A/N: Heh, whoops. I had forgotten that I had a chapter ready to post! Sorry about that.

DISCLAIMER: So I don't think I have to put this in front of every chapter, but hey, maybe a stupid person like the ones the peanut butter jars have to read "Caution: Contains Peanuts" and the "Beverage May Be Hot" on coffee cups for will read this and won't get the fact that I don't own Sherlock until now.

Caution: I do not own Sherlock. And peanut butter contains peanuts.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

THE TRUTH

Sheila felt like a wave of cold air washed over her, but she knew perfectly well that there was no wind. She clenched her hand into a fist and took another deep breath. She had to go forward. She had to know.

She scowled at her hesitation, at the fear she shouldn't feel. She bit her lip. "Will you go first?" She whispered, instantly regretting the words, scowling at her weakness.

Sherlock glanced at her, nodded, and stepped into the doorway. There was a small, amber-lit room, with pegs on the wall, upon which hung a single white clean-room suit. A speaker in the wall reminded whoever was listening to shed their lab clothes here before exiting through the tunnel. The recording stopped, there was a brief moment of the faint hissing of white noise, and it started over. So that had been the voice. Sherlock inspected the suit on the pegs. Smallish. Well, slight, anyway. It was made for a tall enough person. A woman, judging by the scent of 'Midnight Enchantment' still lingering on it.

"Well," he said, without looking up, "we know which way the recent traveler went, now. Better text John and tell him someone else is wandering about the tunnels with him. Here, give me the phone, and you might as well put this on." He held the suit out to Sheila.

Sheila reached out to take the suit, then froze. The perfume. She recognized the smell. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back.

"Well, I'm not wearing it," he said, noticing her hesitation but not looking up from the phone. He still held it out toward her. "And it's only common sense that one of us should. If someone asks us what we're doing, you can say I'm some specialist from Austria, here to assist in their research, and you're showing me around. I know enough about science and German to do a passing job. On second thought, though, there's a good chance if we're discovered somebody will recognize me from last time. In which case it might be better if you said you found me sneaking around and are taking me to Major Barrymore or the torture chambers or whatever it is they do to intruders here. I mean ones without Mycroft's clearance card. More believable, probably. And half true." He was texting John about the situation as he spoke, and only just now pressed "send" and looked up, noticing her expression for the first time .

"What is it, Sheila? Are you having another fit?" His voice was calm, but tight. Now that they were actually inside, the danger was significantly higher, and it would be best if they could avoid any more of Sheila's episodes while inside.

"I'm... fine..." She swallowed. "I... can't place it, but that smell..." She tightened her hand into a fist, trying to keep her focus, not allowing herself to even try to remember. The memory simmered beneath the surface, but she refused to think about it. She shook herself, taking the suit and starting to pull it on. "So, you're my prisoner. I'll need something to 'restrain' you with."

John felt his phone vibrate as he received another text. He looked down, at first feeling relieved that Sheila was alright again, only to have the tension come right back as he read that someone else might be in the tunnels with him. He texted an acknowledgement back to Sherlock, along with a warning to be careful, though he knew very well Sherlock wouldn't necessarily heed it. He slipped his phone into his pocket and pulled out his gun.

Sherlock nodded, though he watched her carefully. "Restraint. Hmm." He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his trouser pocket. "These ought to do. Lestrade gave them to me. Well, sort of." A mischievous little smirk jerked at the corner of his mouth. "Knew they'd be handy sometime. So, in front, behind, or handcuffed together, then? Military handcuff protocol isn't something I have studied."

Sheila bit her lip. "I'm not sure. It's not something I've studied, either. Would John know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't think so. As a doctor he wouldn't have had much use for handcuffs, and soldiers on the ground don't, to my knowledge, normally carry them. John Watson is a man of hidden talents though; we might as well ask him. He'll nearly always manage to surprise you."

He was pulling out the phone when somebody's footsteps were heard approaching. Quickly he shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled his gun out, shoving it and the handcuffs into Sheila's grip, whispering at a rapid fire pace the whole time. "You just caught me sneaking in from the tunnel, you surprised me and held me up with my own gun. Handcuff me whatever way you like; we'll have to improvise and hope no one calls us on it."

