A/N

Companion Teresa

Lol, I really hate to admit this… but I had no idea where you were going with your remark. One? Anyway, that's the only time we (kind of) meet Antoine and Pavel.

Elbafo

Thank you! I've always wanted to do something with the comment 'He'd burn the world!' in 'Like Swans. It was because of an interview in which it was said that Sherlock Holmes is in fact quite dangerous. That spawned the image of Sherlock gravely walking away from a scene of London burning behind him. Then this scene was born and I'm glad it had an impact!

Though Sherlock did have the same eye injury, it was not because of John. I wanted the result to be the same, just the road to that result was different. And I was, admittedly, too lazy to work that scene out. My guess is there was a bit of a fight between Sherlock and Culverton, John tried to intervene and Sherlock caught John's elbow in his attempt to keep them from killing each other. Though John IS very angry at Sherlock for going through such extremes to catch Culverton and a little bit annoyed at Kyrie for giving him a few bad ideas.

Also, that was really not meant as disdain for Molly. I had to read the chapter back to see what could made you think this and I think I found the culprit… and I changed it. The gist of the moment is that Sherlock was being curt because he knew Mycroft was on his way and at that moment only Molly was not in the loop about what was going on. He simply wanted her to leave and avoid possibly embarrassing comments like 'having a date with a corpse.'

Phew! I hope I addressed everything I needed. I am saddened by the fact that only Companion Teresa and Elbafo bother to leave reviews for this story. After all the requests I've received I expected at least a few more previous readers to leave reviews. So, I've decided that I will at least upload the story so it's complete, but the planned sequel with Scottie will not be written. Also because I'm starting a new IRL adventure that needs my attention. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Oh, Elbafo! Look where we are!

* S *

So this was where Sherlock spent most of his days lately. Mary looked around the wide room. It reminded her a bit of a hangar really. Very spacious and… white. Not very cosy though. John, holding the small hands of Rosie and St John in each of his, gave her a weary look. "Mary, are you sure about this? I think he'll say no."

Mary shot him a look. "He has precious little choice, John. I've seen him getting worse after each trip. He needs a bit of normal, whether he wants to or not."

Not far from them Cassidy was sitting in a chair – his feet propped up against a small round table – a small collection of water bottles was assembled around them. Curious… He was reading a newspaper, or better yet, pretending to read the damned thing. And of course there was the small group of special ops agents standing by and staring blankly ahead of them.

"I know..." John replied, completely oblivious to the fact Cassidy and an entire peloton of special ops agents were eavesdropping on them. Or he was simply ignoring them all, "… but how will dragging Sherlock home with us for dinner help him? Especially when he doesn't want–"

Mary could only guess how John wanted to finish that sentence, because at exactly that moment there was the tell-tale static noise and a bright flash of light, heralding Sherlock's return. The special ops agents instantly sprang into action and trained their weapons on the briefly visible event horizon, before Sherlock stepped through and the noise and light died down. No one or nothing else appeared, allowing the agents to relax and resume their previous position.

Without really looking Cassidy grabbed one of the water bottles and tossed it through the air. Mary quietly raised a brow when his aim appeared true and Sherlock effortlessly snatched the bottle out of the air. He turned the cap, took a few large swigs and sighed in appreciation. Only then did Sherlock seem to notice who were also present. When their eyes met, Mary gasped in shock. His expression darkened considerably.

"What are they doing here?" Sherlock snapped, causing Rosie to whimper a bit and St John actually took a step back. "What?" he then demanded harshly when no one uttered a word.

"Yeah, I get what you mean," John said quickly, "Come on Rosie, St John..."

Mary gulped when she noticed the devastated look that briefly flashed in St John's eyes. Without taking her eyes of Sherlock, she called after her husband. "Take out, darling, it looks like I won't have time for cooking this evening."

Sherlock looked… terrible. There was a wild, haunted look in his eyes and it was terrifying.

"Sweetie, you're coming with me and you're having dinner with us."

"No," was his instant reply.

Mary gave him a sweet smile, her dangerous one. "It's not a suggestion, sweetie, it's an order. Now come along." She then actually walked up to him and dragged him along by his elbow, as though her were a rebellious teenager getting in trouble with his mother.

