

"No! I'm Sam! I was never in any movie theatre!" he snapped.

Unarmed Sam waved his hands up in surrender. "Look, Dean. He's the 'shifter. I don't know how he knows about the movie theatre, but he obviously does."

"Really? That's the best you can do?" the Sam holding the gun snapped. He looked at Dean quickly. "Of course he's the shifter, Dean!" He moved forward.

"It's him!" the unarmed Sam cried.

"Don't move!" the other Sam warned. He stretched his arm out, aiming at the centre of Unarmed Sam deliberately.

"How much was the ticket?" Dean blurted. The two Sams looked at each other. Their mouths opened but they hesitated. "Come on, the movie ticket! The movie ticket in my head! How much was it?" Dean asked.

The two Sams shrugged helplessly.

Dean threw his hands up in the air. "Great. That was all I had; only the one in the theatre coulda known."

Sherlock patted Dean's shoulder. "If I may?"

Dean risked a look at him, but then glared at both Sams. "He's my brother."

"Your talents lie in tracking and killing," Sherlock said quietly. "Mine lie in observing and identifying."

John sneaked forward, appearing at Dean's left elbow. He looked at him, then other at the two Sams. "Twenty quid says Sherlock can see, right here and now, which of you two is really Sam," he said to them, his face radiating cheerful confidence.

Dean's eyes flicked to the ceiling. "How are you gonna collect on that exactly?"

John's face fell. Sherlock sighed.

"Why are we stood here playing this game?" the Sam with the gun demanded. "We shoot him and all the murders stop!"

"That doesn't even make sense," the other Sam protested. "Killing me will be another murder, you douchebag freak!"

"Alright! Enough!" Dean cried. He looked at Sherlock. "You're sure you can do this?"

"Oh, quite sure," Sherlock nodded, tugging at the cuffs of his long coat to pull the sleeves straight.

John's face turned nervous. "Sherlock, you really really have to be right about this."

"John, Dean… Trust me. I am never wrong."

Dean turned to him. "You'd better not be," he said, his face a warning that sent chills down John's spine.

"Sherlock, tell me you're sure," the Sam with the gun said.

"You little people - you're all so unobservant," Sherlock chuckled. "The answer has been staring you in the face ever since one of our Sams picked up that gun."

Dean and John looked over at the two identical men, then back at Sherlock.

"Well?" Dean demanded. "Which one is it?"

Thanks for reading, folks! We're near the end now...