A/N: So this story was influenced by three things: a quote from the Twelfth Doctor from Doctor Who (seen here in the beginning of the story); the song Your World Will Fail by Les Friction,which also serves as the title of the story; and finally the Star Trek episode 'Mirror, Mirror'. If you know anything about the latter then you already have a general idea of what this story is going to be like.

I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

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Chapter 1: Brave New World

"So let me ask you a question about this brave new world about you- when you've killed all the bad guys, and it's all perfect and just and fair, when you've finally got it exactly the way you want it, what are you going to do with the people like you? The troublemakers. How are you going to protect your glorious revolution from the next one?"

Twelfth Doctor, 'The Zygon Inversion'

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The first thing that John was aware of when he woke up was how incredibly fine he felt.

Having been amidst a literal explosion before he lost consciousness, he found this both confusing and troubling. It didn't stop him from feeling grateful for small favors, but it still stood that the instincts that had served him well as a captain in the army was screaming unease down his spine now and he would do better to listen.

When he opened his eyes he found himself rather disappointingly staring up at the plain checkered ceiling of Encore Enterprises, the scientific center that he and Sherlock had been attempting to infiltrate. It was mainly done as a last favor to Mycroft aimed entirely at John himself- John would find out what was going on with Encore's walls and in return the British Government wouldn't lock the doctor up for John's attacking Sherlock. Guilt, no matter how vehemently forgiven Sherlock himself claimed he was, prevented him from turning Mycroft's non-offer down.

Sherlock had ranted about it for an hour, and called his older brother every dirty name he could for the next two; and then he simply stated quite calmly that he would accompany John on his task. Both the doctor and Mycroft had tried to convince the detective to leave well enough alone, but Sherlock grew steadily more stubborn and eventually followed John in heavy disguise, so artfully rendered that John himself would not have recognized him without already knowing it was him.

Encore Enterprises was, for all intents and purposes, a business that was attempting to manufacture electronic specimen- namely the electronic bees to spread pollen, and the dummies that were planned to eventually replace the blue collar workers in factories. It was hellishly difficult to gain entrance into the fenced-off buildings, however; it was funded by an outsourced company of unknown origin, and even the British Government could find out everything they were doing.

It was also, Mycroft explained tersely, rumored to be a face for what Encore was truly attempting- the manufacture of illegal firearms and newer, smarter bombs that could be smuggled practically anywhere. He could manufacture papers and fabricate a part for the doctor, he'd said, but the rest would be up to John to figure out.

'What of protection, Mycroft?' Sherlock demanded from his leather chair and his violin. His grey eyes were stormy as he glared up at his older brother. 'Extraction? If John happens to be discovered, what will be done to protect him from the fallout of your favor?'

'There will be a backup team, of course, waiting to be called into action if circumstances prove ultimately hostile. The latest in GPS tracking will be outfitted on Doctor Watson's person in the unlikely event that he is discovered and Encore decides it will be beneficial to remove him from the premises.'

'And what of inside, brother mine?' Sherlock stressed, his already sharp gaze sharpening even more when Mycroft hesitated just a moment too long. 'Absolutely not. You will not be sending him in there without help readily available in case something happens.'

Standing in the kitchen doorway behind his own red armchair, John himself finally spoke up. 'Sherlock, I appreciate your concern but this isn't going to be a battlefield-'

'Battlefield or not,' Sherlock snapped, still refusing to stop glaring at Mycroft, 'in this case you will need backup in the possibility that Mycroft's plans fall apart- you know how often they tend to come back and bite him, yes?'

The not-so-subtle jab of the disaster of Sherrinford made Mycroft stiffen automatically, and his lip twisted with fury. 'Now see here, brother mine-'

'Stop it,' John interrupted him sharply. 'Both of you, just stop arguing. You're upsetting Rosie.'

The little girl, just past her second birthday, was indeed seated between John's legs and her blue eyes were wide and anxious as she glanced between the Holmes brothers. Sherlock caved first, turning to look instead at the little blonde-haired girl. 'My apologies, Watson,' he said sincerely, as he only ever was with her and her father, 'you have no need to worry- I daresay your father will keep us well in hand.'

'Dada,' Rosie chirped happily, pacified by Sherlock's soft smile and the mention of her father.

This had been the first of several arguments that followed; John could understand Sherlock's reluctance to let him venture into Encore essentially alone. The mention of Sherrinford, now over a year behind them, betrayed the detective's lingering fear of losing John ever since the doctor had narrowly escaped drowning in the well at Musgrave. John himself still suffered the occasional nightmare of the water himself, accompanied often by the jeering voice of Eurus Holmes, and so found it hard to try and convince Sherlock to stay at 221b for the duration of his stay at Encore.

