"The British Consulate," John said very clearly, in Russian. He made himself look natural. He forced himself not to look back at the building he had just escaped from.

"Congratulations, John Watson…" said an unfamiliar voice from a passenger in the front seat that he hadn't noticed.

John froze as the man turned back toward him and smiled.

"Who are—how did you—?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. This is Greg Lestrade."

"Holmes…"

Mycroft smirked back at him. "Yes. We had intelligence that you would attempt the escape that you and my brother had planned on your own."

"How?"

"That will be revealed when—and if—we arrive at the British Consulate without any trouble."

Mycroft turned back towards the road. After a few tense and silent minutes, he said over his shoulder, "Hungry, John? There's a dinner party at the consulate tonight—several third-world diplomats will be in attendance."

"And every last one of them," piped up the driver, Greg Lestrade, "An un-aligned, un-biased witness."

"And if they see me…" John ventured, "The KGB won't be able to keep up the lie about my staying of my own free will…"

"That is the general idea, yes," Mycroft agreed, "Ah, and there it is." He pointed out the window toward a large and forbidding gate.

"The British Consulate?" John asked. He'd never actually seen it.

"Precisely."

John heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Hold on," Greg put in, "we're not there yet."

John's heart sank as he realized there were sirens coming toward them. Lestrade at first attempted to avoid them, but they created a barrier and the car was forced to stop.

Mycroft, looking totally unconcerned, did not even look back to see the fright on John's face.

"These are traffic police, not KGB," he said, smiling, "Get out of the car. Try to be seen."

John warily got out of the car.

"John," was all Sherlock said when he saw the car from the window, before he was racing around to the front doors of the consulate.

"We don't know it's him," a diplomat named Anderson protested, hot on his heels.

Ignoring the idiot, Sherlock summoned all the patiently-waiting people—television crews and diplomats alike—to follow him outside.

Suddenly, the KGB was there. John froze, looking around for what to do.

"Colonel," Mycroft said, "I wonder if I could direct your attention to the cameras at the gate behind you…"

John looked. Sure enough, there was a crowd of people pressed against the gate, including several cameras. He vaguely heard the Colonel's unconcerned reply about being too far away for a positive identification.

"Fine night for a walk, don't you think?" Greg muttered to him, dragging him back to the present place and time. The officer searching Greg was momentarily distracted by his British passport.

John nodded shortly and started walking, expecting every second to be detained by the men who were checking Mycroft's passports and credentials, and arguing with Greg in fluent Russian.

He took a steadying breath and marched firmly toward the gate, shouldering aside two KGB agents who were obviously not authorized to do anything but stare him down.

"John!" Sherlock yelled at the top of his voice, before turning to his pesky companion, "Anderson, open the gates, for God's sake!"

Anderson shook his head. "Not without a positive identification."

"You idiot, it's him!" Sherlock growled, but he held his breath, waiting for John to get close enough that he could give the order in earnest.

"Khvatáyte yevo!"

John started running, attempting to push past the agents responding to the order to seize him, but he was caught and wrestled to the ground, still a few meters away from the gates.

"Anderson, if you don't let me out of this gate, I will cut your throat with the letter-opener in my suite!" Sherlock hissed.

Anderson looked warily around at the reporters, as if afraid they'd heard the threat.

"Look, I can see him!" Sherlock pressed on, "He's wearing the same jumper he was when we first met. He holds his left shoulder stiffly—using it defensively because it's too stiff to use offensively. He's the right height and build. The way he puts his foot down when he takes a step is right. There is positive identification!" Sherlock bellowed, one eye on the 3 KGB agents who were closing in on John, holding him down and beginning to kick him.

Sherlock slid out an almost impossibly-small opening in the gate before Anderson could formally agree to let him, striding purposely toward the agent giving the orders.

Sherlock greeted him by sliding an arm through his, muttering under his breath, "The last thing you need, Colonel, is evidence of Soviet repression. You leave him with me and I'll not say a word."

The agent seemed to mull this over for a few seconds, before he decided to make the best of the situation.

"What are you doing?" he called to the police, "Release him!"

He roughly helped John to his feet.

"He's just a little over-excited," he explained to the crowd. Sherlock walked at a more leisurely pace towards the scene.

"The superiority of Soviet medicine has saved a great artist's life," the Colonel was announcing, loudly, but after that John stopped listening.

"Sher—" He couldn't make himself finish the name, afraid he would break down into tears or his legs would stop supporting him.

Sherlock gave a familiar look—one that said, "Act like nothing is out of the ordinary"—and John swallowed the lump in his throat as the Colonel slipped his other arm around Sherlock's shoulders

"—our continuing struggle towards world peace and brotherhood!" the Colonel was finishing, before he pushed firmly on their backs, and they were ushered inside the gates.

(THEY GET IN, they don't have time to themselves, because hey, just because homosexuality isn't illegal in Britain doesn't mean it's not frowned upon. Mycroft makes excuses and they hurry off to Sherlock's suite and kiss and make love.)