Chapter Six: Breaking into Baskerville or Proof Mycroft is Getting Slow

Sherlock kept up his sulky exterior as he headed over to the Land Rover. But inside, he smiled.

It had been months since John had sat down with a pint of anything stronger than coffee. But there he had sat with a pint of beer. True, even before he started this religious phase, he didn't drink too much, most likely because he was determined not to be accused of being a drunkard like his sister. Or being a reliable role model could also have been a likely thing. But the fact that John had finally had a pint today proved something to Sherlock. Being a Christian did not make John immune to old vices, and the old John was still there. He was buried underneath that Christian exterior but still there. If nothing else, John still made mistakes.

Now, he just had to see if he could draw the rest of the old John out. Surely there would be an opportunity during this trip. Away from London. Away from the listening ears and spying eyes of John's church. Why hadn't he thought of getting them away from London sooner to get his old John back?

He gave no hint of his thoughts as John joined him in the rental car. It certainly wouldn't do any good to inadvertently show his hand. John possibly already suspected what Sherlock was doing. He couldn't confirm it by giving away solid proof.

So, Sherlock remained quiet as they headed out for Baskerville. It wasn't until they were halfway to the facility that Sherlock noticed . . . John wasn't gloating about the fifty pounds he'd just won because of Sherlock's claim. Yes, John was pleased to have the extra money, but he was being a silent victor.

Well, maybe that was better than the old John.

John forced himself to remain calm as they approached the top secret facility. He was not looking forward to this. It put him on edge. Stop it, he told himself. Sherlock probably has some brilliant plan. A note from Mycroft. Some credentials from some past work. Everything will be fine.

Then they had arrived. John was a little too aware of all the safety precautions in place to keep people out. The security cameras. Military dogs. Highly trained soldiers with top of the line firearms.

Sherlock stopped at the raised hand of a security guard.

The same guard came round to Sherlock's window. "Pass, please," he said.

Sherlock casually reached into his coat pocket and handed him a pass.

"Thank you," the guard said, walking away in order to process it.

Security with a German Shepherd walked round the car.

John knew he would regret asking, but he needed to focus on something to calm his nerves. That beer hadn't been enough. "You've got ID for Baskerville," he said keeping his voice low. "How?"

"It's not specific to this place," Sherlock said, equally low. "It's my brother's. Access all areas. I, um," he silently cleared his throat, "acquired it ages ago, just in case."

John fought to keep his reaction internal. It would do no good to be caught now. It would be worse to be caught inside. And Sherlock was actually a hint nervous! "Brilliant," he said quietly. If Sherlock was nervous, that really meant they were diving in over their heads.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked.

"We'll get caught," John answered, somehow managing to tense while appearing relaxed at the same time.

"No, we won't," Sherlock said. "Well, not just yet."

"Caught in five minutes," John predicted before continuing sarcastically. "'Oh, hi, we just thought we'd come and have a wander round your top secret weapons base.'

"'Really? Great! Come in, kettle's just boiled.'

"That's if we don't get shot."

"Clear," the dog handler said.

The first security guard returned Mycroft's pass to Sherlock. "Thank you very much, sir."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. He then moved the Rover into gear so they'd start going again.

"Straight through sir," the guard said as the gates slide open.

John slumped a bit. He slightly shook his head. "Mycroft's name literally opens doors."

"I've told you," Sherlock said as they headed into the depths of the facilities grounds, "he practically is the British Government. I reckon we've got about twenty minutes before they realize something's wrong."

John found himself praying. God, I have an inkling of suspicion that we are doing something illegal. Even so, protect us from becoming lab rats or the next targets for the firing squad to practice on.

Sherlock parked the car before the main complex. Great tanks surrounded them as various pipes coiled and lined a central path leading towards the entrance. Dozens of pipes of various sizes crossed overhead. Armed military personnel patrolled the entire area. The lab workers were being escorted about.

Sherlock led the way to the main building, John right beside him or a half-step behind. They were maybe ten meters from the entrance when a military jeep came over to stop their progress. A young man, most likely Asian descent, potentially early to mid-thirties, climbed out to approach them. His uniform announced that he was a corporal.

