A/N: Sorry once again for the bit between posting! :P I'm nearly done with the next chapter though, so hopefully it'll be up soon!

Disclaimer: It's too late for me to think up anything creative. Don't own Sherlock.

Chapter Six:

The Sherlocks Holmes and Dr. Watson

The next few days were interesting, to say the least. If John had thought his life with one Sherlock had been interesting, adding Sheila to the mix only made things more complicated.

Sheila seemed to be affected by the same rapid mood swings Sherlock was. One moment she was bright-eyed and eager on the trail of something interesting, but as soon as it was over, she'd be squabbling with Sherlock over who got to lay on the couch.

John noticed that whenever Sheila seemed to be in a good mood, and he got along with her, Sherlock would be in a foul one. When Sherlock and John got along, Sheila would be the one moping. And when Sherlock and Sheila got on… well, John tried to stay out of their way.

They still hadn't received any word from Mycroft. Anthea wouldn't even let them know where he was, or what he was doing (not that John had expected to get much out of her). John had suggested trying to contact their family in Yorkshire, but both Sherlock and Sheila had reacted negatively to the idea.

Ever since Sheila's collapse, John tried to keep an eye on her. He was hesitant to actually approach her about her letting him examine her, because he knew she'd refuse. She was Sherlock after all.

If Sherlock noticed Sheila's… condition, he made no mention of it. Sometimes in the middle of an argument, her face would go blank and she'd have no memory of what she was saying. Or she would forget things seemingly without cause or reason. What made John the most concerned, though, was the nightmares.

Sleeping on the couch, he could hear her up in his room. He would lay on his back, his throat constricting, and listen to her cry out for whatever it was she was dreaming about to stop. He considered going up to help her, but the thought of going into a teenaged girl's room while she was sleeping didn't sit well with him, and he didn't think she'd appreciate the gesture either.

So he would lay there, trying to fall asleep, his heart hurting for Sheila as he remembered the fear and loneliness of his own nightmares.

#

A gunshot fired. And then another.

Sherlock slammed the door closed and bolted up the stairs, pulling his own gun out, ready to see what the trouble was… he stopped when he got to the door. "What the…"

Sheila slouched in his chair, feet stretched out on John's, her eyes closed. Her right hand held a gun, which was aimed at the wall with the smiley… which he could clearly see had new bullet holes adorning it, ones he knew he hadn't put there.

"Sheila, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

Sheila didn't bother to open her eyes. "Bored," she mumbled.

"But… but…" Sherlock sputtered. "You can't shoot the wall! That's what I do."

The door opened downstairs. Sherlock knew it had to be John, who would just be returning home from the surgery. He heard the footsteps quicken and a moment later John appeared at the top of the stairs. "What's going on?" he asked, looking from Sheila to Sherlock.

Irritated, Sherlock turned to him. "John, will you please tell Sheila she can't shoot the wall."

Sheila fired another shot, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Uh, why?" John asked. "You do it all the time."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, exasperated. "It's my wall."

Sheila fired again, opening her eyes to look at Sherlock, her smirk growing.

"It's actually Mrs Hudson's wall," John said, an annoyingly amused look playing across his face. "And if you can shoot Mrs Hudson's wall, then Sheila can, too." He moved past Sherlock and went to pick up his laptop.

"But… but… John."

Sheila moved her feet so John could sit in his chair, but made no move to get out of Sherlock's chair. Ignoring him completely, she raised her gun again.

Sherlock fired at the wall before she could. She opened her eyes and smirked again. "Would you like to have a shooting match, Mr Holmes?"

John closed his eyes. "Oh, gosh. Here we go."

Sherlock gazed at her coolly. "Only if you don't mind being shown up."

"Really," John sighed. "Are we really going to do this?"

Sheila and Sherlock stared down at each other for a minute, then Sherlock said, "John, you'll be the judge."

"Ah, no," John said, drawing out the word. "I'm staying out of this."

"John…"

"Nope."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest further, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked down at it. "Lestrade," he said, sending off a quick response. "Case for us. The match will have to wait."

Sheila smirked. "You're just putting off the inevitable."

"Not my fault Lestrade can hardly handle a case without me," Sherlock said, turning to John. "Coming?"

John sighed, having just gotten settled. "I suppose." He closed his laptop and went to fetch his coat. He paused. "Do you think I'll need my gun?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Probably not. Just a crime scene."

John shrugged and pulled on his coat, looking at Sheila. "Aren't you coming?"

"Wouldn't want to get in the way," she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Good," Sherlock said, starting down the stairs.

John sighed again. "Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. "What?"

John cocked his head towards Sheila.

Sherlock glared at him, knowing full well what John wanted him to do.

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock grit his teeth. "Sheila, do you want to come with us?" He growled, a look on his face like every word tasted disgusting.

