Wow! Thanks for all the review, favorite, & follow love everyone! Glad you like the story and any future input you have is appreciated! Also, Jeffery, I about broke my throat squealing that a Watsonville resident is actually reading this. Everyone, Jeffery is from the actual real life town of Watsonville, whose roadsign I've passed like 6 times this summer and wanted to visit purely for the name (but I wrote this story instead trolololol). There's also a real life Andersonville, which I was excited about but didn't know if I actually wanted to visit...

Act 2
"This City is what it is because our citizens are what they are." -Plato

More months passed. Sherlock's belongings migrated from Lestradeville to Watsonville. His motorbike would gather dust where it was parked due to lack of use and anytime he did travel he did not stay away long. Sometimes Sherlock would bring Watsonville citizens with him, like to solve Lestradeville's puzzles or visit Hooperville or lob spit-wads at Andersonville. One time he got a special dispensation from the violin shop owner to take a violin and he gave the entire Watsonville populace a concert. They had clapped and applauded and called him amazing. Rosebushes were basically taking over the town, creating small gardens everywhere. It made the city more chaotic and Sherlock noticed an increase in other travelers: Lestradeville, Hooperville, and Donovanville citizens milled about the thrift stores, seeming to watch him like they didn't in their own cities. Even some multi-faced Holmesville residents appeared, though as soon as Sherlock approached any of them they disappeared. Sherlock wondered if he should be worried about overcrowding. He wondered if he was ruining something perfect simply by being there and attracting everybody else. Unless Watsonville had a tourist season.

One night Sherlock woke up. It was rare that he did so: here in Watsonville he was gaining a remarkable amount of weight and sleeping whole nights through, usually with a citizen or a rosebush curled nearby. He looked out the window and noticed it was raining. It had never once rained in Watsonville and Sherlock raced outside to see if the town was much changed.

No one seemed to be out as Sherlock careened around. Even the hospital was empty. Sherlock stopped and tilted his head upwards, tasting the rain. But it wasn't rain at all, but varying types of alcohol. Sherlock frowned. He had passed the pub. It was still closed. Perhaps that was because the citizens drank their liquor from the sky?

Sherlock heard a moan. He startled a bit, unused to the noise. It came again and seemed to wrap around him, holding him, egging him onwards. He followed his feet to the oak tree, where a single jagged scar was dripping sap. A figure was nestled in the darkness at the base, huddling out of the rain. Sherlock stepped forward, expecting another citizen. He asked who they were, what they were doing out in the alcohol-rain. Personally he was soaked, but not particularly caring: the alcohol was warm.

The figure on the ground moaned again, but Sherlock saw a finger beckoning him forward. He took a step, but then stopped abruptly, hearing something he hadn't heard before.

My name is John. And I am spectacularly smashed and not supposed to be here. Sherlock took another step towards the figure lying down, hoping to provoke it to speak again. It's alright. I won't hurt you. I'm here, though I'm not supposed to be.

Sherlock asked if the figure was lost.

No, no. I'm alright, Mr. Holmes. Just...my sister. I didn't know where else to go. I wanted to see you.

Sherlock nearly ran into the figure now, tumbled on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Quick as a wink, a torch was out of his pocket and darting about the man's face. For he wasn't a citizen, with vague, genderless features and a smiling mouth, but solid, like him or Mycroft or Mummy. Was he related then? Was he a traveler too? If he too was a brother, then he'd certainly gotten his alleles from an obscure DNA strand: blonde like the sun and eyes blue like the sky and face tan like the ground in the cactus garden. His face was more lined, his form shorter and compact, his right leg tender with weakness. His breath smelled of the rain and he was staring at Sherlock like the detective had grown two heads.

Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes, it's alright. Calm down or they'll catch me, catch us. I'm sorry I disturbed you. I won't do it again.

Sherlock had no intention of letting the John-stranger go. Cities were interesting, but actual people? Glorious! He then had a flash of insight. He knew this John: he'd seen his face in the sky. Why had that happened?