"What is it?" the corporal asked. "Are we in trouble?"

"'Are we in trouble, sir?'" Sherlock corrected sternly, projecting his brother's cool control.

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," the corporal answered, straightening a touch. But he stepped in front of them, forcing them to stop.

"You were expecting us?" Sherlock asked.

"Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes," the corporal answered. "Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Well, I hope not, Corporal," Sherlock answered. "I hope not."

"It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, sir," Lyons explained. "It just doesn't happen."

"Ever heard of a spot check?" John asked. He shows his ID just enough to reveal it is his own. "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Even as John was speaking Corporal Lyons snapped to attention, performing a perfect salute.

John minutely nodded for the man to be at ease.

"Sir," Lyons said. "Major Barrymore won't be pleased, sir. He'll want to see you both."

"I'm afraid we won't have time for that," John said, crisply. "We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on." When Lyons didn't respond immediately, "That's an order, Corporal."

"Yes, sir," Lyon said. He turned on his heel and marched to the entrance.

Sherlock smiled. He was certain that Christian John wouldn't have done that. More of his old John was coming through. He followed after Lyons as John kept up.

At the door, Lyons swiped his pass, allowing Sherlock to swipe Mycroft's. Of course, heightened security measure of two passes needed to travel throughout the facility. A fortunate event then that Lyons had encountered them.

The reader flashed green with the "Access Granted" message. Lyons then pressed a button that unlocked the door. Sherlock checked his watch: 3:32. He would need to see just how quick Mycroft's people were.

As they walked in, Sherlock allowed Lyons to step a little ahead. "Nice touch," Sherlock said quietly.

John gave a slight smile. "Haven't pulled rank in ages," he said, equally quiet.

"Enjoy it?" Sherlock asked. Maybe if John had, it could be a way to bring his old John back.

"Oh yeah," John said. But something flashed across his eyes. Something that Sherlock couldn't place.

He filed it away to look into later. For now, he had to remain focused on the task at hand.

John hid behind his military training. It definitely didn't feel right to be lying about his current military standing. Even if it did stroke his ego a bit that he still had that touch.

He held his hands behind his back at parade rest as he followed close after Sherlock.

Two swipes of two cards and they entered a lift. John watched as Corporal Lyons pressed the -1 button, the first of five going down. Actually it appeared that this lift was only connected to floors underground.

A moment later, the doors slid open onto a stark, white laboratory. It almost stung his eyes with the bright lights and absence of any true color. All the scientists and researchers all wore clinical white coveralls and lab coats. All other colors were very washed out, aside from the three "invaders."

A screaming monkey rattling his metal prison brought John's attention to the right. An entire row, reaching about halfway across the lab, of large cages. John suppressed a shiver as he observed that any of those cages were large enough to hold a dog of equine proportions.

"How many animals do you keep down here?" Sherlock asked.

"Lots, sir," Lyons answered, providing information yet at the same time evading.

"Any ever escape?" Sherlock asked.

"They'd have to know how to use that lift, sir," Lyons answered. "We're not breeding them that clever.

"Unless they have help," Sherlock noted.

A man in coveralls, just removing a breathing mask greeted them. "Ah, and you are?"

"Sorry, Doctor Frankland," Lyons said. "I'm just showing these gentlemen around."

"Ah, new faces, huh?" Dr. Frankland said with a friendly smile. "Nice. Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!"

John was unsure what to make of this man. He seemed friendly and genial enough, maybe even a fun uncle type. But he was missing the genuine warmth that John observed to draw the younger generation in. There was something about him. Something that put John's taut nerves on edge.

He mentally shook it off as Dr. Frankland continued to the lift. "How far down does that lift go?" he asked Lyons.

"Quite a way, sir," Lyons answered.

"Mm-hm," John nodded. "And what's down there?"

"Well, we have to keep the bins somewhere, sir," Lyons answered. "This way please, gentlemen."

As they continued onward, John ventured another question. "So what exactly is it that you do here?"

"I thought you'd know, sir, this being an inspection."