Sheila grinned. "Since you asked so sweetly." She bounded out of the chair, newly enthused with energy. She slipped her coat over one of the new button down shirts Mrs Hudson had bought for her, tucking her gun in her trouser waistband. She started down the stairs and slipped past Sherlock, flashing him a sweet smile on her way down.

Sherlock glared at John, who looked back at him innocently. "What?"

"Why did you do that?"

John retained his innocent look. "What?" He went down the stairs, giving Sherlock a gentle shove. "Come on."

Sherlock flipped his coat collar up and sniffed, still irritated, but went outside and got into the taxi Sheila had hailed.

#

As before, Sherlock and Sheila refused to say a single word to each other, leaving John to sit in awkward silence between them. They pulled up in front of a tall office building, but John grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve before he could get out. Sherlock looked at him, frowning.

"You can pay for the taxi this time, thank you," John said, climbing out after Sheila and ignoring the scowl on Sherlock's face.

Sheila started towards the building, where squad cars were parked out front and Lestrade stood waiting, his arms crossed. John waited for Sherlock, then they started after Sheila.

"Thanks for coming," Lestrade said, looking at Sherlock and John first, then Sheila. "Thought this one might get you interested." He turned and walked into the building, the three following him.

He lead them towards the lift, and once inside, pressed a button the floor. "Lenny Wallford was an investigative journalist for the local paper. Janitor found him dead in his office early this morning."

They reached the top, and the lift doors slid open. They followed Lestrade into a small office. In the middle of the room, a body lay stretched out on the floor, face down.

"Doors locked from the inside, I suppose," Sheila said, walking towards the body.

Lestrade nodded, glancing at her. "Should I ask how you knew?"

"Second to the top floor, obviously not suicide, and you wanted my opinion," Sherlock said. He moved towards the window, taking out his lense and peering down at it. "And before any of you ask how I know it's not suicide, it's easy to tell. He couldn't have shot himself in the back of the head."

"Yeah, thanks," Lestrade said, folding his arms. "I'm not a complete idiot."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like "Could have fooled me." Sheila snickered and John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock turned away from the window, a slight frown on his face. "You're sure the door was locked from the inside when the body was found?"

Lestrade nodded. "The janitor said he had to force it open."

Down by the body, Sheila frowned, too. "Why would the janitor force it open?"

"Said he heard a loud noise and came up to investigate," Lestrade said.

Sherlock moved over towards Sheila and knelt down beside the body with her. "Any enemies?"

"That's the funny thing," Lestrade said. "You'd think a journalist would make enemies at one point or another, but as far as everyone I've spoken to this morning could tell, he didn't have any. Didn't have friends either. He was apparently wasn't an unpleasant man to work with, but he usually kept to himself. Unmarried, no kids. Only child; parents died a few years back, no other living relations that we've found. I have some people searching right now."

Silence elapsed as Sherlock and Sheila examined the body. Sherlock pulled on his gloves and lifted the man's wrist, looking at the tan marks. Recently out of the country. Wore a watch the whole time. Not on vacation then. Most likely on assignment, on a tight schedule.

Sherlock glanced up at Sheila, to see if she was picking up on the same things he was. She stared at the body, a blank look on her face.

Afraid that she was perhaps going into one of her 'fits', for lack of a better word, Sherlock spoke up, keeping his voice low so only she could hear him. "Sheila? What do you think, Brazil or Argentina?" He knew of course, but wanted to see if she did.

"Do you think he was lonely?"

Sherlock blinked. "I don't know. I don't see what this has to do with the case…."

Sheila shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Sherlock stared at her, trying to figure out what she had meant.

"Argentina, most likely," Sheila said, looking up and around the room. Sherlock followed her gaze, past the closet behind her, towards the desk in the middle of the room. "Knick knack on his desk, along with…" She frowned. "Hold on."

Sherlock looked at the knick knack she'd spoken of. He had seen before that it had been knocked over, with papers strewn all over the desk, but his eyes widened slightly as he realized what she was getting at.

"No known acquaintances or enemies," Sheila said, quickly. "Kept to himself. Recently on a trip to somewhere in South America. Smuggling ring?"

"Killed on the second highest floor on the building, only door locked, no marks of entry from the window," Sherlock said, staring at Sheila as he started to piece the puzzle together. She stared back, and he saw the same realization in her eyes the second it hit him. "The murderer is still in the room."

He sprang to his feet, a second too late. The closet door banged open behind Sheila. She dove to the side but the cocking of a gun froze her in place.

"Great, you got it right," the man who had just got out of the closet growled. He reached down and grabbed the back of Sheila's collar, dragging her up on to her feet.

John and Lestrade started, both reaching for their guns, but John realized he had left his behind at the flat, and the man pressed the gun to Sheila's head. "Hands in the air! Reach for your gun and I'll shoot the girl."

Lestrade froze, then he raised his hands. John followed suit.

Sherlock hesitated. The man glared at him. "I mean it, buddy. Hands up or your daughter dies."