He turned his back to her and put both hands on the back of his head like a hostage. The door opened, and someone came into the room.

Sheila swallowed, but then put up the mask she was so accustomed to. Holding the gun at Sherlock's back, she didn't turn to face whoever entered. "Found him sneaking in from the tunnel," she said, doing her best to disguise her voice, realizing for the first time that she too could very well be recognized. "Going to take him to Major Barrymore."

A woman's chuckle came from behind. "Oh, my dear, Sherlock. I don't think that will be necessary. Turn around to face me, love."

Sheila froze. "No," she whispered, panic once again welling up inside her. She knew that voice, just as she had known the smell of perfume. She tried her best to keep herself from trembling, but couldn't.

"Project 10A, turn around." The woman's voice was authoritative, and Sheila found a new fear rising up when she found she couldn't refuse. She slowly turned to face the woman, shaking violently.

Sherlock considered his options. He never was much of one for careful planning, though, so he decided to go with the flow. He turned around, stepping slightly between the woman and Sheila, and extending his hand for her to shake. His left hand. His ribs would hate him if he tried with his right. "Don't believe we've met, though we got along nicely with the thugs you sent. Some of them are in police custody and Clarice is in an alley in Grimpen village with a bullet in him. He was your favorite, wasn't he? Definitely the most devoted to the cause, whatever that might be. Though he wasn't the leader he had a distinct bearing that suggested he was favored by the employer...who is?" He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for an introduction. He was noticing, noticing, taking in everything… but she was frustratingly hard to read.

The woman smiled. "I didn't mean you, dear, but it was nice of you to turn around anyway." She shook his hand. "You may not have met me, but it's easy to tell who you are, Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I know you very well. It's a pity Clarice is out of commission. He was the most devoted, but not my favourite." She smiled again, looking at Sheila. "Project 10A holds that privilege."

"Nice to know my reputation precedes me. As a side-note, Project 10A goes by Sheila now," Sherlock said stiffly, "And I believe it's common practice to give one's name in return when another gives theirs? What are you planning on doing now?"

"I do believe that is a common practice." She smiled again. "But you don't go for common, or ordinary, do you, Sherlock?" She smiled at Sheila. "Now, I'm curious. How much memory do you retain of your real life?"

Sheila hesitated before answering stiffly, "I was born in Yorkshire..."

"No, no, no, dear. No, I mean, your real life. Not the facts we put in your head."

Sheila swallowed, feeling cold. "What do you mean?" She whispered.

The woman smiled. "The memory block didn't work as well as I'd hoped," she said, her voice making it sound like it should be perfectly clear. "I expect you've been having some 'flashbacks', memories that interfere with the memories of your life as 'Sherlock Holmes'."

"How could you possibly know that?" Sheila whispered, voice hoarse.

The woman gave her a sympathetic look. "Not too hard to guess. You were the best of the projects, but since you went infidel before we could complete you, we assumed you would have difficulty with your memories."

Sheila fought the temptation to close her eyes, try to block out the woman's voice. It was impossible to block out. She'd learned that long ago. "What are you saying?" She hissed, trying to keep her voice from quavering. She failed.

The woman looked at Sherlock, a coy look on her face. "Would you like to tell it, or shall I? I must admit, I'm curious to know how much you've figured out, or at least suspected."

Sherlock sighed and put his hands in his pockets and looked at a point on the ceiling somewhere above the nameless woman's head. "Human cloning, obviously. You probably chose me to clone because of my intelligence and decided to attempt to make an equally-intelligent person that you could control. While it has been impressive and somewhat interesting to see myself cloned as a female, it's hardly original. Lots of people have theorized about it; at Uni I did an in-depth study of the history of animal cloning and the theories about human cloning when I was bored. But I must congratulate you on being the first to break every ethical rule in the world of science and technology. I haven't had time or means to make any more concrete deductions, but I would guess that you've somehow implanted my memories into her mind - probably to ensure her personality turned out like mine? She's started to remember things she shouldn't though, things about what you did to her here. If she figured out what was going on, or told anyone about it, an investigation might be launched which could endanger your operation. That's why you sent those roughs. They wanted to see how much I knew about it; now that I am involved I am as much a danger as she is. Right so far?"

