A/N: Hey everyone! So sorry it's been so long again! :P I've been busy, and got stuck again. XP But, thanks once again to sherlock'sthename, I am now unstuck. :D

Disclaimer: Yeah, I know I don't have to keep saying this, but it's kind of fun trying to come up with a new one each time, and in case someone really thick comes across this... I do not own Sherlock, or any characters from the BBC show. Sheila and the plot is all that belongs to me.

Chapter Five: Everything About Her Is Wrong

John stared after the taxi, trying not to feel hurt. Sherlock just needed some space, that's all. It wasn't the first time he'd done that. John turned and walked back towards the shop. Lestrade and Sheila were still talking, but they both looked up at John as he came over. "Where's Sherlock going?" Lestrade asked.

John shrugged. "Probably back to the flat. Look, I'm going to go find another taxi and see if he's there." He looked at Sheila. "You coming?"

Sheila stared at him blankly. "Coming where?"

John frowned. "To the flat."

Sheila blinked. "What flat?"

John's frown deepened. What on earth…? "To our flat. To Baker street? Where we live?"

Sheila blinked again, then her expression darkened and she shook her head. "I know where you live," she said, scowling. "And no, I'm not coming. Unlike some people, I don't just drop a case for no good reason." She turned away, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets and stalked back towards the shop.

Lestrade looked at John, a quizzical look on his face. "What was that all about?"

John shook his head. "What was what all about? Sherlock or Sheila?"

Lestrade looked at the empty street where Sherlock had gotten into the taxi, then towards the shop. "Both."

"I have no idea," John said. He sighed. "I wish I knew."

#

John drummed his fingers nervously on arm of his chair, looking down at his phone to see if he'd gotten any new messages.

Nothing.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Five hours since Sherlock had left the crime scene. Five hours of no word from him.

Normally, he wouldn't be too concerned. Sherlock was Sherlock. Not letting anyone know where he was was not abnormal. Being gone for hours was normal.

But Sherlock wasn't acting normal, and that scared John.

John checked his phone again, sighing. He dialed a number and lifted the phone to his ear.

After a few rings, it went right to voicemail. You've reached Mycroft Holmes. Leave me a message if necessary.

John sighed. "Mycroft, it's John Watson. Listen, something weird is going on with Sherlock. Call me back when you can." He hung up, and went back to drumming his fingers on the chair arm.

Downstairs, the doorknob clicked and the door creaked as someone opened it. John jumped up from his chair.

Sheila appeared at the top of the stairs. John bit his lip, the relief fading back into worry again. "Hello," he said. "How's the case?"

Sheila said nothing, moving into the small kitchen. She took off her coat and scarf, tossing them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Sheila?" John called.

No response.

"Is today 'everybody ignore John Watson' day?" John asked, irritation welling up inside him.

But of course, she didn't respond.

Scowling, John walked to the window. He pushed back the curtain and looked out. The street was quiet. A taxi drove by, and for a moment John dared to hope it was Sherlock, but it drove past and out of view. John sighed and let the curtain fall back into place.

A crash came from the kitchen.

John whirled around. Sheila sat in a curled up ball in the middle of the kitchen floor, the remains of a glass beaker shattered around her. Her arms were raised over her head in a self-protective gesture.

John ran over to her. "Sheila! What…"

"No!" A hoarse cry came from her curled up form. Her voice had lost its sarcastic edge. She sounded like a frightened child. "Leave me alone!"

John knelt down beside her, being careful to avoid the glass. "Sheila, it's John. Look at me."

"Please," her voice trembled. "Leave me alone, I don't want to…."

"Sheila!"

Sheila looked up sharply, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. Her gaze was unfocused for a moment, but fixed on John. "John….?"

"Yes," John said, his voice calm and steady. "It's alright. You're fine. What happened?"

The fear and vulnerability in her face snapped close and her emotionless mask went up again. "Nothing," she snapped. "I'm fine. I just… bumped the table and the beaker fell off." She stood up abruptly, her foot brushing the little pieces of glass, which made a tinkling sound. "I'll clean it up. Have a broom?"

