Chapter 2

"Sherlock," John hissed in the quiet of the hallway, "just what exactly has Mycroft got us into this time?"

In the inky darkness of Encore's basement labs, the tall thin form of Sherlock Holmes was a mere shadow amidst the beeping, whirring machines surrounding them. It was entirely too much like Baskerville for John's liking, mad scientists included, although he had been relieved to find that there was a distinct lack of glow in the dark rabbits. Sherlock's shoes squeaked softly every time he stepped and right now he was dashing from table to table to terminal to table again with night vision goggles of all things giving him the ability to see whatever it was he was looking for.

They had made it to the belly of the beast. Both of them had been undercover here at Encore for a week and four days and it was only now that Sherlock had managed to filch a badge that would gain them access to the basement of the research center.

"Oh, I'm sure my brother will be quite surprised to find out himself, John," came the swift answer, and of course the git would sound excited about breaking into a building that would get them both shot on the spot if they were discovered. "I don't suppose even Mycroft has any idea of what they're truly looking into here."

His Sig, smuggled in with him a week and a half ago, was clutched in John's hands as he peered around the corner of the door. "Yeah, but is what Matt was telling us possible? Glow in the dark rabbits and fear gas is one thing, but a multiverse? Really? How the hell are we supposed to access it even if it's real?"

"Come now, John, even you have read about the theories pointing to such a possibility as multiple realities. Such theories are, I admit, lacking in much academic integrity for the most part, but there are select communities that legitimately do research the possibilities. We're standing amidst one of them."

John stilled. "Are you telling me that these nutjobs are right?" he demanded. "That's-"

"Tantalizing?"

"Terrifying," he said flatly. "It's just terrifying."

"Then why isn't your hand trembling?" Sherlock's voice was smug as he asked this, knowing he had already won this round, and John silently cursed his adrenaline junkie habits but amused despite himself. Cock or not, after six years Sherlock Holmes knew him perfectly.

"Touché," he muttered to himself, turning back to the hallway-

And a bullet smashed into the wall half an inch from his nose. He was too well trained to cry out from the surprise, but he allowed himself a low, vicious curse as he fell back into the room. "We've got trouble."

"Obviously. Just thirty more seconds and I'll have these files copied-"

Another spattering of gunfire barreled into the doorway, causing chips of brick to fly everywhere. "I don't think you have thirty seconds, Sherlock."

"They won't dare to fire in amidst their technology, not with the amount of research and money they've put into it. We still have a distinct advantage while we remain- look out!"

~/~/~/~/~

It was, he admitted, entirely likely that he was hallucinating this whole thing. He could very well be bleeding out on the floor of Encore's basement with Sherlock after they were discovered; or maybe it could be a simulation like in The Matrix films.

And there he went with the film comparisons again. He was really going to have to stop that, it was going to get him into trouble one day—he hadn't even really liked The Matrix anyway. He didn't know why a simulation would look quite like this, either, and so he chose to ignore his surroundings and—no pun intended—soldier on. As he straightened up from leaning on the wall, he started to withdraw his hand from his pocket and felt his fingers brush against something small and jagged. Frowning, he pulled it out to find it was a key, well-worn and patched with underlying rust. Looking closer he noticed the numbers 7114 engraved on its side. Despite having no idea of what it could be for, looking down at it now he felt his underlying unease shift outright into an odd sense of purpose. This was one coincidence too many in a long line of them, and he was decided on his course of action no matter what that might entail—the impossible included.

'What have I told you?' the Sherlock in his head reprimanded him. 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'

True. John had seen enough with Sherlock Holmes to know that it was true but still he found himself thinking, 'Yeah, but you don't usually say that about an entire alternate reality.'

He was tempted to work his way to 221 Baker Street (if it even existed) but common sense told him otherwise. It had been a long while since he had been discharged from the army but already he was sinking back into the mind of the soldier he had been, analyzing and planning in the face of this new territory.

This was potential enemy territory—it was all too clearly a new battlefield amidst the familiar backdrop of London, and dear Lord he hated the fact that a part of him was genuinely eager to meet it head on. His hand had stopped trembling long before he'd noticed it.

His mind made up of what he would do, John nodded decisively to himself and turned smartly on his heel; he would need all the information he could gather about this strange new circumstance he'd been landed in before he made any other decisions. He could only hope it all wasn't as bad as he feared.

His soldier's instinct warned him to the fact that there was someone tailing him when he had traveled about eight blocks. The streets were oddly quiet and there was no sign that cabs came this way at all. The person following him kept to the shadowed overhangs of the worn-out buildings along the street, a quiet sure-footed individual who clearly knew the terrain. A homeless person? A thug looking for a potential mugging? Maybe. John kept to his pace and his posture as relaxed as possible, hoping to fool this stranger into thinking he was an innocent civilian unaware of the dangers of taking a stroll through a rough part of town. An easy target.

It was another three blocks before John took a right down a side street, cautiously looking over his shoulder when he was halfway past the latest derelict building to see that his shadow was gone—to catch him up ahead? They knew the terrain better, after all, and would likely ambush him up ahead where the roads intersected on the other side. He snuck a hand to the back of his belt and curled his fingers around the handle of his pistol, ready for attack.