Sherlock scowled, and raised his hands. "She's not…"

"Shut up," the man snarled. He looked down at Sheila. "Now, you're going to come with me nice and quiet-like, and we're going to leave the room. Try any funny business…"

"And I die. I got it. Thanks."

The man pulled back on her collar, and grabbed a fistful of her hair at the nape of her neck, yanking her head back to look up at him. "And no clever talking back. You remain silent. Got it?"

Sheila stared at him blankly. "I feel like I'm supposed to answer 'yes', but you're holding my hair too tightly for me to nod..."

"Very funny," the man snarled. He pulled her back by her hair, sending little rockets of pain along her skull. He started moving towards the door. "Any of you try to follow me, and she dies."

"Yes, you've said," Sheila remarked dryly.

The man stopped and looked down at her. She smiled sweetly up at him, then banged her forehead against his. He stumbled back, releasing her in surprise.

Sherlock, John and Lestrade burst into action, Lestrade drawing his gun and John and Sherlock bursting forward towards the man and Sheila.

Sheila grabbed the man's gun arm and twisted it behind her back, using the momentum from the twist to spin out from under his arm. He recovered and tried to pull his gun away from her, but she held on tightly, refusing to let go.

Sherlock reached them first, and grabbed on to the gun as well. The man released it, and Sheila and Sherlock both stumbled back a half-step from the release of pull. The man grabbed Sheila's arm and wrenched it behind her back. She let out a small cry of pain.

John tackled the man, knocking him into the wall and forcing him to release Sheila's arm. Lestrade and Sherlock aimed their guns at the man. John wrenched the man's arms behind his back and clapped a pair of handcuffs on him that Lestrade tossed him.

"Come on," Lestrade said, grabbing the man's arm and shoving him towards the door. The man struggled and started to pull away. John grabbed the man's other arm and they headed downstairs.

Sherlock and Sheila paused a moment to catch their breath. Sheila massaged her wrist. "Thanks."

Sherlock nodded. "You alright?"

Sheila nodded back. "Fine. I don't think it's sprained."

"John will probably want to look at it when he comes back," Sherlock said. "He's rather fussy that way."

They stood in silence for a moment, then Sheila bit her lip. "Were you…" She trailed off.

"Was I what?" Sherlock asked, looking at her strangely.

Sheila stared at the floor and a moment passed before she finally asked, "Were you lonely, before you met John?"

Sherlock stared at her, feeling taken aback. "What? Why?"

Sheila kept her head down. "No reason," she said too quickly.

Sherlock watched her. He hated talking about feelings of any sort, but loneliness especially. She was 18. He remembered his 18th year all too clearly. Lonely. Yes, he had been lonely, though he hadn't really thought of it. He hadn't let himself feel weak emotions like that. A few months after the Fight with Mycroft, the Rift in the family… Yes, he had been lonely before he had met John. "Are you lonely, Sheila?"

Sheila said nothing for a moment, but she looked up at him, and looking into her eyes, he saw it. He saw she knew, and he knew.

After a minute, Sheila said, "Do you think I have a John?"

Before Sherlock could answer, footsteps sounded in the hallway, and John appeared in the doorway. "You two alright?" He asked, looking at them. "Thought you'd have come downstairs by now."

Sherlock shrugged. "Just discussing something."

Sheila said nothing, but Sherlock could almost feel her relief of him not saying anything of what they had been discussing. It's not like it was something he wanted to talk about further.

"Right then." John walked over to them. "Now, want to explain what exactly happened?"

"Wallford recently returned from a trip to Argentina," Sheila started.

"Easy to tell by his tan line, knick knack on his desk and Argentinian Pesos also on the desk," Sherlock said.

"He kept to himself," Sheila continued. "Not a highly suspicious activity on its own, but…"

"He was not short on cash," Sherlock said. "Clothes, watch and shoes too expensive than his salary as a journalist would be able to afford."

"Maybe his family was well-off?" John asked.

"Family was all dead," Sheila said. "And if his family had been well-off, he most likely wouldn't be writing for a second-class paper, a job he didn't particularly like."

"Hold on, how could you tell that?"

Sherlock walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper covered in numbers. "A countdown for two months from now, when he would have made enough money outside of the paper, and he could resign."

"Okay," John said. "I think I'm following. But who was the man in the closet? Was he the one who murdered Wallford?"

Sheila nodded. "He must have been Wallford's contact here. He would bring over the drugs, or artifacts, or whatever it was he was smuggling, and sell them to that man. They must have had a falling out while agreeing on a price, and the man murdered Wallford when he turned his back to him."

"Any further questions?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "How both of you can keep up with each other like that."

Sheila and Sherlock exchanged glances and smirked. "We're the Sherlocks Holmes," Sheila said. She smiled and headed towards the door. "Now come along, Dr. Watson. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind a bite to eat."