Maybe John should have seen that coming. But he was merely a captain, well-versed in military combat, not the sciences. "Well, I'm not an expert, am I?" he returned.

Corporal Lyons accepted it, providing the vaguest answer that still proved informational. "Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, sir."

Toss in some military view point. "But mostly weaponry?"

"Of one sort or another, yes," Lyons answered before swiping his card for another door.

As Sherlock also swiped his card, John asked, "Biological, chemical . . .?"

"One war ends, another begins, sir," Lyons answered. "New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared."

John spied Sherlock glancing at his watch. Just how much more time did they have?

It wasn't too long before they entered yet another laboratory. It was smaller, and while the lights were still bright, orange windows broke the stark whiteness. Two scientists, one male, one female, were working with a monkey on a table. "Okay, Michael," the woman said, revealing who was most likely the superior, "let's try Harlow Three next time."

She left the table as Corporal Lyons approached. "Doctor Stapleton," he introduced.

"Stapleton," Sherlock mused.

John picked up the threads of recognition, but didn't understand where they could have heard of the woman.

"Yes?" she asked. Then she saw John and Sherlock. She became guarded, alert. "Who's this?"

"Priority Ultra, ma'am," the corporal explained. "Orders from on high. An inspection."

"Really?" Dr. Stapleton asked.

"We're to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton," Sherlock said. "What's your role at Baskerville?"

Disbelief immediately swelled, coming forth as skeptical laughter.

John lightly cleared his throat. "Accorded every courtesy, isn't that the idea?"

Dr. Stapleton straightened a bit, taking them a bit more seriously. "I'm not free to say," she said. "Official secrets."

"Oh, you most certainly are free," Sherlock said pleasantly before full on channeling Mycroft's archnemesis act, "and I suggest you remain that way."

Finally, Dr. Stapleton offered, "I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up – genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers."

A small part of John could appreciate the subtle attempt at humor, but he was distracted as Sherlock pulled a notebook from his pocket. "Stapleton," he murmured. "I knew I knew your name."

"I doubt it," she answered, rubbing her nose.

"People say there's no such thing as coincidence," Sherlock continued, jotting something down. "What dull lives they must lead." He then held the page out to Dr. Stapleton.

Shock shot through her, strong enough to leave an almost electric feel on John's senses. What had Sherlock shown her? What "coincidence" had they stumbled upon this time? "Have you been talking to my daughter?" she asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, tucking his notebook away once again. "Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?"

John jolted a little, but he fought to keep his confusion minimal. Why was Sherlock asking this doctor about a girl's escaped rabbit?

"Disappeared from inside a locked hutch," Sherlock continued, "which is always suggestive. Clearly an inside job."

"Oh, you reckon?" she asked, defensive now.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "Because it glowed in the dark."

Dr. Stapleton bristled. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?"

Sherlock looked at his watch again, seemingly unaware of the prickly situation they were now sinking into. All over some girl's rabbit. "Well," he said suddenly, looking up. "I think we've seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much."

"That's it?" Lyons asked.

"That's it," Sherlock answered, turning and briskly walking back the way they'd come. "It's this way, isn't it?"

John hurried to follow him, Lyons a bit behind.

"Just a minute!" Dr. Stapleton shouted, but otherwise made no action to stop them.

John caught up with enough distance between him and Sherlock and their escort to demand answers. "Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?"

Sherlock didn't give him an answer, just swiping his card and waiting for Lyons to do the same. But he managed to roughly convey, "No, of course not. Just an unexpected turn."

John bit back the urge to growl. The last thing he needed today. Lord, I'm starting to think we may need a little miracle to get out of here.

Mycroft Holmes was not in the habit of receiving calls once he settled into the silent parlor of the Diogenes Club. But Anthea was an angel in making sure that only the most dire calls be wired directly to him during his moments of scheduled peace.

Unfortunately, today was not to be a usual day. He'd barely managed to savor half a cup of coffee while reading a fascinating article when he felt his mobile silently vibrate in his breast pocket. He opened the message.

"Apologies, sir," Anthea attached at the top, "this just came in."