When it came, he was almost too slow; if he hadn't already been so alert it was likely he would have been struck without a fight. Be that as it was, the only warning he had was the shifting of space to his right and then the whistle of something swinging towards him. John both side-stepped and flung himself backwards at the same moment and a heavy rusted tire iron swung through the air that his head had been just a second ago. There was a muffled curse as his assailant moved to follow him, catching the edge of his jacket sleeve, and he swung a bony fist at John's face. He managed to swerve enough that it didn't hit him point-blank, catching merely the corner of his jaw, and even the stranger struck out again John grabbed hold of a thin wrist, twisted it to the right enough to bruise, and twisted the offending limb behind his assailant's back. In the same second, as a sharp hiss of pain answered him, he withdrew his Sig and, clicking the safety off, pressed it against the stranger's temple.

"Don't. Just don't."

It was like a switch was flipped; his attacker suddenly slumped in his hold, and he didn't need to face him to see that the blood was quickly draining from his face—his face, because it was a young man who had attempted to brain him, with straggly brown hair and a face heavily scarred by what appeared to be smallpox and acne. He was so painfully thin it was too obvious even through the heavy layers of clothing he wore. His expression, so fierce and cruel just a moment ago, froze with surprise and then slackened with fear.

"Cor!" he gasped, very faintly. He twisted his head, attempting to look over his shoulder and sneak a glance not at the pistol but at John's face. The fear twisted to outright terror. The tire iron clattered to the ground with a sharp ringing that sounded far too loud in such a space. "I- I didn't realize it were you, sir," he stammered, "I wouldn't 'ave tried muffin'—p-please, don't kill me—"

This was no playacting; he'd witnessed enough atrocities in Afghanistan to recognize the difference. As the boy's confusing words registered, he felt his stomach twist with unease again and he wanted nothing more than to step back and put his pistol away, he knew to do so would be both stupid and dangerous. Instead, he abruptly let go of the boy's arm, pitching him unevenly to the side, and kicked him hard in the back to make him skid forward. The Sig was up and pointed squarely at the boy's forehead as the latter climbed painfully to hands and knees. "I'm not going to kill you," John said lowly, "if you do exactly as I say, yeah? Look at me." The boy was struggling to control his trembling, not quite able to look him in the eye. "Throw the tire iron away, far as you can."

The boy whimpered. "Please don' tell M-Mister 'olmes about this. I weren't gonna do it if I'da known it were you, Mister Watson…"

The way he was addressed was another shock to his system. ('Mister' instead of 'Doctor', and if that didn't sound a hundred times wrong he didn't know what did.) He managed to conceal his nervousness and confusion before it could give himself away. "What I do in my own time is my business, not Mister Holmes's. Now throw that thing away." He waited as the tramp did as he was told, and he didn't miss the way how he flinched when he grew too close to John. Thinking quick on his feet, the knowledge of the mysterious key in his pocket a heavy weight, he waited until the tire iron was flying elsewhere before saying, "You know my address, yeah?"

If anything, the boy went even paler. "Y-Yesir."

"Say it, then."

"7114 N Northumberlan' Ave," he stammered out.

"Good. You've answered correctly, so I won't report this to Mister Holmes. Now get the hell out of here."

The command was barely out of his mouth before the boy was practically running down the alley, making sure he was running sideways to avoid giving John a sight of his back. More shaken than he'd care to admit, John clicked the safety back on his Sig and tucked it back into his belt. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the key and looked again at its engraved numbers. Now that he had an address to match the key, he was one step closer to finding out what the hell was going on. He started back down the street and paused when he reached the intersection he'd abandoned a minute before, trying to orient himself with this changed London landscape. He knew exactly where Northumberland Ave was, but didn't think it was quite the way he'd remember it.

As he passed onto yet another street, a small rusted camera lens flickered, whirred—coughed with misuse—and then began to track his path.

~/~/~/~/~

The cab he eventually managed to flag down led him precisely to the street he recalled, but it was most certainly changed for the worse. The buildings here were of better quality than the ones surrounding Encore but they still bore the signs of less upkeep and more patchwork, and a majority were marked with more graffiti and lewd pictures. It sent a shiver down his spine seeing it, unhappy to find any version of his home in such straits, and his dour mood was not at all helped by the clear disquiet of the cabbie. The man kept only the briefest of eye contact with John in the beginning and now seemed to be trying his utmost to pretend that he wasn't there. He was even more nonplussed when the cabbie told him there was no charge for the trip, and the tremble in his voice and the unease in his expression spoke volumes.

John left him go without a word, eager only to leave the streets and try to find a safe haven while he regrouped. His hand was automatically reaching for his phone to text Sherlock before he remembered it would be impossible to contact him… but maybe…

Curiosity made him try to resend the message he'd attempted to send earlier, but of course the same message blocked sign blinked up at him and he pocketed it with a sigh. He turned to the door of the flat that the cabbie had taken him to and turned the handle of the door, letting himself in with his hand once again curled around the handle of his Sig.