You...you can see me? Feel me?

Sherlock thought this was a stupid question since obviously he could see him if he was pinning him down and not complaining about him being invisible. He hoped that this new being was more intelligent than that. Also, please call him Sherlock. He didn't want to go to Holmesville or be unnecessarily reminded of it.

But you can see me? What do I look like? Touch my nose. I promise not to run. The creature took the torch out of Sherlock's hand and shone it back and forth across Sherlock's face. Sherlock wondered if this was some bizarre greeting ritual from where this 'John' was from.

Sherlock obligingly touched John's nose and described him. Perhaps John was the blind one.

No, no, I can see you...Sherlock. I've been trying to find you for ages. You're very handsome and have the most gorgeous chocolate curls I've ever seen. John ran a hand through them once and Sherlock practically purred with pleasure. No one had done that since Mummy. How did the John-creature know of Sherlock? What was chasing him that was forcing him to hide in Watsonville?

What? Oh, you're famous where I come from. Nobody is chasing me.

Sherlock wondered where the John was from and why the John was hiding if nobody was chasing him. Unless a nobody was some sort of species.

The John laughed. No, nobody means no one. I snuck away from home to come see you. I'm running from home because I don't like it there anymore. There was a pause. Could you please get off me?

Sherlock replied in the negative. Sherlock was full and, the John captured and the oak protecting from the rain, quite sleepy again. John could sneak away while Sherlock was unconscious. In the current position, Sherlock would wake up if John tried to move out from under him. Sherlock asked if John was a traveler and if he would stroke his hair as the roses did.

I guess I am a traveler. To you, anyway. We all travel in each other's lives. Can I at least get a pillow?

Sherlock told the John to stay exactly where he was and that Sherlock would get him a pillow and blanket. He dashed off to the nearest building and got them and the John-fellow-traveler was still lying there, waiting. Sherlock was overjoyed. He tucked them both in under the blanket, as his mother used to do with Mycroft and he. John began stroking Sherlock's head and right before he slept again Sherlock murmured that John was not John's sister nor ever will be. He was not weak and Sherlock would take care of him.

Sherlock woke the next day with a tiny yellow rosebush threading next to him, but no John. He panicked, despairing that he had already lost his companion. He ran around, pushing citizens out of the way as he went until he found the John in one of the breakfast cafes and nearly tackled him to the ground in relief. Sherlock, er, Mr. Holmes, it's alright, it's alright, don't cry.

Sherlock was not crying. He has just been frightened that his newest experiment and exploration had been taken from him and he would be left with the stupid echoing streets again, which were proving more than a match. He babbled to the John that he had worked out than there was probably something underground, a large chamber or sewer perhaps, but Sherlock had yet to uncover an access point down there, though he thought had already explored every clean Watsonville street. The other citizens in the cafe were staring at him as he finished. He glared at them. Obviously they did not understand he and John's relationship as one real person to another.

That sounds like a good theory, Sherlock. One of the citizens whispered something in John's ear and Sherlock resisted the urge to slap them away. John narrowed his eyes at them and Sherlock deduced they were from Andersonville. It's none of your business. It calms him down and he gave me permission.

Sherlock snapped at the Andersonville denizen that John could call him whatever he wanted and it should go fuck a dinosaur. The citizen backed away slowly out of the room. John raised an eyebrow at the citizen's treatment, but then pushed some tea and toast in Sherlock's direction. Care for a nibble, Sherlock?

Between bites of breakfast, Sherlock quizzed John on his traveling knowledge: it seems he knew Watsonville the best, followed by Lestradeville, but was acquainted with the rest of Sherlock's usual haunts. He'd never heard of Holmesville and barely tolerated Donovanville and Andersonville. In a gesture that Sherlock hoped would show the depth of his growing want for the John to stay, Sherlock offered to show him Holmesville. John got very excited about that, saying he wanted to go right away. Sherlock said he had to get a few things from his room here and then he could be off. John followed him all the way there, chatting with Sherlock about botany of all things. They were happy until a citizen came in and tapped John on the shoulder. John mentioned having to use the loo and walked away with the citizen. Sherlock finished packing his things and waited on his bed. And waited. And waited. And waited.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that the citizen was wearing an elaborate veil to hide their two faces. He heard thunderstorms in the distance.

