Author's note: Hello, my friends. Here's my newest AU. I hope you enjoy, please review.

"Remind me again why we are doing this."

"Mycroft forced me."

John sighed. Of course he had. The elder Holmes never asked for favours; he demanded that people did what he told them to. And yet –

"He brought up certain events in the past that I would prefer remained secret".

John Watson was the only man in the world whose best friend considered breaking into a laboratory better than having made embarrassing stories of his childhood public.

"What did Trevelyan do again?" he asked, because Sherlock had simply told him that they were going to investigate a lab because Mycroft demanded it, and the name of the accused scientist.

"Trevelyan is an expert on diseases of the central nervous system. He has published several works on the subject. During the last few years, his research has become more – aggressive. He has been paying both healthy and sick individuals to participate, but to what purpose we don't know."

"Why can't we ask them?"

Even though Sherlock's back was turned towards him and they only saw as far as the two flashlights they were carrying allowed, he knew the consulting detective was rolling his eyes.

"It was difficult enough to find out that they had been at the lab. In regular intervals, people of all ages and classes would disappear and show up on the street a few days later, talking gibberish; no psychiatrist was able to help them. Not only did none of their friends or relatives knew where they had been since the day they had went missing, but no one was able to make any sense of what they were talking about. Now and then, one of them would be able to talk coherently, but even that didn't help much. Sometimes they recognized people, but insisted they had to have a different job or wife or hobby; sometimes they didn't know their next of kin. Eventually, it was found that they had all received a certain sum in the week before they disappeared. The account from which the money was paid was traced back to Trevelyan."

The doctor chose not to ask why Mycroft couldn't have the man arrested – probably because he was working for the Government or the Secret Service – and instead concentrated on making sure they were alone in the lab. It was long past midnight, and no one should be around, but one never knew.

Especially when one was following the only consulting detective in the world.

"What are we looking for?"

"There are several possibilities" Sherlock answered. John waited, but he didn't continue. Sherlock not telling him exactly what they could expect was alarming. It meant that none of the theories he had was more likely than the others. John put his hand in his pocket and felt the reassuring weight of his gun.

Sherlock quickly went through the drawers in Trevelyan's desk, John holding the flashlight for him.

"Nothing" his best friend murmured. "There's no computer – unusual. He owns a laptop. We have to find it and get – "

There was a thump outside of the door.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in the weak light.

John gestured to make him understand that he'd open the door. Sherlock nodded and positioned himself so that he could pounce on anyone who came through the door without being seen first.

John waited for another nod. He opened the door.

Nothing.

Or at least that's all John knew when he woke up.

It was still night, and he was still at the lab. He could tell that much – his flashlight had rolled under the desk and gave him enough light to be sure.

He wasn't bound, he didn't seem to be injured. He sprang up immediately, fetched the flashlight and started looking for Sherlock.

He frantically ran through the laboratory, carefully dodging machines and tables.

Where could Sherlock be? What had happened? He remembered opening the door; he didn't remember anything else. Had they been attacked? But he wasn't hurt, and he didn't feel his muscles like he would after a fight. His head was completely clear, and he was rather sure he hadn't been knocked out.

Had someone taken Sherlock? But why should they leave John on the floor?

As countless possibilities whirled through his brain, he heard someone calling his name and with a rush of relief he recognized the consulting detective's voice.

"John?"

"Sherlock!"

His best friend looked pale in the weak light.

"Are you – "

"Apart from the fact that I woke up in a different room, there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with me."

John's fingers itched to reach out and check, feel his pulse, look for injuries, but they had to get out first. Then they could wonder about what had just happened.

He could see that Sherlock wanted to continue looking for clues. Of course he was focusing on the case, of course he had to solve it, of course he had to find what he'd overlooked immediately. But this was too dangerous, they could be attacked at any time, they didn't know how they'd ended up unconscious on the floor, and John wouldn't allow him to put himself in danger.

He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve.

The consulting detective was about to protest when John said, quietly, "Please".

It was unfair – he knew he was using the guilt Sherlock still felt for having left him for three years, something they still hadn't really talked about and probably never would – but if it got him out of here and safely back into their flat, it was worth it.

Sherlock nodded, then turned around.

They left the lab and slowly made their way down the street.

Sherlock took out his phone. He didn't have to tell John that he was texting Mycroft. Maybe the British Government would be able to shed some light on who else had been in the laboratory.

John felt himself slowly relaxing the further they got away. Soon it would be safe to call a cab, and they could get home to a nice cup of tea.

Not even a minute after he'd sent his text did Sherlock's phone ring out.

John knew something was wrong when his friend stopped walking. He might frown at a text from Mycroft, he might shove his phone back in his pocket, but he never stopped. And now he was standing on the pavement, staring at the text he'd received.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

The consulting detective looked up, his face blank.

