A/N: Whoops, sorry it's been a few days since the last post! I again forgot that I had another chapter ready to go. :P

DISCLAIMER: Ack, I can never think of anything creative when it comes to it. I don't own Sherlock. There. Not creative, but effective.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

NOT REAL

Sherlock watched the phone skitter away and then sneered at the woman. "Shut up." He turned back to Sheila, looking into her eyes, searching, serious… concerned. "Sheila...you don't have to be this way. She's not your master. You're Sherlock Holmes, remember? You don't answer to anybody, never have. This isn't you, and you know it. Stop it. Stop."

He clenched his jaw and fired the gun above the woman's head and then once at her feet. "Next time I won't miss," he said, his voice tight.

Sheila sighed. She shook her head... then realized exactly what to do. She looked at Sherlock and opened her mouth, then paled and pitched forward suddenly.

Sherlock stepped forward quickly and grabbed her by her upper arms to steady her, tucking the gun under his arm to get it out of the way.

"Sheila? What's wrong with her?" He snarled at the woman.

Sheila let her knees go out, collapsing so her entire weight was on his arms. When he shifted his balance slightly to keep her up, she pushed back on the balls of her feet, shooting up and under her arms. She jabbed her elbow into his rib cage, and when his grip relaxed from the sudden hit, snatched the gun from under his arm.

Sherlock felt something pop at the blow. He slumped back against the wall, gasping. He drew one arm to his body and held his side with the other hand, doubling over, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. A groan forced its way out. He forced his breathing to slow down, but he didn't feel like he had much control over it. Punctured lung? John would know. He looked up at Sheila, holding his gun, and then shot a smouldering glare at her puppet-master. "Alright," he wheezed. "You got your way. Now what are you going to do?"

Sheila aimed the gun at him, waiting for orders.

The woman smiled. "Now, we're going to bring you inside the lab where you can't be a hindrance anymore." She looked as if an idea had just occurred to her. "In fact, I think I know the perfect place for you. You know too much, that's for certain. So we can't let you go. But since you're here, we might as well make good use of you." She turned to Sheila. "Project 10A, lead him to the lab."

Sheila nodded. She jerked the gun in an upwards motion. "Up, Holmes," she ordered.

Sherlock glanced at her strangely at the use of his last name, but said nothing. Slowly he straightened up and tugged his jacket straight. He readjusted the collar of his great-coat and straightened his scarf, and then forced himself to let his arm hang at his side. No need to advertise how much he was hurt.

"I'm assuming the lab holds a little more than just saline solutions and chemical compounds." He sighed, and walked with Sheila toward the door, but stopped before getting to it. "I don't suppose I get my one phone call, then?" His mouth jerked upward into a little sardonic smile and he motioned toward Sheila's phone. "I realize we aren't doing this according to strictly legal guidelines, but in normal protocol, one to three calls is allowed a detainee."

"No," the woman said, smiling sympathetically. "I'm afraid letting either your brother or Dr Watson know that you're in trouble would not be... helpful. Where we are going... well, let's just say you certainly won't be bored." She turned and walked towards the door, opening it, and walking through. She paused on the other side and turned around. "Though, speaking of Dr Watson..." She pressed a button on her watch and raised it to her mouth. "Simon, I'm bringing in the Big One and Project 10. I think the Big One's friend might be lost in the tunnels." She smiled at Sherlock. "Can't have that now, can we? Alert one of the others out to deal with Dr Watson."

Sherlock kept his face unreadable and followed the woman out of the room, Sheila behind him with the gun. He clasped his hands behind his back, an action that both looked natural and seemed to make it easier to breathe. His mind was working though, furiously.

Assets: I still have a pair of handcuffs in my pocket. Intelligence, knowledge of seventeen different hand-fighting styles...He thought of how Sheila had tricked him, realized it was a gift he shared as well, and added manipulation to the list. Knowledge of countryside, knowledge of tunnel password, and John Watson, army doctor and soldier.

Setbacks: Injured: hand-fighting asset neutralized. John in danger: soldier asset (for the moment) counted neutralized. I have to take it into account that the woman will probably have had the password changed to the tunnel: password asset neutralized. Gun in enemy hands. Sheila.

That was what was most bothersome about it. If it were some thugs or criminal masterminds or murderers or something, he wouldn't mind doing whatever he had to do to get out. But Sheila made it complicated. She was acting on the side of the enemy, but he felt sure that she wasn't… normal. He couldn't believe she'd been tricking him since he met her; something had happened. Some sort of brainwashing or psychological control. He couldn't hurt her, and he couldn't leave her.

"So what was it?" he asked, finally, sounding mildly interested. "She's brainwashed, obviously, but how? The effects are somewhat different than the ones most commonly used in the past in the Soviet Union and behind the Iron and Bamboo curtains. And I've never heard of successful memory replication before."

