Mary

Back in the car again, we headed out over the moor. I sat with my chin in my hands and my elbows on the console between the front seats. My gaze flitted from Sherlock to John and back again, but I found not a single clue as to where we were going. Tired of their silence, I cleared my throat.

"Where are we going?" I asked finally. John turned to me, but a quick glance from Sherlock turned him back around. Suspicion grew in my mind, and I lowered my hands, crossing my arms on the console. "Why can't you tell me?" John was silent, so I looked to Sherlock. "Sherlock, why can't he tell me?"

Sherlock kept his eyes on the road ahead. "Because you don't need to know. Also because you would know if your deduction skills were as good as you make them out to be. I'm disappointed in you."

I gaped at him. "What? I-" The words died in my throat as we passed a single military officer standing armed on the side of the road. "Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Please tell me we're not where I think we are."

"Alright. We're not where you think you are," he answered smugly as we passed a handful of officers, followed by a wrought iron fence.

If looks could kill, Sherlock would have blown up. "Baskerville?!" I squeaked. "Your big plan was to take us to Baskerville?! Are you insane?!"

"Is that really still a question?" John mumbled. I punched him in the arm.

"Don't even! You knew, you ass! You guys are completely-" I hesitated as we pulled to a stop in front of a ten-foot gate. Officers surrounded us, each with a weapon more intimidating than their neighbor's. An older officer with a red beret approached Sherlock's window, and I finished my sentence in a frightened whisper. "Nuts."

"Pass?" the officer requested. Without a word, Sherlock handed him a small card and the officer left with it.

"You mean to tell me you have an ID for this place?" I questioned, staring at him in disbelief.

"Not specific to this place," he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's my brother's. Access to all areas. I acquired it ages ago, just in case."

My heart dropped into my stomach. "Oh," I breathed.

Sherlock glanced at me through the rear-view mirror. "What's the matter?"

"We are so, so going to get caught," I whimpered. Sherlock shook his head.

"No we won't," he insisted. "Well, not just yet."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh yes we will," he groaned. "Oh, hi, we're just going to have a wander around your top secret weapons base," he said cheerily. Responding to himself, he continued, "Really?Great! Come in. Kettle's just boiling."

I could feel panic tightening my throat, and I grabbed Sherlock's arm where the guards couldn't see, digging my fingers into the rough fabric. "Sherlock, you know I'm a terrible liar! Why would you bring me?!"

"Because I dread the thought of leaving you unattended in the flat," he responded. I made a small, frightened sound. "Also, I thought that a kickboxer might be useful should we need to fight our way out."

"I don't want to go to jail!" I whined in a whisper. "I wouldn't do well in prison! Being your dumb wife was bad enough!" He raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing.

"That's if we don't get shot," John reminded me.

"Even better."

"Clear," the officer said, making me jump. "Thanks very much. Straight through," he instructed, waving us past. Sherlock drove us inside, nodding to the officer as we passed him. John breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

"Unbelievable. Mycroft's name literally opens doors," he muttered.

Clearly unfazed, Sherlock replied, "I told you. He practically is the British Government." I began to loosen my vice grip on his arm until he added, "I reckon we got about 20 minutes before they realize something's wrong."

"Sherlock?" I whimpered.

"Yes?"

"I can't feel my legs."

Sherlock uttered a short bark of laughter as we pulled to a stop. As he turned off the car, I waited a beat for him to get out first, giving me someone to hide behind. I straightened my coat and prayed that I looked remotely professional. Another officer with a red beret instructed us to follow him, and as we did, I remained behind the boys with my head down, taking note of just how many guards I'd have to beat my way through. As we reached the door, I came to a conclusion.

We are completely screwed, I confirmed with myself. A jeep intercepted us, blocking our path to the door while a young, Asian officer stepped out. I peered through the small space between the boys' arms to get a better look at him, and wondered how someone that looked so nice ended up in such a creepy place.