The moment they walked out of the Bradbury Centre, a town car pulled up, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock wordlessly got in and Mary climbed in after him. She briefly gave the driver directions before she turned her attention to Sherlock, but he had his head turned away and was silently staring out of the window. With a sigh Mary leaned back, knowing that Sherlock would not say a word as long as they were driving.

Not long after that, Mary stared at the empty glass standing in front of Sherlock.

They were sitting in the kitchen of John and Mary's humble abode.

Mary had done her best to add to the atmosphere with lights and fragrance bags, but Sherlock was just sitting there, quietly, lost in whatever horrors he'd been living through. He hadn't even bothered to doff his coat and scarf and he hadn't uttered a word from the moment they arrived.

"Talk to me, Sherlock," Mary goaded him softly. "What happened to you out there?"

The only sign that he had even heard her, was the small spasm of a muscle in his cheek. He did not answer however and Mary sighed at his obstinance. "Sherlock, you can't continue like this. You look terrible. I know how hard this must be–"

"No, you don't."

Mary waited for him to continue, but he didn't. She reached out her hand over the table, but he instantly pulled his back when he saw the movement. "Then tell me!"

Again a long silence stretched between them, and all Mary could do was pray she'd manage to get him to talk before John and the children would show up with dinner, even though she'd already texted him, urging him to take his sweet time, for heaven's sake!

"I can't..."

Though she should feel pity, and she did, right now she also felt like throttling him. "Sherlock, please don't make me hurt you. Start talking."

Sherlock blinked at her words, though Mary imagined it had more to do with the intonation than the actual words. He knew she meant what she said…

"He killed her," he finally stated after another long pause.

"Who killed who, Sherlock?" Though she could make an educated guess, she wasn't entirely sure.

"Have you ever read Animal Farm?" Sherlock asked out of the blue.

"I remember the story, yes."

"That's what he turned England into… Animal Farm. Napoleon – Schricken – got rid of Snowball – Mycroft – and he turned the law into a piece of fiction."

At least she'd gotten him to talk, she thought to herself, though she wasn't thrilled with the story he was telling.

"Those who opposed him he either killed or enslaved. Women had no higher status than that of… cattle. Only good for breeding and fucking. And, I don't know why, but the rest of the world sat back, and did absolutely nothing. My best guess is that Schricken, I don't know, had some… means of leverage or power or knowledge I really don't know… but they let him."

"You said he killed her. You mean, Kyrie?"

A slight nod. Mary closed her eyes in horror, not wanting to see his struggle against the tears that were forming in his eyes. Or perhaps she wanted to keep her own from falling.

"He gave her to his soldiers, his watchdogs, for fun. And when they were done with her..." his voice broke and he needed a moment to recollect himself, but the first tear was already rolling down his cheek.

"Her remains… her bones… were given to the dogs to chew on." The tear now clung to his chin, quivering slightly, while another slowly followed a similar path.

"I'm so – so sorry, Sherlock, but… it wasn't her, not really."

Sherlock shook his head. "That is not all." He breathed harshly and with a trembling hand he pulled out his notebook, took out a folded piece of paper and slowly pushed it over the table. Mary picked it up, but didn't quite understand what she was seeing.

"What's this?" She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know, but she knew she had to.

"A list…" – He swallowed hard – "a list of all the universes I've visited. I was alone in most of them, Mary. I never knew, never understood… but, I think meeting John saved my life. And… and meeting you… and Kyrie." His voice trembled, but he pushed through his pain.

"Without John, my life would have spiralled out of control. In so many I was alone, miserable or completely useless, strung up on drugs. In one of them… they found his body after three weeks. Three weeks, Mary, because no one cared. The door was kicked in because neighbours started to complain about the smell. And that's close to fifty universes, or realities… Do you know how many there are, Mary?"

She shook her head. "No, I- I don't know, Sherlock."

"An infinite amount. There's a different reality for each decision we make or don't make. So how on earth am I supposed to find her? I've seen around fifty realities and I'm… so tired. I don't know if I can stomach seeing more. There was only one reality in which I was content, not happy, content and that was the one other universe in which I met John. This is the only reality in which I was actually happy, with Kyrie."

