A/N: I'm sorry it's a bit bumpy; wrote it in bits and pieces.

I'm a bit surprised, if I'm honest, that there's someone out there. I'm not your typical writer, if this plotline is anything to go by. It's looking like 5 (or even 6) chapters in all. -csf


3..

'Wait!'

We all look back at Greg. He's biting his lip, looking a tantalising mix of guilty and worried.

'Second thoughts?' I ask, as neutral as I can be.

His body language immediately registers honest surprise. 'No, John. It's just... We are going to need some help.'

I'm aghast already, but Sherlock senses more: 'Who do you have in mind, inspector?'

He takes whatever excuse he can grab to lighten the mood. 'Can't you just call me Greg? It's my name.'

Sherlock blinks. 'Probably not', he replies, too honest. Points at his temple and explains: 'Short term memory problems.'

Greg's face goes a greyish shade of pale. He always cared a lot about our skinny friend, having seen him rise from his worst in the mean streets of life, possibly strung up and still genial, back when Sherlock couldn't remember the inspector's surname either.

'Inspector or Lestrade will do fine in that case, Sherlock. Look... hmm... I don't suppose you've been in touch with your brother.'

'Mycroft?' Sherlock is surprised.

Greg forces a smile. 'You remember his name, good. Yes, Mycroft. If anyone can help us is Mycroft.'

Sherlock casts his eyes down. 'My brother has been exiled. I should think he's one of the lucky ones. Gone somewhere far, far away.'

'No, he hasn't.' Sherlock snaps his green eyes up, intense as precious gemstones.

'What do you mean, inspector?'

'Mycroft was the one who told me you were in the Tourist Area, Sherlock. He's here in London. I know where he's at. For heaven's sake, he hardly ever leaves the place! It's like his oversized security blanket!'

I interrupt, as the two men hesitate. 'Sherlock?' Can you explain this?

Actually, I think I can.

'Mycroft wasn't lying, as far as he knew', I state, feeling so tired of the mental convolution, the lies and scheming intrigues in this era. 'That's what Mycroft was told. Assured, even. That was the deal, I presume. To protect you, Sherlock. Mycroft's one weakness, his baby brother. The triumvirate convinced him he had to give up his opposition to keep you safe.'

'Safe?' Sherlock depreciates with a sly smirk. 'We've been anything but', he says proudly, before glancing at me and losing his steady ground. There's a deep dark shadow looming in his eyes, one I often refuse to face.

Greg cuts in: 'Come on, give Mycroft some slack', he says forcibly. 'He's not unblemished by the turn of events. Mycroft... he's not quite as you remember him. Without you, Sherlock, he's just... Not got a reason to be himself, I suspect.'

Greg sometimes believes the two brothers' genius grew disproportionatly large out of spite for each other.

'You've been in touch with Mycroft?'

'Yeah, the poor sod, you kinda feel for the guy, all brains and no friends, you know. I guess you can say I've got a type when I choose some friends, you know... Don't go guns blazing, accusing him of not upholding freedom, overturning government, or something like that. No land should have its fate tied to a single man, not even if that is Mycroft ruddy Holmes. It's too much of a temptation – and Mycroft is innocent in that regard – and too much of a burden. I can't begin to imagine what it has been like for him.'

Sherlock, I notice, is looking unconvinced. I clear my throat, put on my best placid demeanour and ask: 'Where is he then?'

Greg smiles in approval.

.

It takes a doctor to cross the restricted areas with the least amount of suspicion raised. That's he's gone and "excelled, exceeded and enlisted" is the rub. My gun and Greg's timely distraction worked wonders to neutralise a solitary guard that approached the apparently collapsed inspector in the street. The guard tried to regain ground, of course, but Sherlock punched him sharply. He's got a great intellect allied with the necessary brute force that desperate times call for. We snuck the unconscious man out of the way before anyone was the wiser. We'll have no more than 15 minutes until the missing guard is reported MIA and the cctv camera footage is scoured through. We don't leave much of a mystery after us.

I abandon my comfortable jeans to don the black and grey camouflage print fatigues, take up the standard issue taser and have Sherlock walk ahead of me. He adds his angriest scowl to the theatrical performance. Greg, a police inspector, walks by my side as if just called in to participate.

We've effectively turned invisible in the system's eye. No one looks twice at us, except for a brief "well done" from the regular citizens. They like to cheer on apparent misery; it seems they find comfort in numbers.

Some times I wonder if it's fair to free these people from their ignorance bliss, their self-chosen imprisonment in a world of comforting lies and half-hidden truths. It was their choosing, after all. And I'll bet half of them are just scared of the world functioning with no regards for them, so they join the winning side's cold comfort where they feel they have a voice, any voice; any dissonance is played down as exaggerations.

'We've got 10 minutes left, John', the inspector tallies. We shuffle my feet faster on the pavement, Sherlock keeping up, trustingly steady in front of the electric gun.

'This is it, up ahead', Greg singles out an establishment.