Sherlock swore. Mycroft. Of course Mycroft, as real people starved as Sherlock was, would steal this one away, even though Sherlock had seen him first. Bastard.

Sherlock grabbed his stuff, jumped on his motorbike, revving it up and zooming away to rescue his John. Holmesville was a lot closer than he remembered and he sped up and down the streets, knowing Mycroft could hear and therefore be annoyed. Sherlock shouted about the all-you-can-eat-buffet and the scarred willow tree. All the citizens seemed to be hiding, preventing Sherlock from approaching one and thus calling Mycroft away from wherever he was keeping John. He deduced which of the twisting white corridors held the room where John and Mycroft were. He banged on it with all his might and shouted for John, threatening bodily self-harm if Mycroft did not return him in the same condition he found him in.

The door quickly opened after that and Sherlock rushed to the John, visually examining him head to foot, gently touching his face to see his eyelashes flutter in response. Satisfied, he threw his arms around the John's neck, snuffling his nose against him, gripping tightly, telling him he had been so worried. The John was surprised, tentatively wrapping his arms around Sherlock to return the gesture, stroking the bottom neck curls. Why were you worried? It was only your brother. He was concerned about you sleeping under the tree last night.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and muttered about thunderstorms into John's hair. Sherlock also realized something: per John's diction, he and John were not brothers. John laughed when Sherlock told him his deduction. I'm not nearly smart enough to be the brother of you or Mycroft.

The fact that Sherlock nodded only made John laugh more. They stood like that a minute longer, before John shifted uncomfortably. Didn't you want to show me Holmesville? Go on, give me a tour.

Mycroft interrupted. He promised to show you Holmesville?

Yes.

Sherlock opened his eyes in time to see Mycroft arch a tailored eyebrow over the tips of John's blonde head.
You are privileged indeed. And perhaps intelligent enough to be a Holmes brother.

Sherlock released John, not wanting to stand another minute of Mycroft. He took John's hand and led him away from his brother's watching gaze. He warned John that the tour might take a while, several days, perhaps a week, depending on the level of detail John wanted to see.

John, of course, wanted to see everything.

Sherlock obliged. John was fascinated, asking all sorts of questions about the details and even noticing some Sherlock had never seen. Every night, Sherlock tucked John and himself in, knowing now that John was an early riser and if Sherlock woke without him to only look in the nearest eatery to find his companion. When Sherlock explained about the thunderstorms, John's face darkened, looking about to thunderstorm himself. The nights after Sherlock explained, John had held Sherlock tightly and even once been there when Sherlock woke up.

Since they were in Mycroft's territory, Sherlock unfortunately saw the man himself every so often. But the weather behaved itself, probably not wanting to harm John.

On the final night of the week, Sherlock had finished describing Holmesville to the John. He was thinking that he should ask John to show him his hometown, a fair exchange for Sherlock showing his family's. He was thinking about how he would ask. John and he were tucked in, John's warm breath evening out into a doze. Sherlock usually fell asleep before John did (Sherlock blamed all the weight he was gaining), but tonight the question bounced around for a long while before Sherlock finally slept.

Only to be rudely awakened mere hours later.

