A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry, I meant to have this up earlier today, but I forgot. Whoops. :P

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, and am too tired to come up with anything creative. So. There. Ha. I need sleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE:

WAKING NIGHTMARE

Sheila and Sherlock walked down the tunnel in silence for while. Finally, Sheila cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Do you remember, a few weeks ago, when I asked if... if you were lonely? Before John?"

Sherlock glanced at her. "Yes. Why?"

Sheila kept her head down, trying to keep her face unseen. "No reason," she said, too quickly.

"Mm." He glanced at her several times in the next few minutes. He really didn't like to talk about feelings of any kind, loneliness included. But he still felt kind of guilty for the things he'd said at the entrance. Just because his life had gone that way didn't necessarily mean hers had to. And she was obviously lonely now. He could remember when he was eighteen, just moved out recently, how he was after the Fight with his brother...

He cleared his throat and said slowly, "You also asked if you had a John. But he came in before I could answer."

Sheila said nothing, but kept walking.

"I don't know the answer to that," Sherlock admitted, "But it is possible. If one does turn up, we're both going to have to give John a hard time about it being his offspring." His mouth jerked upward a little at one corner.

Sheila smirked.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke up again, "You're lonely, aren't you, Sheila?" His voice was quiet. "Have you thought of trying to go back home?"

Sheila didn't say anything for a mome. But when she spoke, her voice was low and barely audible. "What's there to go back to?"

"I don't know." And he meant it. A moment later he added, "I just wondered what would have happened if I had tried. If I could have...fixed things. Done any good."

He was quiet for a few minutes. "It was hard for you, wasn't it?"

Sheila sighed. "Well, you should know."

Sherlock shrugged, and then grit his teeth. He really needed to stop doing that for awhile. "It's been a long time. And I'm not a female, which usually have significantly different emotional responses than a male… I suppose though, that if we share memories it's the same for both of us." He paused for a minute. "But we don't share EVERY memory. You, at least, remember things that I don't. And I remember people that you haven't met yet. For instance, if you're life goes on the same way mine did, you won't meet Lestrade for another twelve years, Mrs. Hudson for another fourteen. You've already met John though… well, my John. And I didn't meet him until I was 35. I don't know how it all works." He looked over at her searchingly. "But then, that's what we're trying to find out now. What's the very first thing you remember, Sheila? The very first one."

"White," Sheila whispered. "Just white. And then-" She stopped, closing her eyes and raising a hand to her forehead as it started throbbing again.

Sherlock stopped, stepping closer in order to be ready to catch her if she started to fall. "What? And then...what, Sheila?"

His eyes took in everything; watching for the signs of weakening that had preceded her other attacks. He'd already noted in which pocket she kept her phone. If she collapsed he would need to call John for instructions.

Sheila struggled against the wave of memory and pain that threatened to swallow her. "Pain. It hurts," she whispered. "Make it stop, please. Please."

"Sheila, it's alright. You're safe. No one's hurting you."

He took her by the shoulders and slowly lowered her until she sat leaning against the wall. Her eyes were wide and unseeing. "Sheila, look at me. I won't let anything happen to you, alright? You're safe. Look at me, Sheila."

He debated whether to call John; but then, it seemed to be more of a mental thing than a physical. And he was pretty sure he was already doing everything John would say, anyway.

"They won't leave me alone." Sheila's whole body trembled. "They keep coming in. I don't want them to." Her voice was afraid, nearly childish. She gripped Sherlock's coat sleeves. Some part of her mind desperately grabbed at reality; she knew she was overacting; that there was nothing there now, it was in the past. But she couldn't stop the fear that assailed her. She looked at Sherlock, tried to focus on his face but closed her eyes again. "Help me," she whispered. "I just want to live. I don't want to be him. I'm not him. I want to be myself."

Sherlock was getting a little uneasy. He didn't have much experience with this kind of thing. He gripped her shoulders firmly, but not harshly, trying to ground her in reality, give her some security. "They're not here. Nobody's here. Just me. I'm trying to help you, Sheila. You're going to be alright. Look at me. Can you do that? Tell me something happy. What can you remember that's happy? Look at me, Sheila. When did you get your first violin? Who gave it to you?"

He reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, texting John with one hand while still squeezing Sheila's shoulder with the other. He didn't need to take his eyes from her face; he knew where the buttons were.

John- Most helpful remedy in a strong attack of PTSD?

He pressed "send" and then gripped Sheila's shoulder again. He thought maybe looking her unwaveringly in the eyes might help steady her, but he'd been told before and none too kindly that his eyes unsettled people. They were a Freak's eyes. Of course they would. So he had to wait for John's reply and tried to distract her from her waking nightmare.

#

John felt the phone is his pocket vibrate. He slipped it out, blinking in the sudden light from the display. John - Most helpful remedy in a strong attack of PTSD?

John felt concern well up inside him. He quickly texted back, Sheila? What are her symptoms? If flashbacks - try to get her to keep her eyes open and take deep breaths. Try to get her to come back to the moment; where she is now. Do you want me to come back? He pressed send, then stood still, unsure whether to keep going or to head back to help.

#

Sheila felt a firm, but not harsh, grip on her shoulders. That hadn't happened before. That wasn't part of the memory. No. This isn't a memory. I don't remember this. It didn't happen!

She heard Sherlock's question; remembered she was with Sherlock. The man like her. Violin. Who had given her her violin? "Mycroft," she whispered.