The camera from across the street twisted a fraction of an inch until it watched the door swing shut directly.

Once inside, John was taken aback by how clean it smelled. He fumbled for a moment to find a light switch but when he did the light flickered on to reveal a spotless flat a little smaller than 221b itself. It reminded him eerily of the bedsit he had lived in before meeting up with Sherlock, and it was cold and unwelcoming enough to feel like it too. This was a home that was nothing but somewhere to sleep, and he thought of the enormous difference it had to Baker Street or even the home he had shared with Mary. Military and doctorly life had instilled an innate habit of cleanliness and order in him that was very hard to break, but over the years living with Sherlock had softened his obsessive orderings of things, and having a small daughter had practically driven it away.

Glancing carefully around he saw no sign of intruders, or bugs hidden away spying on his actions; he seemed to be alone for the time being. He walked slowly from the door and farther into the room, taking in the bland cream walls and oak floors, the little used furniture and sparse trappings. He made his way to what he noticed was an even smaller bedroom which was nothing more than an over sized closet, big enough for a small bed. Frowning, he drew his hand away from his belt and simply stood in silence for a long moment, trying to wrap his head around everything he'd seen so far. Avoiding the single window in the flat, he moved his way back into the main room where he noticed a compact laptop sitting on a low table in front of the sofa, its power light lazily blinking on and off in its sleep cycle. The brand (Medion) was one he was not overly familiar with, although it made his spine tingle with even more unease. There was something he was missing, something big, that he was seeing but not observing.

Curious despite himself, he picked it up and flipped open the laptop. He was prepared to face a page asking for a password and he was surprised to find that there wasn't one. The laptop was as simple as everything in the flat was, clearly used sparingly and for only one purpose—the email bar to send and receive messages. Seating himself on the sofa gingerly, John clicked on the icon to bring the emails up and nearly choked when seeing what came up.

Messages from an S. Holmes to J. Watson were a frequent thing, but the subject matter was widespread from the mundane to the horrifying. Missives about the latest underground growth in the black market, sly hints about a man and his wife being watched for criminal behavior, a rhetorical question about what should be done with someone who was too loud on the Tube.

Halfway down the email address list, however, John choked out a curse and almost flung the laptop away from him. It was the only one he could see amidst all of the inquiries from S. Holmes, but the name was as horrifying to read as it was to hear: Moriarty.

What the hell was Moriarty contacting this universe's John Watson for?

Now he really did shove the laptop away, disgusted and angered by the reminder of the man who—even years later—caused fear to curdle in his stomach and dread to pound in his veins. Unable to sit still now, full of jittery energy, he stood and paced back and forth for a long while trying to calm himself. He didn't trust the outdoors yet but it made his skin crawl being in this place, with its cloying atmosphere, and with nothing better to do he began to tear into his surroundings. He picked apart the meager collection of books that sat on a shelf but found nothing suspicious, he went into the kitchen and scattered the contents of the cabinets but found only the barest minimum of canned goods; the main room held nothing that could answer his questions, which left only the tiny bedroom. He checked underneath the mattress, felt along the bottom of the floor, but there was no puckered edge of a hidden trapdoor he could find. It was only when he'd moved the bed to the opposite side of the space that he found a foot of oak board that wasn't quite the same as the rest.

Pulling it up from the floor he found himself looking into an alcove harboring a familiar looking black case, resting innocently atop a plain red blanket. John picked it up and flipped open the casing to reveal a set of three pistols with matching ammunition, all of which were studiously clean and free of any dirt or discoloration. Army issued, he thought, and meticulously cared for.

Also, he realized abruptly, not British make. They were all of them Glocks. German design.

London altered. Half the skyline missing, changed from what he knew. Although it was dark, he had still seen the evidence and ignored it for what his brain was shouting was not possible. He'd seen far too much of the remainders of a severe bombing to not recognize when he was standing amidst the ruins of one, even if it appeared to have happened a long while ago. Before he could stop himself and leave the flat, John reached back into the alcove and grabbed hold of the blanket.

Not a blanket. It unfolded too easily, a sea of red—a dash of off white—and finally a corner of black. A flag.

The odd-shaped graph graffiti he had seen along the buildings in Encore hadn't been graphs at all, he realized with a jolt of icy horror. It couldn't have been so innocent a picture—not with the Glocks and the flag staring him in the face.

And that of course was the moment when the door of the flat was forced open. As the doorknob smashed into the opposite wall, John leapt over the side of the bed with his Sig in hand, spinning on his knees so he was facing the doorway. In a matter of seconds four shadows came into view, armed and silent, but they didn't shoot. Nonplussed and thoroughly done with everything now, John answered them with a single gunshot to the floor near the closest stranger's foot. He expected a volley of gunfire to be his answer, but none came from them.

Instead, the main door clicked shut gently and the clicking of expensive shoes on the floors came steadily closer. "Come now, Mister Watson," came the familiar drawl of Mycroft Holmes, "must you make this difficult?"