When Mary reached out for his hand this time, he didn't not pull back. "You're right, Sherlock. I don't know what you are going through or how hard this is for you. I do know that while you are still searching, there is still hope. The moment you stop, Kyrie really is lost to us. You can't give up. You will find her, you will find a way because you are Sherlock fucking Holmes!"

Her statement produced a small quivering smile on his lips.

"And you can't push all your feelings away. I know you might think that, but it's really not the way. You are not that person any more and you can't reunite with Kyrie looking like this."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't… I have to be the Consulting Detective right now. It's the part of me who's actually able to step through each time. That other part of me, the part that feels, I had to bury him, but his emotions are seeping through and it's exhausting!" He spat.

"I know, sweetie, the thing is, you can't continue without letting him up for air every now and then, because he is needed too. Because this," – Mary waved a hand at his trembling form – "this will only get worse. St John already lost his mother and he misses you. Can't you simply be his dad for one evening?"

That moment there was a loud rattling outside the kitchen door and Mary smiled at the not so subtle way of John making his presence known. "Let him out now," she whispered urgently, "St John needs him and you… you need him too."

Her answer was a slight nod. The kitchen door opened and John stuck his head around the door. There was such a comical look of apprehension on his face, Mary burst out in giggles.

"Is it safe to come in?" John whispered, over-dramatically.

"Aye, John," – Sherlock drawled, almost sounding bored – "it's safe, the crisis has been averted."

"Aye? That's a new one."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Probably picked that up somewhere along the way. Point is, I'm… I'm fine."

At this, John smiled and he pushed open the door. Rosie and St John timidly entered the kitchen and Mary saw how St John instantly searched his father's face. Sherlock's expression of bored impassiveness crumbled when his gaze fell on his little boy.

"St John!" he choked out. In a very uncharacteristic manner, Sherlock kneeled on the floor reaching out for him. St John needed no further prodding as he instantly launched himself into the awaiting arms of his father. Mary looked up at John and gave him a teary smile as the scene unfolding in front of her became too heartbreakingly tender.

Sherlock quickly rose to his feet and wordlessly carried his son, who had his little arms and legs clamped firmly around him, through the kitchen into the living room.

John quietly dumped their dinner on the table. There were several white cartons carrying red Chinese symbols. She hoped that he hadn't forgotten her potstickers this time around.

"Is uncle Sjerlock sad?" Rosie gave her mother an expecting look.

"He is, little darling," Mary told her, "auntie Kyrie is still missing and you know how uncle Sherlock can forget to… stop."

Rosie nodded wisely. "Will uncle Sjerlock eat wiv us?"

John started setting the table. "Yes, tonight we will all eat together. One big family."

"Happy family!" Rosie said.

Mary chuckled at her daughter, "Yes, Rosie, one big happy family. Especially when uncle Sherlock finds auntie Kyrie."

"I like auntie Kiwi's sjip cookies! And her tea!"

That made John snort with laughter. "We already knew that, darling!"

* S *

After the London-incident, it was silently agreed upon that it was necessary to come up with a method to get information about the host-reality without Sherlock having to revert to breaking and entering Mycroft's office each time. It was too risky. This resulted in a device that Cassidy simply called the 'scanner', because… well, that's what it was.

Sherlock walked a small distance through the Bridge Field, turned around and scanned the air around him. He didn't understand the science behind it, then again he didn't understand the science of travelling to alternate realities either. Cassidy had done is best to keep the functionality of the scanner as simple as possible. All he had to do was scan the air and the device would detect 'scarring', or not.

As the bridge always made an entry at the exact same spot, across the different universes, the scientist thought it was the easiest way to detect if a breech had already been made or not. It had something to do with altered particles but Sherlock had already wiped the entire exhausting explanation from his hard drive. It wasn't important to him so there was no need to store it.

There wasn't a single 'boop' or 'beep', just the regular colour green. Sherlock tutted in annoyance. A boop, a beep and a red light would have signalled scarring, a sign that a breech had occurred before. No breech meant no Kyrie, not his Kyrie anyway. So, no reason to linger. It was better to turn back immediately… but then the machine would need its cool-down period before he could set out again. A newspaper then… he at least wanted to read a newspaper before he returned, just to make sure...

