A/N: Hey everyone! So sorry it's taken me so long to get this next chapter up! I have the rest mostly written now, so hopefully it won't be as long between new chapters now. Sorry this one's kind of on the short side. But hopefully posting another chapter sooner will make up for it?

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. But if I did... SERIES 4 MUST COME SOON D: asldjfaslkf

Chapter Eight:

To Dartmoor

Sherlock thought John handled the news fairly well.

That evening, when he'd returned home from the surgery, exhausted after more than one rather tense emergencies, John had hoped to spend the rest of the evening relaxing in front of his laptop with a cup of tea.

As soon as he'd stepped foot inside the flat, though, he'd known it had been a fool's hope.

Two bags sat near the top of the stairs. John glanced at them as he walked up the stairs, then looked up at Sherlock and Sheila, who sat opposite each other on the sofa, both holding their violins but neither of them playing. They both seemed lost in thought, and neither looked at the other.

"Something wrong?" John asked, taking his coat off and wearily draping it across a chair.

Sheila and Sherlock both looked up. "John," Sherlock said. "Pack your bags."

John sighed. "Should I ask why?"

"We're going to Dartmoor," Sheila said quietly. "To Baskerville."

John stared at her in surprise, then looked at Sherlock. "Baskerville?" He echoed. "Why?"

"Because Mycroft seems to think that the answer to either my - or his." Sheila tipped her head towards Sherlock. "Existence can be found there."

"We're merely going to prove him wrong," Sherlock said, twiddling his bow in his hands.

"Right," John said, blinking to try to clear both the weariness and confusion. "So you were able to get in touch with Mycroft then?"

"Obviously," Sheila muttered, reaching for her violin case on the floor near her feet and placing her instrument inside.

"Alright," John said slowly, dragging the word out. "I'll go pack some things. How long do you think we'll be gone?"

Sherlock shrugged and Sheila didn't answer.

John sighed and turned to go up to his room. He came back down a few minutes later and dropped his bag next to Sherlock and Sheila's. "When do we leave?"

Sherlock swung himself off the sofa in a burst of motion, laying his violin in its case and snapping the lid shut. "Now. Hope you can beg off work for the next couple of days; don't know how long we'll be gone. Call them on the way." He swept past John, moving down the stairs.

Sheila followed after him, leaving a slightly stunned John to pick up the three bags and carry them down the stairs to the cab Sherlock hailed.

The wind from the moors blew in cold gusts that ruffled Sheila's curls and pulled at her coat. She stood outside of the inn they had just checked into with Sherlock and John. The journey to Dartmoor had been spent in silence, which was still extended on Sherlock's part. John wanted to talk, she could see it in the way he kept swallowing, kept getting ready to say something, but always stopping before he actually did.

Their rooms had been too stuffy, so Sheila had opted to go outside. Sherlock and John had both followed her; John seeming unwilling to let either of them out of his sight.

Sheila closed her eyes, taking in the scent of the moors. It seemed relaxing, and somehow familiar.

A flash of unnerving familiarity came over her. She'd never been to Dartmoor, she knew it.

So why did it seem so familiar?

Finally, John cleared his throat. "So," he said. "How do we get into Baskerville?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "Well, I doubt Major Barrymore would be very pleased to see us. And for this, it might be better if no one knew we were there at all."

John looked at him. "Are you suggesting we break into a highly guarded military base? Again."

Sherlock smirked at Sheila, though he replied to John. "I suggested nothing of the sort. But since you brought it up, I think it might be as good a course of action as we have to consider."

Sheila smirked back, and John sighed. "Sherlock, it was hard enough last time with Mycroft's clearance card. They aren't going to fall for the same trick again."

"No, they wouldn't," Sherlock agreed. "He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked in the direction of Baskerville, though he couldn't see it. Sheila followed his gaze.

"There has to be another way we can sneak in," Sherlock continued. "A way they won't expect us to come through." He suddenly jerked his head up, as if just hit by a solution. "The minefield."

John stared at his friend. "Sherlock, are you insane? We can't go through there."

"Why not?"

"It's a bloody minefield, Sherlock! Do you not remember what happened to the last man we saw trying to escape through it?"

The two men's voices seemed to grow distant. Sheila felt a tremor run through her, an exhausted feeling like she had been running for ages. She found herself trembling. Trees. Running. Run. Tunnel. Escape. Can't stop. Run.

