A/N: Here is some background information to help if perhaps you haven't read Private Universe. There's also a bit of info here regarding what Sarah & Mike have been up to since the last story:D And of course a bit of plot:P

Thank you mattloved1 for reading this over:D And convincing me not to kill anyone off just yet:D (Except for some minor off screen lackeys that is!)

2. Tales of War and of Waste

The taxi pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B and as soon as it was remotely safe to do so, Sherlock exited the vehicle. In his hurry, he almost forgot to pay. John usually did that, but frustratingly John wasn't here. He shoved down feelings of annoyance, threw some money at the cabbie and hurried to the familiar black door. Pulling out his keys, he opened it with a thrum of impatience. He climbed the 17 steps quickly and with a surefooted grace, skipping every other step in his hurry to see John.

Sherlock had been absent for more than a week. A case of high interest and unusual clues had caught his attention and he'd left to pursue it. John had been unable to come as he had already committed to doing a favour for Mycroft. The interfering git had pleaded with John's good nature and talked him into something highly classified. Sherlock did not have a good nature and had whined and grumbled, but relented when he saw a different sort of excitement in John. It wasn't often he had the chance to practice any of his dream therapy these days and he had missed it more than he thought he would. Besides, Mycroft had promised the use of his villa in the south of France if John helped out. John had then proceeded to whisper all of the things he would do to Sherlock when they got there. He showed him a thing or two as well before he left, just to keep him on edge.

The thought that perhaps he'd get another sample of exactly what John had in mind after being away from each other added a spring in his step. John could be extremely creative.

Two years had flown by since they'd first met inside Sherlock's head and there had been very few times when they were separated from one another. Even now, close proximity sent a frission of heat through Sherlock and all they had to do was look at one another and the desire to tear each other's clothes off surfaced. Something chemical had happened to them when they had dream merged and it left an indelible imprint. Gestures, movement, swift glances and they knew what the other was thinking. It added a certain spice to their relationship. Granted, it was also practical when chasing down criminals.

Sherlock did have one regret. Although he could look at John and know what he was thinking when they were awake, he still did not remember details of time spent together in what John described as their private shelter. Inside his head, during time spent trying to pull Sherlock out of a long ago coma, they had created a mock up of 221B, but surreal and incomplete. John would get a wistful expression on his face and he would tell Sherlock they still visited there, but Sherlock remembered nothing. John surmised it had something to do with the experiences Sherlock had had there, they had left him scarred somehow. Not wishing to discuss it because it made him extremely uncomfortable, John had let it go. There was a small part of him that wished John wouldn't give up so easily.

Some mornings, on days when Sherlock slept late, few and far between as they were, he would awaken to John staring at him, a look in his navy eyes that seemed to ask him something. John would sigh and his eyes would clear and he would refrain from asking yet again if Sherlock remembered. Instead he would give Sherlock a proper morning greeting, involving tongue and hands. Sherlock always pretended he didn't know what John was silently saying in those first few minutes.

Opening the door to their flat he immediately noticed two things, one made him frustrated and the other deeply annoyed.

The first was the realization that John hadn't returned. There was no scent of John, no coat on the hook, no sounds of bustling about making tea, no welcoming kiss. An explanation of why John wasn't here to greet him would be forth coming upon his return and he'd have to make it up to Sherlock.

The second was the slightly slower awareness that although John wasn't here, the flat was far from empty. He huffed.

"Mycroft," he said through gritted teeth. Here was the very reason why John wasn't waiting for him. A quick glance at Mycroft, Sherlock glowered at his coat for a few seconds longer before he hung it up. Turning back to snipe at Mycroft, he stopped as he registered his brother's expression. Stalking toward him, he felt a wave of panic erupt inside.

"What happened?" he demanded as he stood looking down at Mycroft. The name John repeated over in his mind so loudly it almost drowned out the reply.

"Sit down, Sherlock. I have something to tell you."

"I will not. Tell me what happened. 'Routine,' you said. 'Not dangerous,' you said."

"Yes, well. We were misled."

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

"It means exactly what you think it means."

"That you or rather your people are incompetent."

"Sherlock, please." Mycroft rarely used that word with him. Sherlock sank into John's chair and placed his head in his hands whilst Mycroft continued speaking. "We were informed, with very strong evidence, that a terrorist attack was going to be taking place in London in the near future. One of my agents was found unconscious with all evidence suggesting he had vital information to relay. He was unable to do so. I asked John if he would be willing to try Dream Merging." He paused and waited.

Sherlock looked up, anger welled up inside. "You asked him that? I thought it was just going to be standard therapy. I wouldn't have allowed him to go if I'd known. After everything he went through with me? The last time he tried, he couldn't do it without getting sick. That didn't dissuade you?" Sherlock was livid with Mycroft but he also felt furious with John. How dare he put himself through that? He was supposed to keep himself safe.

"I believe John is an adult and quite capable of making up his own mind. He has a unique skill set that was necessary for this mission. You do not own him, Sherlock, as much as you feel you do. You weren't informed because it was classified."