'A bakery?' I find it hilarious, for some reason. Maybe the tension is getting to me.

Sherlock is also smirking as he boldly walks into the shop, open for commerce but empty of customers. In fact, the one holding the purse strings nowadays is the state, they ration all foods and drinks. Treats are occasionally built up to with a points system for anniversaries and retirements. Shops like these run on state quotas. The state keeps them open for business and can shut them down just as quickly.

On the other side of an immaculate counter a man pipes icing, ever so carefully, over a fondant covered cake. A classical soloist music plays in the background. I stop respectfully by the door. Soon Greg does the same. Only Sherlock moves steadily on. The baker keeps focused on the task and remarks irritably:

'I'll be with you when I'm done. My work is important.'

Sherlock chuckles. 'When did I ever pay any heed to those words, brother dear?'

The icing blurs out of the piping bag, ruining the immaculate design. The man with the slouching shoulders and the gingerly hair looks up in quiet shock.

'Never since you were three years old, or I wouldn't recognise my own brother any more.'

'Mycroft.'

'Sherlock.' And he looks beyond, to us by the door. His still sharp eyes focus on me. 'I see doctor Watson still has not deserted you. And I find your guide to my whereabouts.'

'John's fine and so am I', Sherlock replies to the body language instead. I smirk proudly. I taught my friend that trick. It really annoys Mycroft.

'Came to boast of your lovely life in the Tourist Area?' Mycroft trues to scoop off the blob of icing. He flicks ig off with prejudice.

'Came to ask for your help bringing down the Triumvirate.'

By my side, Greg shivers uncontrollably. In his defense, he's not had weekly underground secret meetings. To his eaes we've just stared something heretic.

Sherlock has got all of Mycroft's shocked attention now; the older Holmes is drinking every word, every twitch of a muscle of the man who is transparent to him still.

'I gave you safety', he hisses in a sudden loss of control.

'You may have sent it my way, but I never received it.'

Mycroft's blue eyes open wide. Then narrow to a fraction of themselves, looking all dark and ominous. The Holmes brothers are not great on forgiveness.

'I trust you have a plan, Sherlock.'

'Not yet.'

Mycroft voice is tense. 'Take some cake. Sugar has always helped me think', Mycroft offers as he discards the apron. 'It stimulates the firing synapses, although the doctor might frown upon excesses.'

'Interesting design. Geometric pattern, oddly labyrinthine, ridiculous sugar flowers. John, come take a look at this.'

I go look. It's cake. Neat looking cake.

'I've had plenty of free time. I like to innovate', the former government official claims as I look at the odd squiggles and flowers made up of icing.

'This is a map', Sherlock states before the icing swirls. 'And a very good one. Tourist Area, I presume.'

'And gateways too', Mycroft adds.

'We're going through that one', the younger points.

'Oh, I wouldn't if I were you. You forget the piranhas.'

'There are no piranhas in the Thames', Sherlock decries.

'There are now, courtesy of our leaders. Do not take the ones marked with black roses, Sherlock. You should try gardening some day. Black roses are notoriously hard to cultivate. I've tried myself. Too much free time nowadays. I almost sat down to watch the grass grow. No, I think we shall try that red rose there, near the Happy Anniversary Sweetheart sign.'

'What? I call the shots, Mycroft! It's my plan! I have a team, you have... cake!'

'I would love to argue, but aren't you on some sort of time restraint?' Mycroft drawls, unaffected.

'Well, yes, as a matter of fact, yes.'

'Then we leave now, through my basement. In fact, before those four guards reach my front door would be advisable', he adds looking over Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective snarls angrily but gestures us over at once. I glance beyond the clear glass of the establishment's front door. A bunch of guards having their taser guns brought up.

We evade Mycroft's saccharine paradise through the back of the shop without further complaints.

.

Intelligent and articulate ways are not entirely forbidden nowadays, shout your logic as loud as you like; they are however persecuted, ridiculed and anyone joining your side is as carefully alienated as you are from then on. They liken it to a naughty child being put on a time out. It may cost you your livelihood and your family's safety, but no one said you couldn't have your say. In a belittling, taunting fashion, they frequently urge you to, in fact. They love to see you snap.

When the powerful ones themselves became aggressor and bully towards the weak speaking out their beliefs – whichever these may be, correct or wrong is irrelevant – that's when we lost the important mosaic of differing opinions that keeps a society rich and balanced. Those days are long gone. Even thinking about them gives me the shivers. That was a liberty we didn't quite treasure and fought to keep, as it was fought for us many, many generations ago.

We had fun in our internet spats, under cover of anonymous profiles. We felt that when we won an argument by insults and misrepresented partial truths we were made all powerful. Golden gods for the day. In fact, we were all losing our collective power. Different opinions got ironed out quickly, by constant attack and the levelling influence of social media with their influencers and neat labelled boxes. Everything had a box, everything was normalised, then its need was challenged. Soon leaving only the streamlined, readymade responses that became the voices of the masses.

