Author's note: Here's more of them working together. I might enjoy character interactions too much. Time for a different character POV, at least for part of teh chapter.

I hope you liked it, please review.

Bill followed John, like he always did, taking care to shine his flashlight in front of his friend's feet; he was scrutinizing every glass house they passed and not concentrating on something of as little importance as not falling down.

He watched his flatmate and wondered why Sherlock seemed so much more human in some respects, even though Bill knew that John was far from the machine he pretended to be. It had to have something to do with these three years, he decided, these three years that Jim...

His grip around the flashlight tightened. The doctor had been right. It was difficult to think of Jim now. He couldn't say what would happen if he met him.

He felt bad for it, of course. Jim was his friend; one of best friends he had ever had. But in John's world, he had cost Sherlock three years of his life. Which meant that, if things had been different in their universe –

He stared at the back of the consulting detective, who was busy finding Trevelyan, oblivious to the thoughts that ran through his mind.

How had John done it? How had he lived for three years without the madman at his side?

He was aware that he couldn't do anything – what was done was done, and thinking about it wouldn't help them solve the case. And yet –

He forced himself to concentrate. He bet John didn't have these problems; the man had been in the army. He had to know how to focus.

They had to get them home. That was what was important, even if they didn't know how. Trevelyan had to have found a way to return. It would have been folly to come here if not.

"John?" he whispered.

"Yes?" His friend sounded annoyed, but he hadn't expected anything different.

"How do we make Trevelyan help them? Even if we catch him and manage to get the machine, or whatever brought them here, how can we force him to send them into the right universe?"

He had only just thought of this problem, but suspected that John and Sherlock had been dwelling on it for some time. Trevelyan was the only one who was in possession of the secret of how to cross from one universe to another; and he might send them into any dimension he pleased. How could they know that he wouldn't open fire and everyone of them would wake up in another universe?

"I have thought about it" was his friend's reply, "and I am certain Sherlock has too."

They had thought about it, therefore they had not found a solution, or he would have told him.

Bill opened his mouth to say something, when suddenly, he realized.

He wasn't clever; he wasn't Sherlock; but he worked in a lab, at least when he wasn't running after John, and he was good at what he did.

Despite only ever having done simple tests – simple by the standards of someone like Trevelyan – he knew scientists.

"There has to be a default setting."

"What?"

This time, the cause for John's annoyance was that he didn't understand, and Bill suppressed a smile as he answered, "A default setting, a button that's labelled "Safety" – whatever. Trevelyan can't want to be stuck here. There has to be a way he can return whether he's injured or weak or simply desperate. If there's a machine, there has to be something like an on-off-switch.

John didn't reply immediately. When he did, however, there was definitely something like pride in his voice.

"Bill, you aren't a genius – but you possess certain qualities which the most intelligent men of the planet would give everything for".

Bill took it was the compliment it was.

They continued strolling through the Botanical Garden, and he remembered how often he'd been here when he and Mike had been children. His brother loved flowers, had a small corner of his flat dedicated to pot plants, and he reminded himself that he should visit him soon. In the last few weeks, they had only seen each other when there had been an emergency or he'd been angry at John...

His friend's phone chimed and he stopped as he took it out and read the text.

"Sherlock has found the glass house".

Bill turned around and traced their steps, hearing John following him.

When they found the others, Sherlock wordlessly pointed at a glass house not far off; Bill couldn't see anything special about it, but, as his flatmate had pointed out, he was no genius.

"Shall we?" John asked, and, as always when his friend uttered those words, Bill could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Greg wasn't surprised that their way led them to an abandoned warehouse. It seemed that some crucial meetings simply had to take place in them.

He glanced at Mycroft, who was staring straight ahead during the cab ride. He chose not to interrupt his thoughts, seeing as he was probably reminding himself of the truth, and he knew how difficult it could be. During the short time since they had left the office, he had had to force himself to remember Sherlock's return three times. The intervals during which he could remember were getting shorter.

He'd asked, as they had been leaving the office, if getting rid of Moriarty would help. Mycroft was unsure, and that was never a good sign.

"We will see".

See they would; and honestly, Greg didn't know how he would react. After Sherlock had been gone, he had sometimes dreamed about meeting Moriarty; he had imagined what he would do to him, and he hadn't felt sorry for it afterwards.

His lack of remorse for planning a hypothetical murder had scared him more than the fact itself. It was only logical that he should feel the need to avenge Sherlock. He had been his friend, and Moriarty had almost destroyed him.

And now there was the chance to do what he had wanted to do for so long.

He had sworn to protect this city and he had never broken a single law before meeting Sherlock; he would never have considered it. But here he was, ready to commit murder.

Strangely, he found that he didn't miss the young, optimistic PC he had once been. He had done more good through the help of his friend than he could ever have dreamed he could.

And hadn't he sworn to protect? Killing Moriarty was the best way to ensure his city's safety.

Maybe he should have been concerned because he had often heard murderers defending themselves, and sometimes it had sounded just like his thoughts now, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Then again, they wouldn't kill him. Not yet. They had to find out if he worked with Trevelyan first, and if so, if he knew how to bring Sherlock and John back.

After they had done so –

But there would be time to think about it. Should it happen that Sherlock and John came back and Moriarty was still alive, there was enough time to think about it.

They had left the office without telling anyone where they were going, Anthea looking on worriedly, and had taken a cab a few blocks away because the British Government didn't want to leave any traces. Plus, as he had explained, they couldn't afford forgetting by being in the company of someone they knew and whose memories had changed, and his driver had been working for him for years.

Mycroft Holmes rarely explained himself with so many words, and it told Greg how worried he was. He supposed that, for a man as focused on his mind as the British Government, it was scary and stressful to be confronted with the possibility of having one's memories replaced; and Sherlock and John being trapped in another dimension certainly didn't help matters.

The thought crossed his mind that they might not be able to get them back. It wasn't the first time. He looked out of the window and determinedly thought of what lay before them, the confrontation with Moriarty. He couldn't afford to fear never seeing them again. He had to believe he would. He had to.

The drive finally ended and Mycroft walked away, Greg following him. The British Government hadn't said a word since they had left the office.

They walked silently beside one another for ten minutes, and the DI was beginning to wonder where the warehouse could be located when a hand on his arm stopped him.

Mycroft pointed to his right.

Nestled between two apartment blocks was indeed a warehouse that had seen better times.

Mycroft spoke.

"As my brother would say, the game is on".

Greg looked at the dark windows of the warehouse. He thought of many victims and three long years and a madman with a heart who had been ready to lose the game if it meant saving the people who meant the most to him.

The game was on indeed.