In one day, everything changed. Everything that was good about the freedom of Great Britain had been wiped away. Suddenly everyone had to carry around their identification embedded in their skin—microchipped like dogs. John had reluctantly accepted this on the grounds that if something were to happen to him, it would be easier to identify his body. A grim thought, but one that one must consider when Sherlock Holmes is your best friend.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was a different story. He refused to be chipped. The law said that anyone without a chip was committing a crime by not having one, and it was a law Sherlock was only too happy to break. Even when Lestrade had come knocking, asking—pleading with Sherlock to have his chip implanted, Sherlock had not so politely told him to go away.

John agreed with most of Sherlock's arguments against being chipped. It would make undercover work harder. It would mean a complete and total sacrifice of privacy. It wasn't even mandatory for animals. All it would take for complete identity theft would be access to the lower arm. And he just plain didn't like the idea.

John attempted to rebut Sherlock's points with some valid ones of his own. It didn't help.

It'll help identify bodies. (Not if the chip has been removed.)

You won't have to carry your credit card. (No, you'll just have to beware a new era of pickpocketing where all it would take would be a quick scan of the arm.)

It would make transactions with the bank easier. (Again, pickpockets.)

You'll never see a missing child poster again. (Again, the chip would not be impossible to remove.)

You'll be able to confirm people's alibis. (And turn perfectly innocent people into collaborators by accidental association.)

If you get kidnapped, assuming the kidnapper didn't know where the chip was or didn't want to remove it, it's easier for the police to come get you. (The chips are all in the same place. And a good electromagnetic pulse could knock it out of action.)

John gave up. The issue didn't come up again for a few days, at which point he figured it was never going to happen. Somehow he'd avoid being chipped. Sherlock sat (well, lay) on the couch, and the doorbell rang. John answered.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft.

"Oh, hi," said John. He wasn't sure who he was expecting, but it really wasn't Mycroft. "Come in." John noticed Mycroft was carrying a package, largeish, but not too large to carry in one hand. He put it in the kitchen.

"I brought you a little gift," explained the elder Holmes as he opened it. It was a cake.

"A cake?" queried John. "Why are you bringing us a cake?"

"He obviously wants something," said the curly-haired sofa statue.

"I was hoping it would bring you around on the subject of chipping," replied Mycroft.

"A bit of flour, sugar and egg won't do that and you know it."

"Try it," Mycroft said, standing over Sherlock suddenly and handing him a plate.

Sherlock looked up, suspicious of his brother. "Not until you've eaten some."

"As you wish." Mycroft took not one, but two bites of the cake. "See? It's just a peace offering, nothing more."

Sherlock, still cautious, ate the cake slowly and deliberately, watching John and Mycroft eat theirs. They ate in silence. Once they'd put their plates away, John realized he was feeling woozy. He stared at Mycroft, who winked. Mycroft Holmes bloody winked. Then everything went black.

He woke up in the same chair, with everything exactly as it was with the exception that both Holmeses were missing. John didn't worry, partly because of the drugs still in his system, and partly because he knew that Mycroft was probably chipped. He looked at his phone, and saw a text from Mycroft.

He's fine. I'm bringing him home momentarily.

Mycroft

John sighed and made himself some tea. The door opened and three or four burly men carried Sherlock and put him back on the couch, Mycroft not far behind.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't mention this for obvious reasons," he said with that smile that was supposed to be reassuring but somehow always ended up as sinister.

"Right, okay," John said, mildly confused as to what had actually happened. He sat, sipping his tea, waiting for Sherlock to come around, which only took about a half hour. Sherlock moaned and rubbed his arm.

"Mm?" He rolled over, trying to clear his head. "Stupid cake. Should have known better." He took a deep breath. "They've chipped me. My own brother and he abducted me from my home." He thundered into the kitchen and got a glass of water. "Well, this changes things," he muttered.

Weeks passed and John realized something. Sherlock had no cases. Sherlock was never going to have any cases because the microchips recorded everything. While this was good news for crime-solving everywhere, it was horrible news for Sherlock. Frequently John would return from the surgery to find Sherlock hadn't moved all day—sometimes not even for several days.

"Sherlock, you need to go out."

"I'm fine," he spat.

"No, you're not. When was the last time you even ate something?"

"Not important."

"Yes! It is important! You're going to die if you don't eat or sleep or have something to drink!"

"What does it matter anymore?" He gave the ceiling a murderous stare. "Without the puzzles, I have nothing! I may as well cease to exist!"

"No—Sherlock, you have friends."

"Plural?" Sherlock looked hopeful for an instant. Then, when John didn't answer, he frowned. "My point exactly."

John wasn't sure what to do next, outside of help him find a new job, and the only way Sherlock would consent to that is if various mythological locations were covered in ice. He felt helpless on behalf of Sherlock, but oddly relieved. On the one hand, he was tired of chasing after killers and blackmailers and the like, but he knew that Sherlock would suffer and indeed was suffering.

Night after night, John returned from his work to find Sherlock in various states of distress. One night, he was crying softly. John didn't know why and didn't want to ask. But then on the tenth day of the third month after the chipping became law, John was greeted with an horrific sight.

Sherlock's arm was covered in blood. John rushed over to him and hoped he was alive. Fortunately, he was, but if John hadn't showed up when he did, Sherlock might not have survived. On the floor next to the blood-soaked sofa lay a surgical scalpel and a small piece of metal. Sherlock had dug the chip out of his arm.

John dialed 999 as quickly as he could with one hand (he was using the other to staunch the bleeding) and soon the paramedics showed up to take Sherlock off. They didn't return him to Baker Street for a few weeks as he was on suicide watch (those psychiatrists didn't believe him when he said it was just to get the chip out). Again and again, they tried to chip Sherlock Holmes, and again and again he found ways to get the chip out, from butterknives to razor blades to his own teeth.

John couldn't understand exactly why Sherlock felt so strongly about it. I mean, the first time he could understand a bit, but every single time after that? Why was Sherlock so intent to be chip-free? Sherlock couldn't explain it, either. He told the nurses that he had a violent reaction to the metal, and it burned him from the inside. They said it was hypoallergenic (but they lied, really). A portion of his mind wanted to believe that it was something from his nightmares, a childhood terror, but in reality he had no idea. It just triggered in him an extreme rebellion. Certain metals in the blood could cause temporary psychosis, but Sherlock was showing no other signs of such a reaction.

John visited him every day, trying to talk him out of his persistence, but one morning Sherlock wasn't there. He asked the nurses where he'd gone, but all they would say was that he'd been taken to a special facility where they'd make sure he'd be safe.

"Don't worry," the head physician said. "He won't be able to hurt himself any more."

As a doctor, John knew what that meant. It was the same euphemism you give a child when their self-destructive pet has been euthanized. Sherlock was dead.

When John returned to Baker Street, he ripped out his own microchip. If the government did this, he wanted no part of it. The blood trickled down his arm, and for a moment before he sewed up the wound, he savored the sensation.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you." John was determined to find an explanation for why they'd killed Sherlock. No matter what it took.