A/N

The search has begun!

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S S S

Perhaps she should be grateful that Mycroft didn't dump her in a dungeon, but Kyrie didn't like the small cell that would be her home for an unspecified amount of time.

There was a bed, a small desk, a chair and there was a toilet that was screened off, giving her a bit of privacy. That was it. No books. No pens. Nothing to entertain her with. Not even colour. She was left alone with her thoughts, her fears of what would happen… and her memories.

Kyrie was hidden deep under the few blankets that had been given to her. The tiny space a constant reminder that she was alone. She kept hearing the deep baritone of her husband, sometimes laughing, sometimes teasing, sometimes annoyed, sometimes deliciously seductive. She could hear the laughter of their son, who seemed to find it infinitely funny whenever his father called him 'little man', even though he didn't easily subject to laughing fits.

St John was so very like his father, they could spend hours caught up in their own little world where she had no part of. She never minded, because in the evenings, her son was hers… She was the one who had to tuck him in and she was the one who had to read him a bed time story. Kyrie knew his favourite, 'The Snake and The Rose' by heart, so often had she told him that story. And in the nights, her husband was hers.

Both of her men went through great lengths to show her how much she meant to them, because their disposition often prevented them from simply telling her so.

Ten nights. Ten nights she had slept without the comforting presence of her husband's body, without his limbs entangled with hers. Ten nights she had missed reading St John's favourite story. Ten nights she had missed tucking him in and kissing his forehead, warmed with sleep.

"One hot day in summer, Snake lay basking on the stone steps which led down to the garden," Kyrie whispered in the dark.

"He lay uncurled at the top of the steps and listened to the chattering of the flowers."

Tears started to well in her eyes.

"The Marigolds were laughing prettily together, smiling their golden smiles. 'Whoever heard of a snake falling in love with a rose. It's too absurd,' said one to another."

Kyrie's voice wavered… she sniffed.

"'He is a very handsome snake,' said the Forget-me-not wistfully, 'in his shining, silver armour…' Oh God, Sherlock... St John!"

Her voice broke and she cried herself to sleep. Again.

S S S

Don't stray too far. Don't take too long. Don't get noticed. These words had become something of a mantra each time he took his first steps in a reality that wasn't his own. It was always disconcerting to find out how much the worlds he visited resembled home at a first glance. Only when he took a closer look, could he spot the worm that was eating away at the core… spoiling everything. The absence of his wife.

After visiting twenty odd different realities, Sherlock had established somewhat of a routine to find out more about the reality he was visiting and whether or not his wife was stranded there. He counted on the fact that Kyrie would go to places that were familiar to her, contact people she trusted. Only a few possibilities then. His routine was to make a bee line to Mycroft's office. Knowing Mycroft's secret passageway, he would barricade himself inside and make certain calls. All he would say was, "I'm looking for Kyrie. St John is fine." He figured that this would be enough for the right people in the right reality. With the calls and his brother's vast network of knowledge at his fingertips – which was a gross violation of privacy in general – Sherlock had the means to find out everything he wanted to know in a few short hours.

Which was all he really had each time. The five hour safe window. If he staid longer, depending on how much different the reality he was visiting was to his own, things could go very wrong. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what would happen, but the way Cassidy kept stressing the point, it made him think that staying longer could very well prove to be apocalyptic.

His little routine was not entirely without danger either. That's why Mycroft's secret passageway was necessary. He'd bumped into his alternate self a few times, or entered the office right after his alternate self had just left. Luckily so far he'd been more than able to strong arm his brother into compliance, even himself when necessity arose. Too bad Mycroft's office was the surest bet to quickly find the information he needed, for it surely wasn't the safest. There was always the risk that he'd end up in a reality in which Mycroft's office wasn't his office at all. Or that Sherlock wasn't even supposed to be alive, or in the country. So many variables. He hated having to explain his identity or how he was even there because even to himself the explanation still sounded ludicrous.

A gentle wind tousled his hair as Sherlock emerged from the back of the building. Though the passageway was – so far – always there, for some reason the exit was never really the same. This was one of the easier ones as the passageway had led to a decorative lattice panel in a wall which in turn had led to a cluttered back room that seemed to have no other function but gathering papers and dust. It also had a conveniently forgotten back door. If only all of his escapes could be that easy! Also, there had been no Anthea to deal with who kept a hawklike watch on the office in a lot of realities. She was quite an efficient secretary! He wasn't quite sure why Mycroft didn't always have 'Anthea'. In fact, this version of his brother astonishingly didn't have a personal assistant at all! How ever did he manage to get things done?

A quick glance at his watch told him there was time to explore a bit more. He already knew that his wife was not here, but Kyrie Ellison was at least alive. Sherlock hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to St James's Park. In the meantime Sherlock took out his notebook and he tried to ignore the pungent smell of sweat, stale perfume and aftershave that permeated the air in the back of the taxi.