Sheila jerked back like she'd been physically hit, the image, the memory, slapping her across the face. "Dewer's Hollow," she breathed, voice barely audible.

John and Sherlock heard her though, and both turned to face her.

"What about it?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at her.

"There's a tunnel," Sheila said. "A passageway from the hollow into Baskerville."

"Sure?" Sherlock asked, stepping toward her, his eyes lit up eagerly. "But then that would make sense… Sheila, you've been there before, haven't you?"

"No." The word came out of her mouth too quickly. "I haven't." John couldn't see her face clearly in the dark, but her voice was tinged with fear. "I haven't... why... why can I remember it? I've never been there before!"

"Alright," Sherlock said, his voice steady as he looked Sheila in the eye. "Calm down. We're working on finding some answers but for that we need to get into the compound. I am going to run back to the room and grab the torches. The entrance, do you think you could lead us there?" Sherlock asked.

Sheila exhaled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then gave a curt nod.

Sherlock nodded back, and then gave a tiny nod at John. "I'll be right back." He turned and walked briskly back down the darkened sidewalk toward the Inn. When he was a little more than a block away, out of earshot, a shadowy form leaned out of an inky alley between two houses.

Sherlock noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye a fraction of a second too late. From behind, the attacker expertly wrapped Sherlock's scarf around his mouth and pulled, simultaneously choking and silencing him, and dragged him into the darkness. Two more pairs of hands seized him, and he was slammed roughly against the wall. The scarf was ripped from his face.

"What do you know about the girl?" A gravelly voice asked. Heavy smoker, judging from the damage to his vocal chords and the smell of his breath.

"Why, is she hiding something? Are you?"

The speaker stepped closer, and Sherlock caught a sight of his silhouette in the gloom. He was big. Heavy-set, grizzled hair. He lit a cigarette and the orange glow from the end lit his stubble-covered jowls and black, beady eyes.

"We're asking the questions, city boy. I suggest you start giving answers double quick, for your own health."

"Mm. I'd be more worried about your health. Smoking really isn't the safest thing for your respiratory wellness. If I were you - heaven forbid - I'd try switching to Nicotine patches-"

The thug threw a punch at his head, but he dodged neatly out of the way and the fist collided with the brick wall. He roared his rage and his helpers tightened their hold on Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled grimly. Things were about to get unpleasant.

After Sherlock had gone, John looked over at Sheila. The darkness made her face hard to see, and even then, he doubted it would have given anything away. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

"Fine," Sheila said shortly, her voice once again, reminding John of Sherlock.

A brief clatter and rustle came from a few blocks away. John jumped to attention. His military training and days with Sherlock told him that was not just a cat in an alleyway. He started running, Sheila right beside him.

The thug swung another punch at Sherlock, using his other hand, while clutching his right to his chest, a look of pain and fury on his face.

Sherlock judged the pressure with which he was being shoved against the wall was enough to hold him up; he lifted both feet at once and kicked the man squarely in the chest. The two guys holding him cursed and threw him in the ground, knocking the wind out of him. All three descended on him in a vicious onslaught of blows. Every time he knocked one down, the other two would just redouble their efforts until the one got back up and joined again. He was outnumbered and definitely overpowered. He couldn't get to his gun; it was taken from him and kicked away on the ground. He was strong, but nowhere near the size of these guys. So he covered his head and waited. Finally they stopped.

"You gonna talk to the boss or do ya want more?" someone asked.

Sherlock didn't look up, he was too busy panting and trying to catch his breath. "I met her four hours ago. Women don't start confiding in someone until they've known them for at least 48 hours. So statistically speaking she hasn't had time to tell me anything interesting," he said, hoping they'd buy the lie.

The leader grabbed his coat front and hauled him to his feet. "You're not cooperating, are you, city boy? Reckon you need some more persuasion."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side in an attempt to shrug. "Well, I do have one more card to play." He took a deep breath. "JOHN! JOHN! Help!"

"Shut up!" The guys hissed, and knocked Sherlock down. His head cracked against the sidewalk and he didn't move.

Sherlock's call for help snapped John into concerned friend mode to military mode. Sherlock never called for help.

He pulled his gun out from under his coat and kept running in the direction the call had come from.

He skidded to a stop in front of an alleyway.

Sherlock's scarf lay on the pavement.

But there was no one else in sight.