Author's note: Review, please?

Both John and Bill knew it was useless to ask if they were sure, so they simply followed their friends as they rushed out of the flat as soon as it had grown dark.

Convincing them to wait until then hadn't been easy. Sherlock was more than delighted at his discovery and wanted to go immediately, and John agreed with him. It took both Bill's and the doctor's efforts to convince them to be patient until they could go out without being seen.

"It's the Botanical Garden" Sherlock explained, running out of the kitchen.

"I should have known – the plant is too rare; it's a species normally found in the tropics, which was why we weren't familiar with it".

If they had been home and at safety, or at least as safe as they ever were, John would have teased him about his inability to recognize the plant immediately, but he let it slide.

"And the Botanical Garden?" Bill inquired.

"It's the most likely option" John explained, emerging from the kitchen.

A quick glance, brought on by his curiosity because he would have expected the consulting detective to follow Sherlock as soon as they knew where to go, revealed to John that he'd spent the last minute in the kitchen organizing the evidence. There wasn't much to organize, but he had carefully put it in plastic bags and labelled them.

He decided to ask Sherlock to do so once they returned (while doubting that he would) and grabbed his jacket.

The Botanical Garden had been closed for a few hours when they arrived; all was still and quiet.

"He is probably hiding in a greenhouse that's closed for maintenance" Sherlock had explained on the way.

"Or where young plants who aren't yet judged strong enough to be put in one of the other greenhouses are grown" John had added.

They split up to look for the right place, Sherlock and John going in one and their counterparts taking another direction.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, moving his flashlight so they could see where they were going; Sherlock was shining his on any greenhouse in the vicinity, trying to see if there were any signs that it was inhabited.

"What do you we do once we find him?"

"We interrogate him" Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He had to know what John meant, and he proved that he did a moment later, adding, "There has to be a way to return. There is no point in influencing a universe you can't enter".

They hadn't yet spoken about Moriarty much; the spectre of another battle hung in the air between them, and John bit his lip. Now was not the time to think about that.

Although he already knew what he would do.

They would find Moriarty, and if Sherlock didn't pull the trigger, John would.

He would rid the world of the consulting criminal and he would protect Sherlock. He wouldn't allow the consulting criminal to play games with him again. He wouldn't suffer Sherlock being ripped from him again.

"Let us not jump to conclusion". Sherlock sounded tense, and John realized he had once more followed his thought process, like he was wont to do.

"Maybe there is a way to change everything back to the way it was before."

John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn't see it, and chose not to answer as a new idea formed in his mind.

Wasn't it possible to learn how Trevelyan could alter their reality and use this knowledge to make it better? It didn't have to be murder – maybe they simply had to set one criminal free here to send one to prison in their own universe. Maybe they could even influence the past –

No. No. He had to stop right there. Whatever Trevelyan had changed, they still remembered things they way they had been, and it had made them the men they were today. The bond they shared had grown stronger than ever before since Sherlock's return, and he didn't want to lose that. He was certain Sherlock felt the same way. They couldn't lose this. They wouldn't lose this. Sherlock was right; they had to concentrate on finding Trevelyan. The rest would come when they were in possession of all the facts.

Having come to this conclusion, he did what he had always done since the day they had met: Follow his best friend and trust him.

Then the consulting detective stopped so abruptly that he almost ran into him, and his heart rate quickened.

He had found Trevelyan's hideaway.

It took Mycroft Holmes the whole afternoon to find Moriarty, and Greg found that he'd never thought a few hours this long before; through countless stake-outs, waiting for Sherlock to process the evidence and trials, he had never felt this nervous.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he would never have believed that it would take Mycroft that long to locate the consulting criminal; he was the British Government, after all, the man who kidnapped his brother's friends, who was able to learn languages in a few hours, the man who could be counted on to know everything that happened in this country, and yet he failed to find one man.

Once Greg noticed how uncharitable his thoughts were, he left the office to get coffee, only to find that Anthea was waiting for him behind the door with two cups.

He felt her questioning stare as he turned around and re-entered the room, and he couldn't blame her. For years, the PA had known every detail of whatever Mycroft happened to be involved in, she had coordinated his meetings, he had trusted her more than anyone else, except maybe himself. And now he was shutting himself into his office without any reason. She wouldn't be able to explain his sudden desire to find Moriarty; he had been alive the three years Sherlock had been gone, and he had obviously never been so desperate to locate him.

She couldn't know.

After he had put Mycroft's cup on his desk, he glanced back at the door and wondered if they shouldn't ask her what she remembered. Anthea was smart, or she wouldn't work for Mycroft; she would understand what was happening if they explained it to her. She would be able to tell them –

"It would only cause confusion."

"Sorry?"

Mycroft sighed and looked up from the file he'd been studying.

"We have to remember. Hearing how she sees it might cause damage to our memories."

"We could – I mean, we have done well so far, haven't we?"

Greg looked at Mycroft, warming his hands on his cup.

"What is Moran's first name?"

The DI blinked.

"What?"

"Just answer. What is Moran's first name?"

"It's – " But the answer that had seemed so easy, within his grasp, a moment ago, evaded him. Greg felt panic rise in him. If he couldn't remember Moran's first name, what else had he forgotten?

Then he concentrated, and he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head.

"Sebastian" he told Mycroft, "He's called Sebastian. And he should be serving a life sentence".

The British Government gave him one of his rare smiles, although his expression turned serious barely a second later.

"If it takes you time to remember his name now, what do you think it would do to your mind if you were to hear about this new reality?"

Greg's eyes lingered on the back of the computer screens and the files on Mycroft's desk and he understood why the elder Holmes had refused the DI's help. It must be almost impossible to keep track of the right memories with the proof that they couldn't have been created in front of him, and he was protecting Greg from the struggle he was fighting.

Hoping to make it easier for him, Greg sat down in a chair, nursed his coffee and kept silently repeating to himself what he knew.

"Greg?" Mycroft's voice interrupted his recollection twenty minutes later, and he sounded scared. The DI had never heard Mycroft Holmes scared.

"Yes?" he asked calmly, not wanting to upset Mycroft further.

"What happened on the day Sherlock returned? What exactly?"

Greg quickly went through the important point and was relieved to watch the colour come back to his friend's face.

He nodded, once more determined, and continued to look for clues.

It took him another two hours, but when it happened, Greg felt it. There was something in the air, almost like an electrical current, that he had learned early to associate with Sherlock making a connection in his mind.

He wasn't surprised by what followed, but he was definitely delighted.

The British Government looked up, and for the first time since he'd been called in the lab, Greg read optimism in those eyes.

He knew what that meant.

Sending a prayer of thanks might not be the appropriate reaction after Mycroft had found out where the most dangerous man in London was hiding, but Greg didn't care.