At least this time he did not have to add a mark on the page titled 'Died' in his little notebook. In some realities Kyrie had never even existed because her parents had never met. Those realities received a mark on the page 'Non-existent'.

There weren't too many marks underneath that one. The title of one page was scratched through because he'd soon learned that 'Happy' was overly positive to mark those versions of himself so instead the title now said 'Content'. So far there was only one mark on that page... A universe in which Kyrie had never been born, so it also had one of the few marks on the page 'Non-existent'.

Mary Watson had died and there was no little Rosy either. John seemed at peace with the idea that a family life was not for him and Sherlock wasn't happy but he didn't seem unhappy either. Just, very conscious of the sacrifices he had made to live the life he led and he wasn't sorry about them. Still, somehow Sherlock and John had created a comfortable living in 221B Baker Street where they received and helped their clients. Oddly, that address seemed to be a constant in each and every universe.

In any event, that had been the one reality in which he'd found his alternate self to be content. In all the other realities his alternate selves had varied from a being a stone-cold bastard to a useless drug addict to something in between. That page had the title 'Miserable' and had an alarming amount of marks. In not one other universe had he and Kyrie ended up together.

Finally there was the column with the title 'Died'. Not him though, oh no. No, he was alive and kicking in pretty much every reality he'd visited so far. Except for that one where he found out he'd died of an overdose. No Watson in his life; his body found in his armchair almost three weeks after the fact. Bloody brilliant. No, it was Kyrie who had died too many times. For some reason, Gerulf Schricken had gravitated towards her in quite a few universes and in those universes the other version of himself had not felt inclined to get roped into a fake marriage. He had simply left her to her own devices, allowing her to fall into the hands of that sick bastard. In too many realities he'd taken too much pride in his intellectual acuity and that pride had resulted in nothing but misfortune. Each reality he visited was further proof that a life without Kyrie was no life at all.

A brisk walk later – Sherlock kept his eyes and ears wide open – and he strolled down the winding paths in St James's Park. This was were Kyrie liked to go on days like these. It's why Kyrie had been so surprised when Mary had managed to find her in the Paddington Street Gardens where she'd been hiding and wallowing in self-pity years ago. Kyrie wasn't a Paddington Street Gardens regular, but she was a regular here.

It was a long shot – he knew – but she was alive in this reality and with a sunny day such as this one, Sherlock was hoping that among all the things that were unrecognisably different, some things were blissfully familiar as well. Preferably this one thing.

He soon spotted the bench where he knew Kyrie liked to sit and watch over the lake. Though he knew she loved him, he also knew he was difficult to live with on the best of days and downright impossible on the not so good days. On sunny days, this was the spot she liked to visit to recharge herself so to speak. Or just to get out of his way. Right now all he could do was hope that Kyrie's love for visiting this park was not solely ascribable to his charming personality...

Sherlock sighed wearily as he took a seat on the bench. The emotions that occasionally seeped through were, frankly, rather exhausting. He closed his eyes and relaxed himself. It was so much better to concentrate without the distractions all around him. If Kyrie was visiting the park today, he would be able to recognise her by the sound of her gait. He drowned out all other sounds, the bird squawks, the rippling water of the lake, the soft murmurs of other people… Isn't that…? What's he doing here? He concentrated on the sound of the foot steps alone.

Heavy footstep, heavy shoes, male. Light footsteps, Italian leather shoes, male. Heels, angry staccato, female, not Kyrie. Sherlock forced out a deep breath of air. Time was now slowly running out and he hadn't heard her yet. He analysed footstep after footstep for what seemed like hours. Probably was hours.

Then… heels, crisp staccato approaching, slowing down near him, the hesitant lean onto the right foot, the shuffle back to the left. He opened his eyes on another exhale and he felt the corners of his mouth turn up into a slight smile. Kyrie. His other persona, the one who had stepped back to make place for the Consulting Detective, wanted him to turn his head and look at her already. Ah, bit of a one track mind at the moment. When he did settle the full force of gaze on her, she withered visibly and she actually took a step back. He smiled when he could see the physical signs of her steeling herself and – ah, there – the slightly provocative 'I don't want you to see you just rattled me' chin thrust.

"Hi, I'm Sherlock." He toned down the intensity of his gaze and hoped he came across as at least somewhat approachable.

The bemused look she gave him was quite adorable. She bit her lip and looked around uncertainly, as if afraid someone was pulling a prank on her. "I- I know," she said finally.

Sherlock repressed a smile when he noticed her longing look at the bench. He knew her – if he'd been anyone else, she would have smiled and asked if she could take the unoccupied seat – but he wasn't just anyone. He was high profile enough for her to become tremendously self-conscious and he knew she wouldn't dare to ask him. As if she was able to hear his thoughts, he could see she was about to turn around and walk away.