"That's never stopped you in the past, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked steadily at Sherlock. "It is pointless to bicker about whether or not John should have taken this assignment. It is pointless to assign blame. Your partner is missing, as are several other key members of his team. He was taken from the facilities where he was attempting the Dream Merging under the watchful eyes of highly trained agents." Mycroft looked away from Sherlock and swallowed.

"They're dead, aren't they?"

"No one from the facility was left alive."

The thread of panic that had entwined his chest tightened further. "How do you know John's alive?" Sherlock would not break down in front of his brother.

"We are not entirely sure. Footage from the facility shows John being taken in the middle of the Merging. I have the footage for you if you wish to see it. I should warn you some of it isn't pretty." He cleared his throat. "There were others there whom you know. They put up a fight, not wishing the procedure to be interrupted. Some were hurt in the attack, but seem to have been removed along with John."

"John's former partners? Sarah and Mike? They were there as well, weren't they? Of course, you needed them to help with the merging." He felt a quickly suppressed pang of remorse; in spite of the fact that Sarah Sawyer had once slapped him rather hard, he admired her and she and Mike were friends of John's. Sentiment had no place in this for anyone who was not John. He summarily dismissed them.

"Do we know who? Or why? Dammit Mycroft. If something happens…" he couldn't finish the sentence. Something already had happened and he hadn't been there to stop it. The urge to throttle his brother grew exponentially. Right now he needed to be clear headed to help John, to get him back. Thrusting down his feelings of anger, fear and loss, he said, "show me the footage."

oOo

As best he could tell he'd been here three days. He wavered between believing he was really stuck on a deserted island or deciding it was a dream. It scared him how much he couldn't tell. He remembered very little of what had happened to him before waking up here. He remembered very little about who he was. Something had happened to him, that much was true. Someone was missing. He knew that as well. Someone a part of him, the itch of his absence tingled like the memory of an amputated limb. Someone who was as much a part of him as his heart or his mind or, if you believed in that sort of thing, his soul. He would turn expecting to see the glimpse of a smile just for him, hear a voice whisper things in his ear, but there was nothing except the wind, the waves and the odd sounds coming out of the jungle.

And the ever present beeping sound, very faint and hard to hear, except at night or when the wind died.

When he woke the morning after his first remembered day, he had decided dream, because things were happening on this island that didn't in the real world. The longer he stayed here the harder it became to distinguish. When he thought about the real world, it seemed as much of a lie as this island. Now and then he would get flashes of a flat, with a fireplace and oddly a bison skull hanging in midair. That alone could have dissuaded him from accepting it as reality without the presence of the apple tree growing beside the fireplace and the sky above instead of a ceiling.

Mentally shrugging, he continued building a rough lean-to using the large drift wood tree as a frame. He had been working away at it, constructing it out of materials found in the jungle. The sweat that trickled down his back, between his shoulder blades was another sign that made him think this was real. The presence of the large greenish moon hanging in the sky in broad daylight convinced him it was not. The constant shift between the two made his head hurt. He paused and took a swig of water.

Here was more evidence this was not reality. Objects necessary for survival did not suddenly appear lying in the sand next to where you were sleeping. Objects that had not been there the night before; waterproof matches, an axe, a hunting knife, some rope, a pot as well as a plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon, a large jug to hold water, a blanket, a small fishing net and oddly a hammock. Either his mind had supplied the things he needed in order to have a nice relaxing holiday on a deserted island or someone had dropped them here while he slept. He never slept deeply and always had an ear out for noises, ever since his army days. He rather wished if a mysterious stranger had indeed left them, they had thought to leave a novel or two and perhaps some tea.

The shelter was almost complete and as it seemed from the odd light in this place to be getting late in the day he decided to stop and see if today was any better for catching fish. There was an inlet further up the beach where he had found tidal pools and the water was quiet. He was hoping for some protein to supplement the diet of fruit he had found.

His few belongings were tidied up and he picked up the net and the pot in case he caught anything. The air smelled fresh, of sea and sand and anticipation and longing. The sand shifted pleasantly under his feet. Now and then he would stop and look around, as he checked the horizon for any indication he was not alone. He didn't look very hard. There was a persistent belief that since he didn't know who he was, no one would be looking for him and it haunted his thoughts.

When he came to the tidal pool, he put down the net and pot and spent what felt like an hour or so looking at the creatures that had been caught and left behind. He was lucky in that there were some rather large mussels clinging to the rocks. He also found a good size crab. The crab was neatly caught and went into the pot; he turned the pot upside down on a rock and hoped the crab didn't scurry off. The mussels were a bit harder, which from what he remembered of his days looking for mussels at the beach near his grandparents, if they were hard to remove, they were safe to eat. You didn't want to eat ones that came away easily, because they were likely to be diseased or old.