Sherlock glanced at the phone. So he HAD been doing the wrong thing. Rather than bring her to the moment he'd been encouraging her to think about the happier aspects of the past. He texted John back with one hand as before while simultaneously talking aloud to Sheila. "Right. Mycroft. Very good, Sheila. No, don't close your eyes. Look at me. Can you tell me what day it is and where we are? Where are we, right now, Sheila?"

He finished the text, Symptoms: flashback. Apparently under the delusion people are hurting her. No need to come- Will text if things don't shortly improve.

Sheila kept her eyes open obediently and struggled to focus on the question Sherlock was asking her. Sherlock. He was nice. He wasn't trying to hurt her. Where am I? "We... we're in a... a tunnel."

"Good, right. Deduce something about me. Anything. But not something you already know. Tell me something about me you are only just now working out."

The phone vibrated as another text from John came in. Should I keep going?

Sherlock replied, Yes. We'll be fine now, I think. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and gave Sheila his full attention.

Sheila forced herself to focus on Sherlock. She stared him straight in the eye. "You're worried," she said, voice still weak. "Concerned. Easy to tell."

He snorted, as if affronted, but he felt a release of tension inwardly anyway. "Really. Concerned? Positive? Maybe I'm just impatient. Tell me, did you observe to lead you to that conclusion?"

Sheila seemed offended that he had to ask if she'd observed. "Of course. Your forehead is creased - one of the most common signs of concern - and you're frowning. Anyone would be able to see the concern in your eyes. And your hands are on my shoulders - and judging by our similarities in personality, you prefer only a minimum of physical contact with others. In other words, hands off."

Sherlock glanced meaningfully down at Sheila's hands, still gripping his coat sleeves. But he turned loose of her shoulders. He pulled out her phone from his pocket, sent off a quick, Situation normal. to John, and handed it back to her.

"Did that happen often, before we met?" He asked as they were standing up, wincing as he did so. This had certainly been the strongest he'd witnessed. "Those… occurrences?" He was careful with the word he chose. 'Memory' might upset her, as might 'flashback'. They'd wasted time already; the last thing he wanted was to inadvertently trigger another one.

Sheila bit her lip. "I... I don't know. I don't remember." She paused, looking down at the ground. "I suppose I was making rather a fool of myself, wasn't I?"

Sherlock looked at her sharply. "Ridiculous. If John's nightmares made him a fool, then I might say you had. Of course you weren't."

Sheila blinked and looked back up at him. After a moment, she cleared her throat awkwardly. "Right. Well. We should keep going."

Sherlock nodded once and shoved his hands into his pockets. There was a long while of silence as they walked.. .he liked it, though. Silence was safe. It was comfortable.

The beam of his light caught a metal door in the wall of the tunnel, with a combination keypad by it. The tunnel stretched on beyond it, though. Sherlock stopped, examining the door. The air was different here. Less… subterranean.

"Someone's been through here, recently. Let the fresh air from outside down into the tunnel. That, or there's a leak of air from around or under the door..." Sherlock was on the ground, trying to ignore the pain, covering his light and observing the outline of the door to see if any light showed through. He put his face close to the cracks and waited a minute before drawing back. "That's ruled out. So, we're left with recently used. More interesting, at least." He stepped back from the door, showing his light over the floor and going a bit farther down the tunnel in both directions, looking for evidence of someone's recent presence.

Sheila started looking for evidence of someone being there recently as well, but froze when a sound came from behind the door. "Sherlock," she hissed. "Did you hear that?"

Sherlock stopped, his whole frame speaking of utmost attention. He was still for a moment, and then nodded his acknowledgement to her question. He stepped softly closer to the door, and stood listening. It was a strange noise; a sort of hissing, and then… a voice. Sherlock couldn't understand what was being said, the voice was quiet, almost as if talking to itself. He turned his light out and melted back into the blackness of the tunnel, in case the someone decided to come through. Something about the voice though, was wrong. Sherlock struggled to place it. It almost sounded like… a recording?

Sheila felt a pinprick of fear slither up her spine again. She took in a sharp breath, but forced herself to keep her eyes open. She wasn't going to start that again.

"Sherlock." She cursed herself at how much her voice trembled. "I think we've found the door we should... go..." She took a deep breath. "In."

Sherlock examined the keypad by the door. There was no place to slide or scan an ID card, so Mycroft's card was out. They'd have to figure out the password. The keypad contained a full alphabet in both upper and lower case letters and a set of numbers. He pulled out his micro-magnifier. Several keys' numbers and letters were more worn than others, but he knew that wasn't necessarily a clue.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said quietly, motioning Sheila closer and noting that her face was paler than usual in the penlight he'd turned back on.

"I know I've been here before," Sheila whispered. "I know I can't deny it now. But... what about my life before? In Yorkshire. With Mummy and Father and Mycroft. I remember that, too. But..." She shook her head. "I know it. The password." Sheila swallowed. "The password is... 'generated anomaly'. Two words, all lowercase."

Sherlock shook his head, breathing the words "generated anomaly" as he typed them into the keypad. A soft chirping accompanied each punch of a button, and he silently cursed at each one. They sounded ridiculously loud.

"I don't know," he said, softly, as he worked. He finished entering the password and paused before pressing the submit key. "About your past. We'll work it out. If we don't find answers in here...we'll..." the next thing was hard for him to say. "We'll go to Yorkshire. And find out something there."

He glanced back at the keypad. "You ready for this?"

Sheila laughed softly, but without humour. "No. Go ahead."

Sherlock gave a crooked grin back, and pressed enter. The door beeped, and began to slide open with perfect smooth silence.