At the moment, Sherlock was feeling secure in the role of Consulting Detective again. Mary had been right; the 'feeling' part of him had to surface occasionally to prevent a surplus of emotions building up inside of him and possibly spilling over. On the other hand, he was also right in the notion that the Consulting Detective should, for now, predominantly be in the driver's seat. He needed more data to reach consensus on how to strike the perfect balance between the two.

The small strip of raw nature that he was leaving behind him was sometimes part of a park, sometimes part of a large estate and once it had even been part of a university… Thing was, that small strip was always there and Sherlock had started calling it the Bridge Field. From there it was but a small hike to the inhabited world and then a cab ride to London. He bought a newspaper from a kiosk and a cup of coffee from a street vendor. Then he decided to go to Wesley Street, the one place he'd not visited once during his search for Kyrie. His mind made up, Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and crossed the street.

A happy couple passed him by. Now that on it's own wasn't exactly an earth shattering event – it happened all the time – what nearly made him choke however, was the fact that Kyrie was one half of that couple. Sherlock turned on his heels so quickly he was in danger of twisting both his ankles. He didn't care.

Kyrie and… her friend… were walking in front of him as he followed them through Dorset Street. They were chatting together and seemed very much at ease with each other. Whenever Kyrie looked up at the 6'2 feet male, she did so smiling. Even that cute little dimple in her chin appeared for God's sake!

Sherlock crumpled the empty carton in his right fist. The gentleman she was with – oh, how he wished he could say he was some plug-ugly tosser! – was in fact quite good looking. Tall, not as tall as himself though. Dark, again not as dark as himself. And what the hell was he to make of this? Kyrie was always going on and on about the rich chocolatey colour of his curls. So, why was she here with a guy who's hair was of some undefined dark brown shade? And his hair was too tall… he could pull it back in a pony tail. Was she going for that sort of thing now?

His physique was not unlike his own, tall and slim but very evenly proportioned… a little less like him. Sherlock angrily tossed the crumpled carton into a street bin without his usual flair. He was not in the mood. The newspaper soon joined the crumpled carton, torn to pieces.

The couple briefly stopped walking and Kyrie lovingly gazed up into her beau's eyes. He gently swiped a loose curl, that had escaped her casual nape knot, away from her face and he stole a brief kiss from her lips. Sherlock scowled seeing the cute display in front of him. When he heard the words 'anniversary', 'so happy', 'reservations' and 'restaurant', he almost walked away.

This wasn't his Kyrie. This Kyrie had nothing to do with him. This Kyrie was not cheating on him because she was not in a relationship with him. Then why did it feel so fucking much like she was BETRAYING him? And… it wasn't even that, was it?

No, it was the fact that by now he had visited close to fifty alternate realities and in those close to fifty realities Kyrie had either never existed, or she'd died, or she'd lived an unassuming life. In not one of those close to fifty realities had they ever gotten together and in all but one of those close to fifty realities Sherlock had been a miserable old plonker.

Was it really any wonder then that he'd come to the conclusion that the only way for them both to be happy, truly happy, was when they were together? A thought that had brought him immeasurable pleasure because it confirmed his beliefs that all those years ago he made the absolutely best choice he ever could have made. Say yes.

And now… now he was witness of the fact that all those beliefs were a big fat lie. He could hear the unbidden whispers of his brother, "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Oh, shut up you arrogant prick! You and I both know that's the real lie!

The happy couple took a turn in the direction of Baker Street and they walked right up to Speedy's. The Speedy's here looking quite seedy… Actually no, it wasn't seedy looking at all. In fact, it looked just like his Speedy's and every bit as cosy, but Sherlock did not feel like thinking in terms of 'cosy', 'seedy' suited him much better at the moment.

Sherlock watched them walk inside and for a moment he didn't know what to do with himself. Did he really want to watch more of that cringe-inducing domestic bliss? What good would that do?

From the moment he lost visual contact of the couple, and he found himself alone and forlorn in front of Speedy's, other thoughts started to plague him. She looked so happy. Not a trace of unhappiness, her smile bright and dimply and her eyes lovely, bright and soft violet. Sherlock would wager anything that the guy now with her was not an inconsiderate, egoistical arsehole who got a kick out of bloody murder and corpses.

