A/N: Sorry this chapter is so short! The next one is much longer though. The break-off point just worked better this way.

Only one more and the epilogue! O.o It's so hard to believe it's almost over...

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Sherlock. I've really got to come up with something more creative than that, but am too lazy to do so at da mo.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

REAL

"Sheila!" Sherlock was vaguely aware that was his voice calling out.

He caught her as she fell backwards into him, her body limp. Carefully but quickly, he lowered her to the floor, sliding to his knees beside her. Numbly, he noticed the blood spreading from the wound. Blood. Right. Stop the blood. He whipped his scarf off and laid it over the wound, applying firm, but gentle pressure.

"Well," the woman said. "That is quite inconvenient."

Sherlock noticed with relief Sheila's chest was still rising and falling, though in shallow, rough breaths. He looked up at the woman. "You called her a puppet," he said, his voice low and dark. "A project. She is much more real than you will ever be."

The woman shrugged. "Oh, well." She trained her gun back on Sherlock.

The door to the lab burst open. Major Barrymore ran through with a group of armed soldiers behind him.

"Drop your gun!" Barrymore barked. The woman hesitated, glancing at Sherlock, then dropped it, raising her arms above her head, scowling.

Sheila coughed, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. "Sher...lock?" she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered open and she tried to focus her gaze on Sherlock's face. "I...'m... scared..."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he leaned in closer to her so he could see him better. "It's… I know. I know you're scared." His eyes conveyed what he didn't say aloud: I'm scared, too. "It'll… you'll be okay, just hold on. Hold on."

Her hand grasped at his and he took it and squeezed without seeming to realize what he was doing. He looked up at Barrymore and snapped, "Where's Dr. Watson?"

Barrymore turned to his men. "Get him and a med team down here, stat!" He barked.

Sherlock squeezed Sheila's hand again. "John's on his way; he'd going to fix you up in just a minute."

Sheila gave a weak coughing, sputtering laugh. "Rather obvious… John can't…" She took a shuddering breath and tried a weak smile. "Echoes never… last long…"

Sherlock shook his head. "No…"

"It's alright," Sheila whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm not… real anyway."

"Sheila…"

"I'm just….. an echo," Sheila gasped. "An echo of something... I can never be."

"Wrong." Sherlock somehow managed to keep his voice level. "You're not a copy of Sherlock Holmes. You're Sheila. You're real."

Sheila searched his face with her glazed over gaze. A single tear trailed down her cheek. "I'm real?" she whispered, voice desperate.

Sherlock squeezed her hand. "You're real," he confirmed.

Sheila smiled and she closed her eyes as another tear fell. She coughed violently, then after a shuddering breath, her body went limp.

The door opened again, and John ran through. "Sherlock! Sheila! " John saw Sheila on the floor and Sherlock beside her. His heart quickened and he ran over to them, dropping to his knees on the opposite side of Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't look up at him; he kept his gaze focused on Sheila. John reached out and took Sheila's limp hand.

No pulse.

John's chest tightened. "Sherlock," he started.

Sherlock looked up at him dully, but didn't say anything.

John stood and went around to Sherlock. "Sherlock, I'm sorry," he said softly. "She's gone. Come on. We have to go. You're hurt."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment. Then he coughed, turning his head away.

John tensed. He didn't like the way Sherlock's breathing sounded. He touched Sherlock's shoulder gently. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He lowered Sheila all the way to the floor and stood up, swaying and nearly falling over when he did so. John grabbed his arm to help steady him. Sherlock inhaled sharply, and he coughed into his arm again, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Sherlock turned to face Barrymore and the others, his eyes narrowing. "What is she still doing here?" he demanded, pointing at the woman. "Full criminal murder charges against that woman, Barrymore. I would also look into the name Simon, and any connections he might have. Don't try to hush anything up. If Baskerville doesn't end up shut down after this, it's still in for months of investigations and inspection."

His breath hitched and he coughed again, and he turned his head away, but John caught a glimpse of the blood on his sleeve where he had coughed. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock swayed and he looked at John. John felt a flash of concern at the glazed look in his eyes. Shock. He was going into shock. His breathing started to rattle.

"Stretcher, now!" John snapped to the med team who had followed him in. They snapped into action, and in a few moments, they were rushing Sherlock down the hall to medbay.

Sherlock's injuries had been worse than John had hoped. Two broken ribs and a punctured lung with internal hemorrhaging.

The head surgeon pulled John aside after Sherlock had been stabilized. "We're going to need to fly Mr Holmes to a bigger hospital in London. I think he'll be fine, but he needs invasive surgery, and soon"

John licked his lips nervously. "Do it then."