"The number is unavailable."

If this had been anyone else, John wouldn't have been concerned. But this was Mycroft, and Sherlock sent his texts to the phone the British Government never let out of his sight, the phone only a few people had the number to, John and Greg among them, and the number was unavailable.

He could feel the tension in the consulting detective, the worry he was trying to conceal.

Sherlock tried to call, even though he'd scoff at anyone who did the same after he had been informed that it was impossible to reach the person he was calling.

When he hung up, he shook his head.

"To Mycroft's?" John suggested. The elder Holmes lived in a mansion in the more expensive part of the city; the doctor had never been there, although Sherlock had told him about it.

Sherlock didn't answer. He simply walked past him and caught the nearest cab.

John waited for him to start a conversation, but he never did, and eventually, he' had enough. His flatmate had been staring out the window the entire carbide, even though he must be worried.

"Maybe it's nothing, maybe his phone is broken" he suggested. He knew it was unlikely – if something had happened to the phone, Mycroft would have had it replaced as quickly as possible.

"Mycroft has never been unreachable" Sherlock replied. "Especially not this number."

There was something in his voice, something that told of danger nights and overdoses and three years of loneliness, and John took a deep breath before saying, "He might just have forgotten to charge it. Not even Mycroft Holmes is infallible."

Sherlock smiled, even though they were both aware it was a weak explanation at best, and the rest of the ride passed in silence. John could see that the tension had gone out of his friend's shoulders, however.

The consulting detective had the cab stop three streets from the house and walked so quickly that John had trouble keeping up.

As soon as he saw the mansion, Sherlock came to a stand.

John looked up at him, watching his expression in the glare of the streetlight they were under.

"What is it?"

His friend frowned.

"Something is wrong".

John immediately felt for his gun. Sherlock hadn't used any of their code words, which meant he didn't know what was going on, so it was best to be prepared for everything.

"What – "

"The cameras. They are gone. There is no – there's no security system" Sherlock explained urgently, his eyes roaming over the house.

John looked at the mansion and realized that Sherlock was right.

There wasn't a camera in sight, and while Mycroft was more than capable of installing them in a way that ensured they were invisible from the street, they were supposed to scare burglars off, weren't they? He would want others to know he was protecting himself.

"The colour is wrong".

"What?" John turned to look at Sherlock.

The consulting detective drew a breath.

"It wasn't – the wall – the house has a different colour".

John might have answered that Mycroft could have had it painted, but it sounded stupid even in his head.

He stood there, after an unsuccessful break-in into a secret laboratory, his best friend looking at the house of his brother like he'd never seen it before, the streetlamp still giving them light while far away, he could see the first beginning of dawn.

Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie and moved towards the house.

The doctor could have tried to stop him – with all that was going on, it was possible that they were walking into a trap – but this was Sherlock's brother, and his friend looked so determined that he knew nothing would stop him. He drew his gun.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock, but picked the lock.

He didn't leave John any time to stop him, try to dissuade him from running into the building.

As it were, he could only follow him.

They didn't get far.

All it took was three steps for a woman to start screaming.

It was so unexpected that, for a moment, all John could do was stare as the screams continued and a man came running down the stairs to the left side of the front door.

The man wasn't Mycroft, he was obviously angry and carried a gun.

"What are you doing in my house?" he shouted and raised his arm.

John acted quickly. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him out of the house, hissing, "Run!"

They did.

They stopped several blocks away from the mansion, breathing heavily.

"I don't understand – " Sherlock panted.

"We have to – " he drew a deep breath. "We should get to Mycroft's office".

John nodded. This time, the consulting detective didn't look for a cab. That alone told the doctor how worried he was. If he preferred walking, if he didn't think he could sit still long enough to get to the office...

"What –"

"I have no idea!" Sherlock almost shouted before calming himself. "I apologize. The whole situation is – confusing."

"Don't" John said. "I understand".

While he had never been fond of the elder Holmes, he knew that Sherlock cared about his brother. A brother who he couldn't reach and in whose house they had found strangers.

John figured the best he could do was to follow Sherlock and help him clear this up as soon as possible.

Sadly, it wasn't that easy. They never made it to Mycroft's office that morning.

Because, as they were walking down an otherwise empty street, a cheerful, familiar voice behind them called out, "Hey, what are you doing here?"

They turned around and stared.

The man was walking towards them, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, a grin on his face.

He looked just like always, and yet so utterly different – he wasn't holding himself the way he usually did, and John had never seen him in a leather jacket or a t-shirt with the name of an old rock band on it – that all the doctor could say was, "Greg?"

The DI grinned even brighter.

"You remembered my name!"

"Of course I did" John replied, confused. Greg didn't leave him the time to continue, but turned to Sherlock.

"Where is he dragging you at this time of day, Bill?"