He glanced lazily back down at the woman and raised one eyebrow. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Sheila's hand was in her pocket; he hoped she had the presence of mind to be texting John a warning about the situation.

The woman smiled. "You really are as good as they say. Yes, you are correct so far."

Sheila stared at the woman, reality screaming at her, but unwilling to accept it. Her hand in her pockets, she had started to text John about the situation, but had stopped before sending at Sherlock's deduction. "I... I don't... understand."

The woman sighed. "Yes, you do. We made you well enough. But if you want it spelled out... You, my dear, are not Sherlock Holmes. You're an echo; holding a replica of the real voice, but being only a replica. You're Project 10A, a clone. You're not real."

A strange feeling pricked at Sheila's eyes, and she felt something wet trickle down her cheek. She drew her hand out of her pocket and let it hang limply at her side. "I'm not real," she repeated, her voice a whisper.

"That's right." The woman nodded, her voice patronizing, like one speaking to an especially young or unintelligent child. "Now. I'll have to ask - or rather, command, Project 10A and you, Mr Holmes, to follow me."

Sherlock snorted. "Not a real person? Absurd. Sheila, ignore her completely. You're just as real as I am. You're ordering us, are you? A bit presumptuous, I think. We do, after all, outnumber you two to one and have a gun."

He paused, during which time he stepped closer to Sheila's side and took the gun and handcuffs out of her hand. He put both of them back into his own pocket and stepped closer to the woman. She was tall, but he still towered over her. "However...we'll follow you. But only because I am curious, and not because I am in the least intimidated by you. Thought it best that we just had that understood. And I've told you, she goes by Sheila. So. Where are we going? I assume Major Barrymore isn't directly involved in… whatever this is. He obviously doesn't like inspection but he holds too much respect for regulation to make such a breach of ethics as cloning."

"You are correct in a few points. Major Barrymore is not directly involved; in fact, we've been very careful - and successful - at keeping the project under his radar." The woman looked up at Sherlock, locking gazes. "And I didn't expect to intimidate you; you're far too 'brave' for that. There's one point you're very wrong in, though."

Sherlock tilted his head a little to one side, keeping his gaze locked with hers. "Oh? In what way?"

"I am not out numbered," the woman said, with a coy smile. "Project 10A. Come here."

Sheila closed her eyes. No. Stay away from me. Don't listen to her. You don't belong to her.

"Project 10A." But the voice was impossible to ignore.

Sheila opened her eyes and walked over to the woman's side. "Yes, ma'am," she said, voice monotone.

The woman smiled. "Now relieve Mr Holmes of his gun."

Sheila walked over to Sherlock. She glared him in the eye, as if challenging him to defy her. She reached for the gun.

He searched her face for any sign she was using some sort of ploy. He didn't see one. As she reached forward, he slid slowly back a step and reached inside his coat for the Browning, his hand on it protectively.

"Stop it. Stop it, Sheila. Wake up." He pulled the gun out and stood just out of her reach, and then raised his arm with the gun in his hand at the woman, squinting a little at the sharp protests of his ribs. "Wake her up or I'll shoot."

Zzzzt. Zzzzt.

Sherlock looked at Sheila's pocket where the phone was vibrating, and then quickly back at the woman. "Wake her up," he ordered again, taking off the safety and cocking it.

Sheila felt her pocket vibrate and she felt a momentary flash of confusion. Then she pulled out the phone to see John had called. She tossed the phone aside, and it slid across the floor. No need for Sherlock to get his hands on it.

The woman smiled. "But, my dear Mr Holmes, she is awake. This is the... 'real'... 'Sheila'? Is that what you called her? And I don't think you will shoot."

Sheila moved so she stood directly in front of Sherlock, blocking the woman. "Don't make me hurt you," She said, voice low. "Hand me the gun."