What interested Sherlock most about this village was how utterly self-contained it was. It had obviously been created out of Cold War paranoia, names erased so as to provide people with the security to make friends with the enemies they used to have. Secrets could be stolen. There was certainly more to the Village than met the eye. It was not the utopia it pretended to be.

Everything was named simply. There was The Hospital. The Lawn. Old People's Home. It was functional, Sherlock had to give it that. There was no confusion as to where someone meant.

"Right, and last, we'll visit the Green Dome." 58 had finished his Village tour, doing almost all of the talking, while Sherlock had done almost all of the watching "What do you think?"

"I think it's demeaning, insulting, mind-numbing, dull, and I've moved my escape schedule forward a few weeks." Sherlock had never been one to mince words.

"…okay, right." 58 didn't know what he was expecting, maybe a half-heartedIt's okay, or a blatantly false Wow, it's great, but he didn't expect blunt honesty. "Well…I'll see you in a few minutes then?"

"Mm," was all the reply Sherlock gave him as he strode into the little room with its false antiques. The internal door slid open, revealing a large circular room, a globe chair in the middle. The chair turned, and a tall middle-aged man stared at him. Lifelong bureaucrat.

"What is it you want?" Sherlock's voice was deliberately cold.

"Nothing much, Mr. Holmes." He gestured to another chair, rising from the floor. "Take a seat, please."

Sherlock didn't sit. He did, however, raise an eyebrow. "I thought you lot didn't approve of names."

"Ah, well, you're new. We can't expect you to make a complete adaption to Village life in a few hours." The man smiled charmingly. "We noticed you took an interest in the stolen files of one Irene Adler."

"Obviously."

"Yes, well, we were just wondering why. We've been after her for years, never could catch her, but somehow you did. And when you did, you took her files, copied them to your computer. Normally we'd just erase them, but you have a reputation as a bit of a walking computer." (Sherlock smirked)

"And you think I'm going to misuse my knowledge."

"We think that's a possibility, yes. All we want is for you to settle down, have a quiet life out of the public eye."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Was there anything else or am I free to go about plotting my escape?"

The man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "We really wouldn't advise that."

"I know." Sherlock walked out.

58 looked up from kicking a rock. "So, how'd it go?"

"He made everything perfectly clear," Sherlock said. "The mere act of storing certain pieces of information in my mind is enough to warrant my presence here." He saw a sign that made him feel almost queasy. Questions are a burden to others. Answers are a prison to oneself. "I knew something and they thought it was worth imprisoning me. I intend to make it not worth their while."

58 looked around guiltily. "Can you try to keep it down? You've not been here a day, you don't want to get declared unmutual."

"Why?"

"Well…no one goes near an unmutual."

"Doesn't bother me."

"That's what they all say," 58 hissed. "Look, if you get really bad, they'll have to…you know," he said, pointing at his temple. "Social Conversion."

"Lobotomy?"

58 looked up, shiftily, as if this was forbidden knowledge. "Basically."

"In that case, I shall endeavour to avoid antagonizing them." He didn't mean it, not entirely. But as of yet, he had no idea where the moral boundaries of this Village were and for right now, he felt it better to assume they would do anything.


Sherlock seemed to acclimatize well after that, even joining the Village orchestra. He wasn't joining in because he wanted to, of course, he was just looking to find the pressure points, the little things that could make this house of cards fall to the ground.

"You're ignorant of the outside world," he'd told 58. "I am going to educate you. Nothing dangerous."

"Any rebellion is dangerous, 16. Things are the way they are for a reason!"

"You say that, but there's always been a little nagging voice, a little hint of doubt. Some small part of your mind keeps telling you there's something wrong." Sherlock inwardly smiled as 58 fidgeted. "Don't bother trying to hide it."

"Yes, fine, I'll take the bloody lessons, if only to shut you up in public." It wasn't that. His father, on his deathbed, had turned to 58 and whispered his dying words: Promise you'll get out. He'd never told anyone, but now he needed to know why his father had been so insistent.

Sherlock smiled.


"First element of the life outside. Names. You have two, in most societies, a family name and a personal name or two. Mine is Sherlock Holmes. You talk to someone by their first name, Sherlock, in my case." Sherlock felt a bit silly, teaching a grown man about something that most people he knew instinctually understood.

"So…names are like your number." 58 was trying to understand.

"Yes."

"And they get recycled after you die, like your number."

"No. Sometimes. It depends on the family." His own name had come from his great grandfather, and Mycroft's from the same on his father's mother's side. "Some people are sentimental enough to do that." Sherlock watched 58, seeing him think. "Choose a name."

"What? No, you can't—that's—no!"

"For private use only. During these little lessons."

58 sighed. "Fine. I guess John."

"Why John?" The act of choosing an alias was an interesting one. All sorts of psychology went into it, and the twisted mentality of the Village made things a bit more interesting.

"I dunno. It's just…familiar somehow."

"Alright then, John, let's begin.