"Would you like to sit down?" he offered quickly.

Their eyes met and Sherlock nearly hissed at the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to drown him.

"Oh, I… are you sure? I wouldn't want to..."

"Sit down." Okay, maybe try to sound more like a normal person and less like a complete arse! It would be nice to be able to give himself a death glare. Whether or not he had sounded friendly enough, Kyrie did as she was… well… ordered and she quickly sat down.

Queue in a long stretched moment of awkward silence. This was probably a moment where his stored away self would feel more at ease. After all, he was the one who had slowly been groomed to be more adaptive. Sherlock swallowed hard. It was strange. This woman was not even his… wife. His wife was somewhere out there in a completely different place. Yet, for some reason, this interaction with this version of his wife, it was important.

"So..." He struggled to find acceptable words to make at least an attempt at a normal conversation and quickly realised his other version had to step in here. Before her, he'd never been able to utter one sentence without utterly offending the other person. He briefly closed his eyes, willing his more developed persona to take over. "You come here often?" He breathed a sigh of relief. The transition had been smooth and inconspicuous and he had to admit… It was good to back!

"I do like to come here when I can, yes."

"Work?"

"What?"

"Sorry, what do you do for a living?"

"Oh." – She blushed – "I'm a personal assistant, but currently between jobs."

Sherlock nodded at her. "No Magnussen I hope. Or Schricken."

Kyrie gave him a confused look.

"You don't recognise the names. That's good. Stay clear of them. If you ever hear them, run the opposite way. Can you promise me that?"

She smiled at him a bit. "Why?"

"You'll just have to trust me on this. I am Sherlock Holmes after all. Are you happy here? I mean… are you?… Happy?"

She studied his face for a moment, before giving her answer. "Why do I get the feeling that between the two of us, you are the one who's not... Happy, I mean."

Always so perceptive. "There's a bit of a situation I'm trying to resolve but I can safely admit that, when I'm done, I'll be very happy indeed. It'll work out in the end. How about you?"

It was to her credit that she did not answer him immediately. She pondered the question so the answer she would give him was not a meaningless platitude, but real and honest. "I'm not unhappy. I have loving parents, good friends and there's no reason to believe I won't find a good position somewhere. It's just that..." She averted her eyes and a blush crept on her cheeks.

"You feel there should be more to life than that." Sherlock finished for her.

She nodded her head.

Leaning his arm on the back of the wooden bench, Sherlock simply soaked in the image of his surroundings. People strolling down the path, ducks in the pond, a spotless blue sky and blossoming trees wherever he looked. With Kyrie silently sitting next to him, he could almost pretend things were normal. Almost.

"Paths."

"Sorry?" Kyrie sounded absolutely confused. And why shouldn't she sound confused? She wasn't his Kyrie and even his Kyrie sometimes had trouble keeping up with him, though she was certainly getting better at it.

"I was just thinking about winding paths. And crossroads. If you think about it, that's what our lives are made up of. Strange winding paths and crossroads that can lead to some interesting… other paths."

"I- I guess so..."

He smiled. Clearly she had no idea what he was on about. "For example," he continued, "you could get up and leave in a bit, strolling down the path you're already on. But..."

– he pulled out his notebook, ripped out a page and scribbled a phone number on it – "What would happen if I gave you this phone number? And what would happen if you were to call that number and say these exact words… 'Darjeeling first flush, Martell XO, salmon and asparagus with lemon-garlic butter sauce. When can I start?'

"Who knows where that might lead? So many different branches in one single path. It's daunting isn't it?"

"I don't get it… Do you want me to call that number and say… those words?" Kyrie asked him. Of course she didn't remember the words he'd just said. He started to write them down. He'd simply caught her off guard and…

"Oh, you don't have to write them down, I'm a pretty good PA, I know what you just said."

When Sherlock looked up – his pen was half way through 'salmon'– he found Kyrie looking at what he was writing down. When he raised a brow, she smiled sweetly. "Darjeeling first flush, Martell XO, salmon and asparagus with lemon-garlic butter sauce."

A good PA? The damned best one there was! He smiled at her. "I don't know if you should call this number or not. In fact, I'm not entirely sure it even matters, for me anyway. Thing is, it might matter for you. Wouldn't you want to find out?"

With those words, he offered her the folded page with Mycroft's phone number and a few words that were some of his brother's favourite things… up to the letters S A L.

"Whether you'll make the call or not, trust me on this, he'll be intrigued enough to invite you for an interview. The rest is up to you."

Kyrie took it from his hand. "Who will be intrigued enough?"

Sherlock smiled when he thought of the path that folded page might lead to and felt much, much better.

"You'll find out soon enough. Goodbye, Kyrie." Sherlock turned on his heels and marched away.

"How...? I never even told you my name!" she yelled after him.

He didn't look back. It was time to continue his search.