Was this the kind of life Kyrie was actually meant to live? If that were so… then… what did that mean for them? Was he in fact keeping her from the life and love that was destined for her? He didn't even like destiny! Didn't even believe in it! That's not what you thought before… No, but that was before he found out that Kyrie could in fact be happy with someone other than him, whereas he…

The thought did not get a chance to completely form in his mind, because something at the outer edges of his vision just caught his attention. The door to 221B Baker Street opened and a young woman stepped out. She looked almost pristine, but the heated glow on her cheeks gave her away. As did the creases in her white blouse, and a few creases in her slim-fitting trousers. Her single button Prussian blue jacket was beyond immaculate though. She'd neatly taken it off then before… everything else had come off.

The young woman turned around, laughed softly at something and then proceeded to kiss the person standing behind her. Sherlock recognised that person even before the young woman stepped away, just to briefly get pulled back again for another kiss… He was looking at himself.

A small clique of people across the street walked by, effectively pulling the couple apart. Sherlock quickly fell in step with the others. He really didn't want to get caught gawking at himself. Now that would be awkward. Sherlock saw his other self walk out into the street and, before his other self even raised his arm, Sherlock could tell by the mere gait and look on his face, that he was about to hail a taxi.

The decision was made before he even fully realised it. And so, by the time the young woman clambered inside the taxi, Sherlock was already busy commandeering a motorbike. The owner of said motorbike, a scrawny looking youngster who looked like he had no business at all owning such a thing, was rather audible in his objections. When his alternate self looked up to observe the disturbance, Sherlock had already pulled the helmet firmly in place.

Not caring whether he was too obvious in his pursuit or not, Sherlock quickly went after the taxi. Dammit, he'd been too slow! The taxi took a turn right. On a drawn-out exhale he used his mind to pull up a map of the area. He'd done this before, he could do it again. Nothing to it really. Like stealing candy of a baby, or feeding a baby for that matter. "Right turn, one way, bus lane, traffic lights..." – He was plotting an optimal course in his mind to find an intersection he could meet up with the taxi again – "Pedestrian crossing, traffic lights, left turn only..."

His eyes widened when the path became clear. He accelerated and drove to that destined intersection at break-neck speed. People yelled after him when he made a few interesting and most-likely highly dangerous short cuts, but at long last he got sight of the taxi again and he smiled to himself. "Elementary…"

The rest of the journey was relatively smooth, aside from a hiccup here and there, but Sherlock used his quick mind to adapt. Finally the taxi slowed down in one of the nicer suburbs of Notting Hill until it stopped in front of a handsome, stately terrace house.

The white smooth surface of the walls stood out against the red brick stone houses surrounding it. Sherlock smiled to himself. The house was set back from the road behind a large front garden offering more privacy than the neighbouring homes. It actually reminded him a lot of his home in Wesley Street.

Sherlock turned off the engine of his commandeered vehicle. Now what was he supposed to do? He really had not thought things through very well.

Then he stepped from the motorbike and resolutely pulled the helmet from his head. It really did not matter one way or the other. He had questions and he wanted answers.

He wanted to know what had drawn this reality's Sherlock to the woman who lived here. If he could understand why his other self had fallen in love with that woman, then maybe he could understand, and accept, why this Kyrie had fallen in love with someone else as well. But, the most import question of all… Why the hell did this woman love Sherlock? And… was it worth it? Because if this woman had experienced even half the problems he'd faced with Kyrie than this Sherlock should kiss the ground beneath her feet every single day. A small little fact he'd quite neglected to do himself when he still could…

Resigned to whatever this confrontation would bring him, Sherlock placed the helmet over the mirror of the motorbike, allowing the mirror to stick out from the helmet to not cause damage. He then slowly made his approach to the front garden, noting the stark contrast between the tranquil look of the terrace house and the wild beating of his heart as he climbed the steps to the door.

A last fortifying breath before he placed his finger on the door bell and pushed down… Single ring, maximum pressure just under the half-second. He was now a client.

The door opened sooner than he expected and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Hi, I'm Sherlock." He blinked his eyes in slight confusion. Where the hell did that come from? Marvellous way to state the obvious, Sherlock! Hanging out too much with John again? Well… not lately, no… He panicked at the wayward thoughts his mind managed to produce and he offered a crooked smile, hopefully a not too demented one. "Not him, by the way."