Perhaps we weren't educated enough, on the silent lost voices of those that fought for our freedoms. Funny that, as we always bought the remembrance poppies. We just forgot those heroes gave us voices along with their lives. Voices to talk differences over and establish a long lasting peace. Voices to say "I disagree with you, but respect your beliefs". Some of our voices were used to belittle and bully instead, the winners versus the losers, the masses rising up to fight for the entrenched powers in their self-righteous, often victim stance prone.

We were so desperate for causes, and petitions, and fund-raisers that none would stick around in our memories too long.

We were a fast food nation of beliefs as we were of brands, idols, and trends.

We took politician lies as exuberant discourses, we allowed ambiguity and backstabbing as a confirmed sign of social intelligence. Never truly believing one day we'd be the ones in the wrong end of the stick.

Yet we never really debated our values and freedoms. We assumed their understanding as universal and fixed. That was just too simplistic.

We all miss those days, the narrowing opportunities soon to be lost still within our grasp. Before we lost it all.

'John, are you with us?'

It's Sherlock that calls me, lifting me from my abstractions. The long Victorian coal tunnel is a far cry better than sewers yet just as oppressing around us, with the tight pack bricks, the blackened dirty railed paving and the low hanging ceiling that makes all the others stoop carefully.

'I'm here, mate. How's the headache?'

'Barely a three, John. Nothing to worry about.'

I always worry about Sherlock now. His migraines can be severely debilitating and these – the drastic change in routine, the mental cognition onslaught, the quick fire responses and snap decisions required – are the sort of things that quickly drains my mate now.

The impending feeling that time is evading us, that we are lost in a race against the giant clockwork of humanity never quite leaves me or my companions. It becomes natural that Greg asks advice on a cold case, past-Sherlock days, up ahead. They whisper the clues and findings as if it was all important to recreate a version of the familiar past.

That leaves me with Mycroft. I was fine with silence, for silence's sake, but he too choses to fill the empty space with futile conversation.

Mycroft scrutinised me with a deep piercing gaze, not unlike his brother's old ones. Finally he took one solid breath. Target locked.

'Why wouldn't you tell my baby brother your secret, doctor Watson?'

My footsteps barely maintain their steady rhythm.

'I don't know what you are on about. Have you always been this cryptic?'

'Your secret, John, is killing you on the inside', he states; too enigmatic, too artistic. Maybe he really should take up baking and decorating edible works of art when all this is said and done.

I nod, not at all upset with the all-seeing Holmes.

'It's getting better.'

'Is it now?' he returns significantly, looking straight at me. And I hate loath him for expressing that doubt.

'Absolutely', I assure, drily.

He nods, slowly. 'Your optimism is a force of nature, John. Don't ever lose it.'

I smirk tightly at that.

Soon the four of us reach a heavy looking trap door, halting our march. In the flickering darkness around our torches we hear echoes of footsteps, chirpy conversations, the wheels of pushchairs. With a twist of the gut I identify almost a hysterical laugh rising up inside me. I had forgotten what everyday life should sound like. Careless but industrious, happy but sombre, hopeful in the future.

Feels like a mockery, a travesty of the harrowing difficulties just on the other side of the tunnel, but much as Mycroft Holmes believed Sherlock was safe in this other side, I wonder of the lucky ones living a wider freedom really on the Tourist Area know how the oppressed on the other side feel like. It if they could care enough to find out.

Sherlock works the lock. Greg and Mycroft have tense whispered argued words a few meters into the darkness. I wait in coiled expectation. Feels like I've been waiting long years for this.

The trap door opens. Plenty of well dressed, well rested people on the streets, looking on ahead on a concerted effort.

One by one we emerge from the darkness and look on as well.

On the big projection screens around Piccadilly, the Three Wise Men of Today's Era are shown looming over the crown jewels. There's a suspended moment in time when the audience awaits the heretic movement towards the symbol of a nation, then greedy hands reach out, grab it leaving oily fingerprints on the immaculate gems, and raise it high in the air. The audience collectively gasps. Then someone cheers, others join in. Laughter, delighted and childlike, from people who cannot tell the utterly devastating significance of the act. They perceive those crown jewels as a fancy party accessory for a nation. Tonight, their fun begins, as across the devide the vast majority of the nation toils in hard work. They shall be watching this through their televisions, laptops, phones, and AI mirror interfaces (the one's in the bathroom cabinets can be particularly creepy). I'll bet Sheeri will turn the broadcast on in every town, in every house and every room. A collective, national celebration is in order.

'Oh no, we're too late.'

I look on, willing myself not to look away in shock and horror. It's too late, our efforts in vain, nothing more to be done now.

Sherlock is quick to grab me as my knees buckle. Greg seconds his effort at once, bewildered.

'John, mate, are you alright?'

Sherlock assures me, strong, confident, himself: 'It's not over yet, John. Not until we win.'

'Sherlock, what's wrong with John?' Greg insists, tense. The detective ignores him altogether. He's got an avenging expression marring his usual collected features, distorting it with brute force of hatred and despair.

.

TBC