"What's wrong? Are we in trouble?" he asked frantically.

Sherlock responded without missing a beat. "Are we in trouble, sir," he corrected. The officer nodded.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

John jumped in immediately. "You were expecting us?"

"Your ID showed up straightaway, Mr. Holmes," he replied. Saluting, he added, "Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not," Sherlock responded.

"It's just that...we don't get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn't happen," Lyons explained. I made a small sound.

Totally not shady, I thought.

"Ever heard of a spot check?" John inquired. I turned to him, curious to see what he'd do. "Captain John Watson," he stated, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Sir," Lyons said as he saluted him. "Major Barrymore won't be pleased, sir. He'll want to see you all immediately. Also, if you don't mind my asking," he added, glancing down at me, "Who are you?" My eyes widened as he watched me patiently. These idiots know I'm a terrible liar! my mind screamed, what the hell do I say?!

John jumped in. "Sorry, we don't have time for all that. We'll need the full tour right away. Myself, Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Holmes' assistant. Carry on. That's an order, Corporal."

Lyons looked at me for a moment more before replying, "Yes, sir." As he turned to scan his ID in the door, I frowned.

First I'm a Holmes wife, and now I'm a Holmes assistant. I hope I don't get demoted further.

Sherlock slid Mycroft's ID through the scanner, and the door opened. As it did so, Sherlock glanced at his watch. The three of us followed the corporal in, and I took the distance between Lyons and our group as a chance to tease John.

"Love a man in uniform," I whispered with a flirtatious wink. John glanced at me and fought a smile before looking back at Lyons.

"I'm not in uniform," he protested.

"Yes you are," Sherlock interjected. "You're always in uniform." We followed Lyons into an elevator, where again, Sherlock swiped his card and checked his watch. The action unnerved me. Lyons took us down a few floors, and the doors opened into a blindingly bright laboratory. I physically shielded my eyes from the glare as we stepped out into the sea of scrubs and oxygen masks.

A screech sounded from my right, startling me enough to make me jump. I yelped, clapping my hands over my mouth and stumbling into John, who caught me in one arm. Smiling at him gratefully, I looked to see what had screamed at me. The bright, golden eyes of a macaque studied me carefully from its cage. The monkey had grabbed hold of the cage bars and watched me from between them, now making small cooing noises.

"My apologies, ma'am," Lyons told me. "Are you alright?"

I nodded at him and shot him a smile. "Fine!" I answered. "Fine. Poor thing just wanted to say hello," I said, lightly stroking the macaque's fingers. As I did so, he lightly grabbed one of my fingers, and I resisted the urge to squeal or cry or do something else unprofessional. Instead, I asked Lyons how many animals were kept in Baskerville.

"Lots, ma'am."

I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he remained silent. Well, that was nice and specific, I thought.

Sherlock tried to help the subject along. "Any ever escape?" he prodded.

Lyons shook his head. "They'd have to know how to use that lift, sir," he answered. "We're not breeding them that clever."

I scoffed quietly. "Unless they have help," I muttered. Lyons glanced at me briefly.

"What was that, ma'am?"

"Oh, nothing."

Just then, an older man approached us, clad completely in white. His gaze ran over each of us in turn, and I felt panic threatening again.

"And you are?" he asked.

"Sorry, Dr. Frankland," Lyons responded. "I'm just showing them around."

"Ah! New faces. How nice," Frankland said. Leaning a bit towards me, he added, "Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix the tap!"

After a confused moment, I realized that he was joking and did my best to laugh as he walked off. It came out nervous, choppy, and, quite frankly, a bit disturbing, so I quickly stopped. Lyons stared at me for a moment before looking to Sherlock, who leaned towards him.

"Yes, that's her natural laugh," he mumbled. "I do my best to ignore it, so as not to make her feel bad. You understand." Lyons nodded nervously, and I hung my head with embarrassment as we walked on.

Looking back over his shoulder, John asked, "How far down does that lift go?"