"We'll have you flown in a separate plane after the medical helicopter." The surgeon glanced back at Sherlock. "He's stable for now, and awake, amazingly. We'll have to put him all the way under for the trip."

John nodded. "Can I tell him?"

The surgeon hesitated, then nodded. "Quickly."

John walked over to Sherlock's side. He was lying on his back on a gurney, hooked up to a breathing machine.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly.

Sherlock had been staring hard at a fixed point on the ceiling, but looked over, moving only his eyes when John said his name.

"They need to take you to a bigger hospital,"John said, finding it not as hard to keep his "doctor" voice as he had expected. "There's internal hemorrhaging in your lung, caused in part by the two broken ribs. They need to put you under to fly you out. I'll be flown in a separate plane right behind you."

Sherlock nodded.

John gave a tense smile. "You'll be fine," he said softly.

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded again.

Several orderlies appeared by him, preparing him for the injection that would knock him out. They rolled up his sleeve and John watched as the band was put on above his elbow and tightened, and the disinfectant was sponged onto his arm.

They injected it into his arm, and John watched the look in Sherlock's eyes grow more unfocused as he started to slip off. A brief flash of unease flickered through Sherlock's eyes.

"I'll be right behind you," John reassured. Sherlock's tense body relaxed as the injection worked its way through his system. "I'm always here for you," he said quietly.

"Thanks, Mycroft. Bye." John ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. He hurried back down the hall towards Sherlock's room, knowing he would probably wake up any minute now.

The orderly stood half in and half out of the room. John felt a flash of confusion. She turned to look at him, brightening as she saw him. "Oh, Dr. Watson! He's awake now."

John hurried into the room. Sherlock was indeed awake, an irritated look on his face. "Well, you look like you're doing better," John said, coming over to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "What's the matter with her?" he asked, jerking his head to indicate the young nurse who'd just left the room.

John sighed the slightest, though he was inwardly relieved that Sherlock was feeling enough like his normal self to insult people. "There's nothing wrong with her, Sherlock. She was trying to be friendly, to cheer you up. That's her job."

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

An moment of awkward silence passed. John cleared his throat. "So." He sighed. "Can… can you tell me what happened?"

Sherlock said nothing for a minute. When he spoke, he didn't meet John's gaze, instead staring at a fixed point on the wall. "You spoke to Major Barrymore, and Mycroft."

John nodded. "How-"

"Because it's you. Of course you would let my overbearing big brother know I was injured and in the hospital. Of course would would speak of Barrymore and find out all you could."

John nodded again, but Sherlock continued, "So you already know what happened."

"Not everything," John said, his voice firm, but gentle. "I know about Sheila. But II need you to tell me what happened."

Sherlock was quiet another minute. "Sheila forgot what side she was on for a few minutes, that's all. The woman had some sort of hold over her." Another pause. "But she remembered. She was to be left alive. The bullet was for me and she jumped in its path. That's what happened."

John wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't deduce half the things the detective could.

But he knew his best friend.

And while anyone who didn't know him might think he had spoken coldly or without emotion, John saw the look of guilt in Sherlock's eyes.

John swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Sherlock shrugged, wincing at the movement. "Where were you?" He asked.

John wasn't sure, but he almost thought he heard the slightest bit of accusation in his voice. He felt a guilty pang. If he had gotten there sooner, maybe he could have done something… "I was in Barrymore's office, being held prisoner. They found me in the tunnels and brought me to him. I told him what was going on, but he wouldn't let me go with him to find you." He hesitated before adding, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the wall. "Not your fault."

Another moment of uncomfortable silence descended over the small hospital room. Then Sherlock cleared his throat. "What are they doing with… the body?"

"I called Mycroft," John said. "He said he would take care of funeral arrangements, unless you wanted to."

Sherlock nodded and fiddled with the sheet. "I was just… I think...She should be buried somewhere in London. Nowhere quiet, or peaceful, or boring. Somewhere where the noise of the city penetrates the ground."

John nodded, understanding Sherlock's request. "I'll let Mycroft know."

"How long?"

"We want to make sure you're up to it first," John said. "If you are, then this Friday."

"Five days." Sherlock nodded, then sighed. "How long will this take, John?" he asked quietly.

John sighed a little, wondering which briefly which 'this' Sherlock meant. 'How long' would his treatment in the hospital take, or how long people normally felt badly after a death. He guessed Sherlock had meant it to have a double meaning.

"It depends on how severe it is," John said softly, hoping Sherlock would take it as an answer to both questions.

Sherlock jerked his chin up in a curt nod, but didn't answer.