He stopped abruptly with two or three mussels in his hand and stared out over the water. There it was, bright and shining, a memory of his forgotten past. He had had grandparents and they lived near the ocean. Eyes closed, he thought furiously as he tried to picture the other beach, shadowed and misty, as precious to him as the food and shelter here. There were differences. The sand was darker and strewn with seaweed. It was rocky and the water was colder. There was a cliff with steps, like a wooden staircase leading up to the top where he knew it was windswept and barren, with nothing but some scraggy pines and clumps of heather. Try as he might he couldn't remember anything else, not even the faces of his grandparents. Someone else flickered at the edge of his memory, a girl, younger than him, a halo of sorrow surrounded the image of her. Something bad had happened.

As abruptly as the memory came it was gone but the sadness the recollection had produced lingered. He looked down at the mussels in his hand and wondered what was the point; he was stuck here with no memory and no hope.

Perhaps it was the thoughts of long ago grandparents, but a phrase from the past seemed to follow his thoughts back to where he was now. A voice in his head seemed to say not to give up. An odd phrase kept repeating, something he was sure his grandmother had said, not exactly appropriate but comforting just the same. 'Half a loaf is better than no bread at all. A little is better than nothing.' Shaking the feelings away as best he could, he carefully picked up the pot, shoved the crab back in and dropped the mussels in beside it. He walked back to the rough camp and filled the pot with water from the jug. Leaving the crab in the pot, he put the mussels in his cup, with some water to rinse. He would wrap those in seaweed and steam them near the edge of the fire. After he built up the fire and the crab was ready to cook, he would go back to the stream and fill the jug again. Turning to put away the unused net in the shelter, he noticed something on the blanket he had spread on the ground. He bent to pick it up. It was a small packet of tea.

oOo

Sarah was tired. Little sleep and not enough to eat had sapped any energy she had. Add that to her aching head and various scrapes and cuts and she was coming close to collapsing.

Hunched over the computer and monitoring John's vital signs, she tried to make herself as small as possible. The uniformed guards delighted in making her stay here miserable. They were a little more wary of her after her first day of fighting back, not afraid to punch and kick at any unwanted advances.

She stretched, trying to relieve her cramped position. The need for a decent cup of coffee and the use of a shower wouldn't go amiss, but neither was likely to magically appear. Because she couldn't get what she wanted, it delighted her to no end to provide little luxuries to John.

Between the time John had left the program and now, she and Mike had perfected and refined Dream Merging. The reality created inside a patient's head appeared more real and more stable, allowing the doctor to help centre and stabilize a patient. The technician watching the procedure was better able to interpret the thoughts and images of the patient and help to provide them with things they needed. Sarah had been working with a promising doctor who worked with young patients suffering from horrific nightmares. Dr. Scott seemed to know exactly what a patient needed to comfort them and Sarah could help shape the program to provide it. It saved Dr. Scott from always having to create things on his own, which could be time consuming and it helped young patients transition better until they could create required items. It was this technology she was using with John.

Somehow, somewhere these people, whoever they were, had recreated her drug. Somehow they had also recreated Mike and John's computer program, including the updates Mike had worked on since John had left.

They didn't want John to know he was dreaming and she had to be careful what she did to let him discover it for himself. The biggest problem was that he had been pulled abruptly from the merge with Mycroft Holmes' agent, fortunately before the man had been shot in the head. She had no idea if John had been successful in retrieving the necessary information or not.

Not that it mattered now.

A noise at the door drew her attention away from the screen she was watching.

A short, dark haired woman marched through the door and over to Sarah's station. She stood observing Sarah with cold eyes.

"You are Dr. Sawyer, correct?" Her accent was an odd mixture of something Sarah couldn't readily identify with a few British inflections. Someone who had been born and raised with a different language as their native tongue but had spent enough time in England to develop an overlay of local speech.

"Yes and you are?" she said, her chin went up, a habit from when she was younger and confronted with bullies. It gave her a feeling of false confidence. She was proud of the fact she had kept the quaver out of her voice. Of course it had only been one short sentence.

"My name is of no concern to you. Suffice it say that at this moment and in this place I hold the key to your longevity. I am sure you are more than willing to continue to assist us. For your sake and for the sake of your colleagues, Dr. Watson and Dr. Stamford." A slight smile tugged at the corner of the woman's mouth.

"I find it highly unlikely you will hurt Dr. Watson since you need him for some reason."

The smile broadened. "That is correct, for now. But it isn't necessary to have two of you watching over Dr. Watson and Dr. Stamford or yourself could easily be removed. However, I am not here merely to threaten you. You will need to begin integrating another person into Dr. Watson's mind, using this dream technique of yours."

Sarah sighed wearily. "This isn't something just anyone can do. It takes time to develop the ability. I am also not sure how much good it will do to go into John's head. It was very traumatizing to him when he was pulled out of the Dream Merge at the government facilities. He appears to be struggling with memory loss."

"Do not worry so much, Dr. Sawyer. The person who will be entering into Dr. Watson's head has had some experience with this technique, perhaps not with as sophisticated machinery as you have created, but they are no novice."

"And who is the candidate?" Sarah asked, although she had an idea as to the answer.

"Me, of course."