"Quite a ways, sir."

"Mhm..." John paused for a moment, shooting an annoyed glance at the back of Lyons' head. "And what's down there?"

Lyons stopped and turned towards us, making eye contact with John. "Oh, we have to keep the bins somewhere, sir," he said simply. Gesturing towards another door, he added, "This way, sir." John followed closely behind him. Sherlock, however, hesitated, scanning the room around us, and I stayed with him for a moment. Lightly grabbing the collar of his coat, I pulled him down to my level to whisper in his ear, ignoring the infuriatingly enticing scent that seemed to have been infused in his skin, hair and clothes.

"This guy's shadier than Scar was before he killed Mufasa," I said under my breath.

Sherlock creased his brow in confusion. "Who?"

"The Lion King!"

"The what?" he asked me. Disbelief slapped itself across my face.

"Never mind," I answered. "Let's go."

As John questioned Lyons, I took in our surroundings. Dozens of animals were caged and enclosed in glass boxes with handfuls of scientists watching each. I noted the many different species that were present, wondering why on earth they'd choose a chinchilla for a test animal.

Those suckers are mean, I thought, but I thought rats were all the rage in labs?

We came to a stop in front of another door that required a swipe of the ID cards and a glance at the watch. John asked what went on down in the labs.

"Mostly experiments, sir," answered Lyons.

"Biological, chemical?" Sherlock asked.

Going through the door, Lyons gave another vague answer. "One war ends, another begins, sir. New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared."

I mouthed what? at John as we entered the next room, and he shrugged in reply. The screech of another macaque greeted us, and I watched the small monkey raise its right hand, sending the three doctors around it scribbling away on their notepads.

Did that monkey just give the Nazi salute? I wondered.

Interrupting my thoughts, Lyons greeted one of the doctors. "Dr. Stapleton?"

Sherlock and I repeated the name in unison, and he looked at me questioningly.

"You know the name, too?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, but I can't remember where from," I answered with a shrug. Dr. Stapleton approached us, clearly not in the mood for interruptions. Her short, no nonsense haircut flared to all sides, barely reaching chin length, and her dark brown eyes studied us with irritation.

"Yes? Who's this?" she asked.

"Priority ultra, ma'am," Lyons answered. "Orders from on high. An inspection."

She looked less than convinced. "Really?"

"We're to be accorded every courtesy, Dr. Stapleton," Sherlock instructed. "What's your role at Baskerville?" Stapleton scoffed, and John stepped to stand beside Sherlock, leaving me, once again, behind a wall of men.

You know, in an alternate universe, I might enjoy this, I thought. Here, though, I'm starting to find it a bit irritating.

"Accorded every courtesy, isn't that the idea?" John reiterated, keeping a calm, neutral expression.

Without missing a beat, Stapleton tried to shut the question down. "I'm not free to say. Official secrets."

"You most certainly are free, and I suggest you remain that way," Sherlock demanded. An expression of annoyance passed Stapleton's face, and I swore I saw her roll her eyes.

"I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up. Mostly genetics, sometimes real fingers." Confusion fogged my thoughts.

"Stapleton," Sherlock interrupted, "I knew I knew your name." Stapleton sniffed haughtily, the only person I'd ever seen actually sniff like a snobbish person, and muttered that she doubted it. Sherlock smiled, pulling a small notebook out of his pocket. "People say there's no such thing as coincidence," he continued. "What dull lives they must lead." He scribbled something on the notebook's pages and held it up to her before I could see what was written on it. As Stapleton read it, Sherlock watched her reaction with interest.

"Have you been talking to my daughter?" she asked. I could only imagine what awful scenarios were playing in her mind.

Ignoring her question, Sherlock asked one of his own. "Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?"

I experienced a sensation that had to be my mind breaking. "Bluebell?!" I questioned. "Wait, wait! What?!"

"The rabbit?" John asked quietly.