The woman didn't turn around, but stopped in front of a door. "Mr Holmes, this is not a James Bond movie. I am not the type of 'villain' who is going to tell you my whole 'evil plan' just because you want to know because you're going to die soon and therefore couldn't possibly do me any harm." She turned around to face him, a smile on her face. "Besides, I know that you not knowing the solution to something is one of the best ways I can play with you." She turned back and slid a card through a reader next to the door, then typed a password into a keypad, being careful to shield it so Sherlock couldn't see. The door slid open and she walked inside the lab, making an 'come in' gesture with her hand.

"I've never seen James Bond," he replied. When the woman entered the lab, he turned to shoot Sheila a questioning glance. On the slight chance she had been using some sort of trick, now would be a good time for her to let him know.

She remained pointing his gun at him.

He rolled his eyes, turned back around, and stepped into the lab behind the woman, squinting slightly in the bright white light. "Will Doctor Watson be joining us?" he inquired, "or did you mean that I won't be seeing him again?" His hand moved absently to his side inside his coat.

"No, Dr. Watson won't be joining you," the woman said, smiling. "So yes, that does mean you won't be seeing him again." She moved to the other side of the room, motioning to an operating table. "If you, please, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock looked at the table, and back at her, a small smile growing on his face. "I don't. You must either be insane yourself, or think that I am."

"Likely on both accounts," the woman said, dryly. "Project 10A."

Sheila raised the gun and took a step nearer Sherlock. "On the table," she commanded.

"Mmm...and what will happen if I decide not to comply?" he asked, squinting his eyes and cocking his head as he directed his question at Sheila. "Obviously you are implying with the excessive weapon-brandishing that I'd be shot, but I don't believe it. It was mentioned that I was going to die soon, but it would be ridiculous to bring me into a clean-room environment for such a messy execution as a shooting would make. It was also stated that I was to be put to some use, for which, presumably, I would be needed alive for at least a short time. Come on, Sheila… I know you'd think it boring, anyway, just shooting me. So...?"

He wasn't entirely sure that they wouldn't shoot him. If they made it clear that he would be shot, he decided that he would take the table option and see what came of it. Shooting was far too much of a dull, boring, ignominious end for a life as unusual and gifted as his. The table at least would be more interesting - he would probably be able to experience at least some of what Sheila had seen in her flashbacks - and would hopefully have the added benefit of taking longer, thereby offering more chance for escape.

"Shooting doesn't imply death, Mr Holmes," the woman said.

"You should know how good of a shot I am. I don't have to kill you, just make you... uncomfortable," Sheila said. "After all," she smiled, in a rather non friendly way. "I am you."

He stared at Sheila. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then changed his mind. He stepped over and perched on the edge of the table, running his hands over it's cold, smooth surface. Not a scratch on it. St. Bart's needed to get some like these...

"Well?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the woman. "What are you going to do now? Turn me into somebody else?"

The woman smiled. "That's a lovely idea, Mr Holmes. I haven't quite decided what we should do with you. But first, we're going to run tests. So be a dear and lie down on the table, please. Or if you'd rather not, I'm sure Project 10A wouldn't mind convincing you."

"Won't be necessary," he said, as he swung his legs up onto the table and eased himself back. It was harder to breath this way; his broken ribs pressing down on his lung with the aid of gravity. He was actually thinking about John, in the tunnels. Hopefully, when neither Sherlock or Sheila had answered the phone when he called, John would have realized something had gone wrong, and got out to safety. But then, if he was calling them, maybe he had been in trouble in the first place. Even if he wasn't, Sherlock knew John wouldn't have left when he thought Sheila and himself might be in trouble. Sherlock cursed silently. That was the trouble with brave friends; they never did the logical thing. He imagined John hurrying down the tunnel in the direction in which Sherlock and Sheila had gone, running head-on into whoever the woman had sent to "deal" with him. Even through his extreme irritation at John for the moment, he felt just a little bit of… pride? Whoever had gone to meet John Watson was in for it. That pleasant doctor and blogger was a mean fighter.

The woman smiled. "Thank you. Your cooperation will make things more pleasant for everyone." She walked over and strapped his arms and legs to the table. She smiled down at him. "Now, you just sit tight and relax. I'll be right back." She turned to Sheila. "Keep a close watch on him, Project 10A." Then she turned and left the lab out another door.

#

John licked his lips nervously when his call went to voicemail for the third time. Why wasn't Sherlock or Sheila answering? He debated whether or not he should go back and look for them, or continue on... wherever it was he was going. He wasn't really getting anywhere...

John rounded a corner and noticed a door up ahead. He slipped his phone into his pocket and tightened his grip on his gun. He decided he would go see what was behind the door if he could, and then go see if Sherlock and Sheila needed help.

He walked up to the double doors, and tried to look through the window. The sound of a gun being cocked behind him made him freeze.

"Drop your gun, and turn around, hands up," a voice behind him commanded. He obeyed, finding a young soldier with his gun aimed at him. The soldier pressed a button on the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. "Get Major Barrymore. Tell him we have an intruder."