John stood up, examining her. A moment ago she'd seemed like a lost, terrified child, and suddenly she was Sherlock Holmes again. "Sheila, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice hardening into a very Sherlock-like edge. The voice that threatened to do something drastic if you kept prying.

John walked around the table and fetched the broom, still watching her. She ignored him, not meeting his gaze. He handed her the broom and she snatched it from his hand, sweeping up the broken pieces in a few short, hard strokes.

"Sheila," John tried again. "I'm a doctor. Can I -"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Sheila snarled, straightening up, her eyes glaring at him. She dumped the dust pan into the garbage can and shoved the broom back into John's hand, then snatched her coat and scarf from the chair and stalked away, up the stairs for her room.

John blinked, staring after her. What the… He shook his head and returned the broom to its proper place, then went back into the living room. He checked his cell phone again, half-absentmindedly. Still no new messages.

What was going on?

#

A few hours later, John looked up from his laptop screen at the sound of a taxi door slamming shut outside. A moment later, the door opened downstairs and someone started up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John called, closing his laptop.

"Which one?" A voice muttered, then the consulting detective appeared at the top of the stairs and stalked into the room, his hands deep in his pockets.

John debated whether or not that he was supposed to answer that question. After a brief awkward pause, he decided to move past it. "Where were you?"

"Does it matter?" Sherlock tugged of his coat and scarf and tossed them at his chair.

John stared at him. "Of course it does! I was worried about you…"

Sherlock whirled to face him. "Why? Because I missed a vital clue? Because an 18 year old girl who shouldn't even exist outsmarted me?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, just forget about it. Everyone makes mistakes…"

"I don't!" Sherlock turned away, snatching his violin from it's case and sitting down in his chair, glaring down at the instrument.

John swallowed, unsure what to say.

Uncomfortable silence descended. Sherlock plucked at the strings on his violin absentmindedly, glaring at the wall.

John knew it was a risk to mention her… but something was definitely going on with Sheila. "Sherlock," he voiced, waiting a moment to see if he would look up.

He didn't.

John continued, a bit uncertain. "Um, Sheila came back before you did. And, um…." Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention, but John continued anyway. "I think… I think there's something wrong with her."

"Of course there is!" Sherlock exploded, finally looking up. The look on his face made John instantly regret speaking. Sherlock picked up his bow, gesturing with it angrily. "Everything about her is wrong!" He set the bow to the strings and started bringing it back and forth, punctuating the air with sharp, angry sounds.

John watched the bow move back and forth in a flurry of movements, saying nothing until Sherlock lowered the violin. "Sherlock," John said quietly. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but I'm here when you need me."

Sherlock didn't look up at him. "I don't need you."

John blinked, taken aback. Sherlock lifted the violin and started playing again, a classical piece John vaguely recognized, or would have if he'd paid attention to it.

John tried his best not to be hurt, tried to understand that Sherlock was angry, and that he shouldn't have tried to talk to him about it. He tried to just brush the comment away; tell himself that Sherlock hadn't been serious.

He couldn't.

He clenched and unclenched his hand on the armrest of the chair, then stood up abruptly. He walked over and grabbed his coat, slipping it on and going down the stairs.

John's foot had just touched the first stair when the violin abruptly stopped. "John? Where are you going?"

"Does it matter? You don't need me," John said, his voice laced with bitterness he almost regretted. He shook his head and slammed the front door in the middle of Sherlock's second "John."

#

John knew he shouldn't be angry with Sherlock. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he more or less stormed through the park. He huffed, the frigid air turning his breath into a visible grey cloud.

He closed his eyes. He shouldn't have stormed off like that. Sherlock hadn't really meant that.

But it had hurt more than anything else Sherlock could have said to him.

John took a deep breath and glanced down at his watch. He'd been gone for over half an hour now. He turned and started walking back towards the flat, suddenly realizing how cold it was getting.

He reached the flat and rushed inside, immediately feeling warmer.

Raised voices came from up the stairs.

John cursed under my breath. "I knew it was a bad idea," he muttered and ran up the stairs, flinging the door open.