"That's where I know her from!" I exclaimed, snapping my fingers. "She's got that freaky rabbit! Or," I paused, "she had it."

"Disappeared from inside a locked hutch which is always suggestive," Sherlock mumbled.

"The rabbit?" John repeated.

"Yes, John! The rabbit!" I hissed. "Keep up!"

"Why?" Sherlock continued. "Because it glowed in the dark."

Stapleton stared at him blankly. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?" Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but glanced at his watch and seemed to change his statement.

"Well, I think we've seen quite enough for now," he said. "Thank you so much, Corporal."

Poor Lyons looked at him in confusion. "That's it," he mumbled.

"That's it," Sherlock repeated before turning to leave. "It's this way, isn't it?" John and I hurried along behind him as Stapleton called after him. John put a hand on my back to help me keep up with their pace, and I spared him a glance. His expression remained cool as a cucumber, but the hand on my back was warm with sweat.

"Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?" he asked me under his breath.

"God, I hope not."

Sherlock ran his card at the door, and I willed it to open with all my might. After a moment that felt like hours, it slid open, and we strolled through the next lab towards the elevator. As we walked, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. A bark of laughter escaped him.

"What is it?" I asked, confused as to what could possibly be funny at the moment.

"23 minutes," he answered. "Mycroft's getting slow."

Unbelievable.

As Sherlock's ID opened the elevator doors, we hesitated. Dr. Frankland was already inside the elevator, and he shot us a sincere smile.

"Hello," he greeted us, "Again." I looked to Sherlock for guidance, and he nodded to Frankland before joining him in the elevator. Without hesitation, John and I did the same. The elevator carried us up to ground level, and for a moment, my heart lifted from the pit of my stomach.

We're going to make it, I thought, half-cheerily. We're going to get out of here, and we're going to go back to the inn, and- My thoughts ground to a halt as the elevator doors slid open, revealing an extremely irritated, bearded officer.

"Ah," said Lyons. "Major."

Major. Crap. We're screwed. I grabbed both John and Sherlock's hands out of fear, squeezing them tightly. Sherlock looked down at me. Probably realizing that expecting me to rise to the occasion and beat the crap out of a military officer was a stupid idea, I thought sadly. To my surprise, he squeezed my hand back. John guided me behind him, placing himself between the major and I and hiding me from view.

"This is bloody outrageous," the major grunted. "Why wasn't I told?"

John stepped forward, guiding me to stand beside Sherlock, who I still clung to by the fabric of his jacket. "Major Barrymore, is it?" he asked. "Yes, well, good. Very good. We're impressed, aren't we, Mr. Holmes?" He turned to Sherlock, who nodded without making eye contact.

"Deeply, hugely," he answered, pulling me along behind him as he rushed towards the door.

"The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this Bureaucratic nonsense!" Barrymore complained, stomping along behind us. Fear tightened my grip on Sherlock's coat, as time felt like it was closing in on me. I could practically hear the furious ticking of a clock as we speed walked to the door.

"Sorry, Major," John said.

"Inspections?" Barrymore continued, anger clear in his voice.

"New policy, can't remain unmonitored forever," Sherlock replied. "Goodness knows what you've been up to." He turned his head to the side just enough to quietly instruct me to keep walking.

"I am!" I hissed, struggling to keep up with the pair of them.

"Sir!" Lyons called, attracting the attention of everyone in the hallway. He slammed a button on the wall, setting off an alarm and locking the door. The lights above us turned red, as he told Sherlock, "ID unauthorized, sir."

"What?" asked the major. My knees went wobbly, and my heart started pumping, fueled by adrenaline.

"I've just had the call, sir," Lyons answered.

"Is that right?" asked Barrymore smugly. Turning to us, he added, "Who are you?"

John struggled to keep calm. "Look, there's obviously been some kind of mistake."

Barrymore scoffed. "Clearly not, Mycroft Holmes. Your assistant looks ready to faint," he noted, pointing at me.