Someone was violently shaking his shoulder as he gasped awake and instantly a gag was placed in his mouth. Sherlock nearly choked and started lashing out, kicking, punching and screaming through the cloth. He rolled off the bed and smacked his forehead against the hard tile floor, making Sherlock see blackness and tiny stars for a moment. He heard John wake with a start and presumably join the effort, jumping up to hit and punch their masked assailants, the crack of knuckles meeting flesh. Sherlock twisted and writhed on the floor, but his attacker put their heavy weight on his legs, pinning him down, forcing his nose into the tiles, strong hands roughly tying Sherlock's arms behind him. Sherlock lost track of John, who was dancing about, still fighting until Sherlock heard a mighty crack and a body dropped to the floor beside him. Sherlock turned his head and saw John, his head bleeding into the rivulets of the tiles. He redoubled his efforts of screaming.

The masked citizens ignored him, tying his legs like he was a trussed up turkey and carrying out of the room and through a maze of sterile white hallways, out a huge set of double doors and into the waiting back of a van.

They drove for miles, in a direction Sherlock had never been. Instead of deserted plains of sand, there were hillocks of grass divided into rectangles by large, bulbous hedges. Occasional livestock was seen, especially sheep. If Sherlock had to pick he'd guess they were going south. For some reason this was connected to the lessoning number of sheep.

The citizens said nothing to him, only grunting to each other in some weird form of pair language. Sherlock was still, wanting to observe everything so as to best aid his eventual escape. Because he would escape and then he would find John. And John would be alright and if he wasn't alright then Sherlock would make him better.

Approximately three hours into their journey, the grunts pulled off the main highway onto a smaller road and then another smaller one after that. They were in a small town with buildings mostly made of bricks. Sherlock saw a train station, a library, a police station, a couple dance clubs, and even a 'video store.' In another situation, Sherlock would have been intrigued by the movie theatre they passed because he had never seen it in any of the other cities and didn't know what it was, much less what the palace of mirrors and lights was used for.

The grunts passed all this, seemingly used to such sights and they were back in the fields. They turned onto a dirt road and pulled up to an abandoned-looking farmhouse. They opened the van's back doors, picked up Sherlock, carried him through the farmhouse's front door, laid him on the velvet living room love seat (made in the 1950s, vintage, first owned by a lady daily doused in Chanel No. 5), and removed his gag. The rest of the house seemed rotted, the floorboards weathered and creaking where anybody stepped. A large, glassless window behind him provided the only sort of light, the moon casting shadows and bright spots throughout the room. The brick fireplace was missing stones and the wind had swept away the ash from any fires long ago. Farther ahead, Sherlock could see a tiled kitchen. The love seat was the newest thing in the building.

Sherlock waited. He knew what was coming. He was not disappointed.

Hello, my pet. A man in a Westwood suit stepped out of a blotch of shadows. A little birdie told me that you've been improving.

Sherlock said hello to Moriarty and that his brainpower was the same as ever.

No, no, you met someone. You don't often meet new people, do you? Just me and your annoying brother to begin with. Though you remember your mum, don't you?

Sherlock sat up, trying to gain a bit of dignity. Of course Moriarty wanted a piece of the new person too. Sherlock retorted that Moriarty should leave John out of this because John was his.

Moriarty laughed. Is that what you call him? 'John?' How informal. He's a doctor, you know. Or did he never tell you that?

Sherlock stiffened. John didn't have to tell him everything. At least Sherlock wasn't alone like Moriarty or Mycroft, both of whom only had citizens for company.

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed again. Oh, you are the most alone person I know, my pet. But you could have traveled with me, couldn't you? You took that little doctor to Holmesville where you never let me in. How come, hmmm? What's so special about this insect?

Sherlock said that he had just finished this one tour of Holmesville and that the next one would be at never o'clock.

Oh God, you think you're so clever, mapping everything out, seeing all secrets, having your little deductions, but, honey, you haven't been this lucid in years. You know where you are though, don't you? Is this Moriarty City or somewhere else entirely?