"Mycroft Holmes, Identification shows your location at Baskerville Facility on Dartmoor. Please confirm."

Mycroft rolled his eyes to high heaven. He knew Sherlock had nicked one of his ID cards a few months ago. He had only thought it was out of spite. Not that his little brother would try breaking into one of the most highly guarded research facilities in the country. And of course, where ever Sherlock was, John Watson wouldn't be far behind.

He immediately started texting, hoping to get to the bottom of this quickly.

Sherlock strode through the final security doors and into the first lab, continuing full walking speed to the lift doors. His phone trilled with a message. He pulled his mobile out, checking the message.

"What are you doing? M"

Sherlock chuckled to John who trotted by his side. "Twenty-three minutes," he said. "Mycroft's getting slow."

Not a minute later, Sherlock swiped Mycroft's card for the lift, followed quickly after by Lyons. He was about to shoot in when he pulled up short to see Dr. Frankland, now wearing a lab coat.

Dr. Frankland smiled. "Hello . . . again."

Sherlock kept his expression stoic as he led the way onto the lift. It was just another hallway and door; then he and John would be free of Baskerville.

John kept watch of Dr. Frankland from the corner of his eye. It couldn't be coincidence that they had run into this man for a second time so quickly. He tried to keep himself calm. Just a little further and they'd be as free as a pair of birds.

His heart sank as the lift doors opened to reveal a strongly built, displeased, no angry, major on the other side. His dark beard made him all the more austere.

"Er, um," Corporal Lyons stumbled, "Major—"

"This is bloody outrageous," Major Barrymore seethed. Because this had to be the same major the corporal had mentioned earlier. "Why wasn't I told?"

"Major Barrymore, is it?" John said, pulling all his military training about himself as he stepped forward. "Yes, well, good. Very good." He held out his hand as he continued, "We're very impressed, aren't we, Mr. Holmes?" John gave up as the major glared down at him and Sherlock swept past.

As he moved, he said, "Deeply, hugely." Sherlock received another text, presumably from Mycroft again.

John wove round Barrymore to follow after Sherlock as the major raved.

"The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense."

"I'm so sorry, Major," Sherlock droned.

"Inspections?!" Barrymore demanded.

"New policy," Sherlock lied breezily. "Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you'd get up to." John almost missed his next quiet words, "Keep walking."

Oh, I never intended to stop, John silently retorted.

"Sir!" Lyons shouted just before he slammed a button on the wall.

John froze as alarms shattered the air. Red warning lights flashed as the door ahead of them, their only means of escape automatically locked them inside. He forced himself to turn with Sherlock.

"ID unauthorized, sir," Lyons reported.

"What?" Major Barrymore asked.

"I've just had the call," Lyons answered.

"Is that right?" Barrymore said, turning back to them. "Who are you?"

"Look," John said, "there's obviously been some kind of mistake." But even he could tell it sounded weak in his own ears.

Sherlock handed over the ID he'd been using to Major Barrymore.

Not even a second later, the truth was out. "Clearly not Mycroft Holmes," Barrymore said.

John fought to think of something to do, something to get them out of this. But he quickly found that his conscience was hitting him hard for even using Mycroft's card in the first place. He could feel Darkness laughing.

"See? You're going back to your old ways. Is that being a good example for Sherlock? What about Lyons, Barrymore, or Frankland? They'll never believe your testimony now. Oh, you are still the same bad man from before. You never changed at all."

The dark voice froze John's own voice, almost choking him. Only able to silently watch as he and Sherlock teetered on the brink of destruction.

Author's Note: Ee. Sorry, boys. Have to leave you there.

The first visit to Baskerville was interesting. I had to figure out what could potentially be going through John's mind since they had broken in to the facility. I had also come across some listed goofs and attempted to correct them. May or may not have succeeded. Welp. We'll see. :-)

I couldn't resist popping in on Mycroft since the episode gave us the perfect opportunity.

So what are your thoughts? Did you enjoy some of my changes? Admittedly more subtle, but sometimes, change is in the small things. Would love to hear your thoughts and any theories swirling around.