So now, nearly a nine days later and one Encore Enterprises infiltrated to disastrous results, John was somehow staring up at the ceiling of the building's basement and was somehow not dead from either the bullets or the explosion. Startled by the realization that he was indeed alive and not splattered in grisly pieces around the room he sat up and looked around- and received a greater shock than the fact of his own survival.

The basement of Encore's experimental hall was deserted, perfectly sound and dusty. It wasn't a simple dusting either- this coating was noticeably thick and strewn with cobwebs, and entirely undisturbed. John felt his breath catch in his throat as he realized that there was no surrounding disturbances either besides where he'd landed. Dust, as Sherlock was fond of saying, was eloquent- it was impossible for it to lie.

So why in the hell was he in the midst of an abandoned untouched room that likely hadn't seen anyone pass through it for several weeks at least?

A terrible suspicion seized him as he looked around, brought around by his last coherent conversation with Sherlock, but it was too frightening a possibility to contemplate right now. "Sherlock?" he called out, and he winced when his voice echoed loudly in the wide space. Stupid! It was absolute stupidity to give away position in an unknown setting, and John had an awful feeling that he was in exactly that position. His left hand was starting to tremble the longer he sat there contemplating, and he curled it into a fist to stop it doing so. He settled for swearing viciously in his head as he braced himself to stand, looking carefully for any telltale signs of injury as he did so. Pleased that it least appeared that he wasn't seriously hurt, if hurt at all, he stood and tried to look for any signs of what had happened.

It was eerily silent as he made his way through the dark hallways and passed computers and terminals that had clearly stood long-neglected; the building itself didn't look like it had been visited or occupied for a long time, although he was grateful for the lack of guards shooting at him and Sherlock.

Where was Sherlock? More than anything his concern for his best friend kept him upright and moving, fuel enough to provide energy to reach the main section of the building. Still he saw no one, nor any signs of recent activity, and his heart rate started thumping painfully in his chest. He had to shove his hand in his coat pocket to stop it trembling. His pistol was a comforting, solid weight at the back of his jeans but it would be difficult to fire it if he continued to shake.

There was no sign of Sherlock- nor even the remains of bodies, which only added to his growing unease. The glass doors and the front of the building lay shattered and dulled on the floor, and remnants of old fires and crude graffiti decorated the building where the homeless had slept and vandals had had their fun. In the dim lighting he could catch only the faint outline of an upside down cross and what appeared to be a squiggly-lined graph.

When he finally made it outside he almost wished he could turn around and forget; the high grade fence surrounding Encore was torn down and lying twisted, and instead of the several clean and stately buildings that had stood not far from its edge were partially torn down and covered with creeping ivy. In fact, a large number of the city's buildings that should have been standing wasn't.

London's skyline was altered.

John stood in silence as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Aside from the skyline, the air was cleaner too. London was like every other major city where there were a lot of people packed into one place; but right here and now there was no surplus of car fumes or the smell of people, no overwhelming tang of industry. There was significantly more vegetation than he was familiar with, too.

Every sense was poised on high alert as he moved off from the remnants of Encore- it was as in much ruin as everything else was. Not too far from where he stood he caught sight of a small, hunched figure loitering around the corner of one of the neighboring buildings. He couldn't tell whether it was male or female, or whether or not they were dangerous, but nonetheless he felt for his Browning and started on his way.

He was reminded of the old horror films that Harry had been so fond of watching while growing up, what with the ruin of the city surrounding him. Or maybe a Twilight Zone episode.

Probably more like Twilight Zone. His sister had always teased him that he would never survive in a horror film setting, anyway..

Of course, a lot of those Twilight Zone people had turned out to be dead by the end, too, so maybe he should stop with the comparisons while he was ahead.

There was still no sign of Sherlock. Well and truly nonplussed now he dug into his pocket for his phone, hopeful that his friend might have texted him while he was out. When the screen lit up, however, there were no new messages since the last one Sherlock had sent him (Tonight, 1a- SH. Sent 5:03pm.) Keeping half an eye on the person at the corner he typed out 'What the hell happened at Encore?' and pressed send.

[Message blocked.]

Blinking in surprise he paused where he was standing and read the message again. Like everyone else in the world he'd had texts that simply wouldn't go through, and times where data would fail (the railroads system one such example) but never had he had a message blocked.

And certainly never by Sherlock.

It took a moment for him to remember how to check the wifi options- it was a newer phone and John was, by his own admission, not the tech savviest of individuals- but it wouldn't connect. Even switching to only data did nothing.

Panic was threatening to choke him as his confusion changed to fear but he ruthlessly shoved it down. It would do no good to freak out here, not when he appeared to be in real trouble; he shoved his phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed he ducked into a quiet corner of the nearest alley and collapsed back onto the grubby wall of the building, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a rush. There were too many unexplained variables here at play but he had the proof that the rumor that had pervaded the halls of Encore was more than simple hearsay.