John shook his head. "Computer error, Major. It will have to go in the report. And her? Just got low blood sugar, that's all." I watched as Frankland approached us, and prayed that I wouldn't end up as one of his experiments.

"It's alright, Major. I know exactly who these people are," Frankland said, catching all of us by surprise.

"You do?" Barrymore asked, unconvinced.

"Yeah. I'm getting a little slow on faces, but Mr. Holmes isn't someone I expected to show up here." For the first time, I could see defeat in Sherlock's eyes. My mind begged him not to give in as he sighed.

"Well-"

Frankland cut him off. "Good to see you again, Mycroft." John and I both breathed a small sigh of relief. Turning to Barrymore, Frankland continued. "I had the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes at the W.H.O. Conference in...Brussels, was it?"

After a dumbfounded pause, Sherlock corrected him. "Vienna."

"Vienna! That's it. This is Mycroft Holmes, Major. There's obviously been a mistake." He stared at Barrymore, unwavering, until Barrymore nodded to Lyons.

As Lyons left to turn off the alarm, Barrymore said to Frankland, "On your head be it, Dr. Frankland."

Frankland nodded as Lyons rejoined us. "I'll show them out, Corporal."

"Very well, sir."

As we left the facility, Sherlock thanked the doctor.

"This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?" Frankland asked. John and I stayed silent, waiting for Sherlock to answer. Taking our collective silence as a yes, Frankland nodded. "I thought so. I knew he wanted help, but I didn't know he'd contact Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock glanced at him, and he laughed. "Don't worry. I know who you really are. I'm never off your website. Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though."

"That wasn't my hat," Sherlock glowered.

"I hardly recognize you without the hat." Frankland insisted. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "I love the blog too, Dr. Watson," he said to John.

"Oh, cheers!"

"The pink thing, and-oh!" he exclaimed, looking at me as if for the first time. "You must be the famed Mary Fisher, then, right?"

The idea caught me off guard. "Uh...famed?"

"The songbird! The kickboxer!" he said, smiling like a kid meeting their favorite superhero. "The only woman, besides Irene Adler, of course, that can match the wits of Sherlock Holmes."

I blinked, unsure of what to take from the statement. "Um. Right. Yeah. That's me," I mumbled.

"You know Henry Knight?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah. Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. He was still a good friend, though." Frankland paused and glanced around us. "Listen, I can't really talk now, but here's my cell number. If I can help with Henry, please give me a call," he said, handing Sherlock a card. Sherlock accepted it, before posing a completely unrelated question.

"I never did ask, Dr. Frankland. What is it that you do here?"

Frankland smiled. "Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you. But then I'd have to kill you."

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," Sherlock said with a completely deadpan expression. Frankland's smile fell, and Sherlock continued. "Tell me about Dr. Stapleton."

"Never speak ill of a colleague."

"Yet you speak well of one."

"I did, didn't I?" Frankland asked. Sherlock nodded. I silently begged him to drive us away before we attracted any more attention or I fainted from shock.

"I'll be in touch," Sherlock said finally.

Frankland nodded. "Anytime."

At long last, we parted ways, Frankland heading towards the door and the boys and I going towards the car. Once Frankland was out of earshot, John addressed Sherlock.

"So?"

"So?" Sherlock replied.

"What was all that about the rabbit?" John asked. Saying nothing, Sherlock turned up his collar. Sighing, John turned to me. "Do you know?" he asked. I shook my head, pulling the door open. "Right," he grunted. "Look, let's not do that. Can we please not do that this time?"

Sherlock gave him a look of innocent confusion. "Do what?"

"You being all mysterious with your...cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool." I crawled into the backseat on shaky legs, flopping onto the cushion as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.

"I don't do that," he protested.

"Yeah, you do," John insisted.

"No, I don't!"

I raised my head just enough to peer at Sherlock through the window. "Yes, you do," I confirmed.