Sherlock and Sheila sat on opposite sides of the room, Sherlock in his chair and Sheila on the sofa, both shouting at the other. John literally could not make out a word they said; they were talking so fast. He caught a few words like "the acid dissociation constant" and "conjugate base."

Sighing a little, he shouted, "You two are worse than a couple of three year olds!"

Sherlock and Sheila both started, looking up at him in complete surprise. "John," Sherlock started.

John rolled his eyes. "And I am not your mother, and I am not going to deal with the three year olds. Just keep it down to a civil level, please." He turned away and walked into the kitchen, still fighting to forget Sherlock's words a little while ago.

Silence came from the room behind him. He opened the fridge, but glanced back into the living room to see what the two were doing.

Sherlock and Sheila both stared at each other, neither saying a word.

Finally, Sherlock started, "According to Dorothy Mary Hodgkin…"

Sheila leaned forward. "You know Dorothy Hodgkin?"

Sherlock blinked. "Well, of course. Her work in protein crystallography is invaluable."

Suddenly they both started speaking rapid-fire again. John blinked and looked back and forth between the two of them. Both of their faces were eager, their eyes lit with the ecstatic look John had seen in Sherlock's eyes whenever he was on a "truly interesting" case.

John shook his head, and started making himself a cup of tea.

Sherlock and Sheila's conversation was so fast, John wondered how on earth they could understand the other. Taking his cup of tea, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched them for a minute, still unable to catch more than a few clips of words.

"Moles?" He asked, finally deciding to jump in. "Like the animal?"

The two stopped mid sentence and turned to stare at John. A low, half-laugh came from Sheila, and Sherlock smirked.

John felt his face grow warm. "What?"

"A mole, John," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I know." John glared over his mug of tea.

"A mole as in the measurement," Sheila said, smirking. She leaned back and folded her arms. "One mole equals 6.02x10 to the 23rd atoms. Everyone should know that."

John scowled. It was bad enough when he had one Sherlock to make him feel like an idiot. "Right. Sorry. Stupid me."

Sherlock huffed once, and John almost thought he heard him mumble something about "lesser minds" under his breath. He turned back to Sheila, and they began their conversation again. John stalked over to the table and sat down, flipping open his laptop.

For a while, he stared at the blank screen of the "new post" option on his blog. He wasn't sure how to even begin to explain what was going on with Sheila.

"John?"

John started and looked up. Sherlock and Sheila had stopped their conversation again and they were both looking at him again. He took a sip of tea, trying to mask the annoyance he still felt at being made look like an idiot. "What?"

"We were just discussing what our next step should be," Sherlock said. "What do you think?"

"Um." John took another sip of tea, then set the mug down on the table. "I'm not really sure what to think really. I…" He broke off abruptly and shook his head. "No. Don't mind me. I'm the ordinary person in the room. You two geniuses figure it out." He snapped his laptop shut and pushed his chair back. Taking his laptop, he started up the stairs. "I'll be in my room."

"John?"

Behind him, John could hear Sherlock get up and follow him. He stopped in the middle of the stairs, clenching his jaw. "What?"

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock asked. John didn't look at him, but he could hear the genuine confusion in his voice. Of course he wouldn't know. Wouldn't understand. "We agreed to work this out together. And now your favourite new pastime is storming out of the room like a mad bull."

John let out a harsh laugh. "Right. Well, when you want to start working together, let me know." He started walking again, but only got up another two steps before Sherlock stopped him again.

"John? What…"

"You yourself said you don't need me," John said, fighting to keep his voice flat. "Why would you need my lesser mind?"

"John, I didn't… I didn't mean… I…." Sherlock's voice wavered, confused. "You wanted to… talk. About… I can't, I don't do that, John."

John said nothing.

"I'm sorry."

This time, John turned around, shocked. "What?"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not going to say it again." His scowl faded. "You were just trying to help."

"Do you want me to?" John asked, quietly. "Help."

Sherlock nodded once, curtly. "Yes."

John nodded back, sighing, feeling the tension drain away. "I shouldn't have stormed off like that. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "Now are we going to stand here on the stairs all day, or are we actually going to do something about Sheila?"

John smiled. "The game's on."