Sherlock knew Moriarty City. It had been one of the first places he'd visited. Utter chaos: a perpetual masquerade, a carnival with rivers of alcohol and no rules, debauchery as easy as dying, ticker-tape for nobody and everybody, filth and wretchedness and shining riches side by side, one day a pauper and next the King of Fools. Moriarty ruled it, organized it, delighted in it. Its puzzles were twisted, intoxicating, splattered with blood. Sherlock had loved it. He realized it was destroying him faster than anybody around him liked. Mycroft had taken him away.

Sherlock said that either Moriarty had been very busy the last few years with cleaning up or he was not in Moriarty City. The former was so unlikely that he thought that every other city would crumble first.

Moriarty just clapped his hands in joy. Excellent! Excellent! You are listening. We'll have you playing in no time.

Sherlock said he did not want to go back to Moriarty City because he seriously doubted John would like it.

Don't be so dull, Sherlock. Borrrrriiinnngggg! Moriarty stepped closer, picking up Sherlock's chin to force him to look into his empty, twisted brown eyes, the reptilian set of his nose and mouth. Moriarty turned Sherlock's face back and forth as if admiring purchase or perhaps his own reflection. This thought chilled and thrilled Sherlock. Moriarty was chaos and chaos would make life go so much more quickly.

You're so fragile. Moriarty leaned closer. Do you know how delicate I'm being, Sherlock? Do you? One word, one tinsey little phrase could send you spinning to who knows where and erase all the progress you've made.

Sherlock's eyes never left Moriarty's. He asked what progress would that be exactly.

To become me. I started out like you. A mere traveler. Well, not exactly. But we are the same, Sherlock. You are me. Moriarty's face split into a manic grin. His thumb reached up to caress Sherlock's cheek but the next minute he slapped Sherlock hard.

Answer me! Really answer me! He hit Sherlock again, punched him in the face. Defend your miserable, boring life!
Sherlock tongued at the place where his mouth was bleeding, spitting out the blood. The blow had knocked his head to face the floor and he let it hang there, not caring to look at Moriarty again or move. He didn't care. He didn't care. He didn't care. This would only make the waiting end faster.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for Moriarty's next attack. He didn't have long to wait: Moriarty screamed in frustration, punching Sherlock again in the face before pummeling his stomach and kicking his legs. I'm getting my hands dirty for you: better enjoy it. Sherlock noticed that Moriarty's breathing was ragged. I could do anything I wanted to you and you wouldn't care. Take anything. Have anything...

Moriarty wanted Sherlock think about the implications of his words. Sherlock didn't.

Moriarty seized Sherlock's wrist and bit him hard enough to make the blood spurt up, for the surrounding skin to bruise. Fight back. I dare you, pet.

Sherlock did nothing, letting the pain wash over him, letting the world get a bit blurrier. He thought he could hear the roar of thunder in the distance, of the gaudy tunes Moriarty City's citizens were subjected with and pretended to like. Sherlock did not open his eyes.

The cities aren't real! Come back to me, Sherlock Holmes. Become me. I am your fate and nothing else. Fight me or I will destroy John. You will never see him again. Do you understand? My men will kill him, obliterate him from existence!

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Not John," he croaked.

Moriarty, face smeared with Sherlock's own blood, dropped Sherlock's wrist in joy. "I will murder him, Sherlock. In the most brutal way possible. In the way that both you and he fear most."

"No...no!" Sherlock said, widely swinging his still tied hands around, hoping to hit Moriarty. The Irishman jumped back but Sherlock had already pick-pocketed him, taking a knife from the breast pocket of his suit. He swiped the knife forward, forcing Moriarty to back up more least he get hit and Sherlock used the time to slice open the bonds on his feet and hands.

"You need me, Sherlock! I'm your chaos. You crave me. You will become me: it's inescapable, as inexorable as death."
"You will not touch him." Sherlock held the knife towards Moriarty, his feet moving into a stance he hoped was good for balance, trying to make himself seem far more formidable than he actually was. "He is mine."

Moriarty just looked at him, the moonlight making his terrible eyes glow against the crimson streaked on him mouth. The world seemed to take a breath.

"He is no one's."

Then everything went black.