Mycroft admitting to being wrong about anything would normally be cause for celebration and caustic remarks on Sherlock's part, but at the moment he was too frustrated and his control over his current emotions too tenuous. The detective leapt to his feet and approached his brother. "It took you long enough," he hissed, fists clenched.

"Sherlock, please," John begged, his voice low and rumbling. "Now isn't the time."

Mycroft actually swallowed visibly in relief. Seeing such volatile, unbridled anger aimed at him from 'John's' face was unnerving. Intellectually, he knew it was Sherlock, but that thought was even more unsettling. He forced himself to present a calm facade.

"Considering the circumstances, I've had Anthea purchase clothing and other necessities for duration, there's no need for either of you to pack you bags. However..." He took out his mobile and moved to the kitchen where he started taking photos of the experiment setup from every angle conceivable. When he was done, Mycroft glanced over the surface of the table. "Where is your lab book?"

Sherlock went over to the wreckage he had left of the coffee table and picked up the notebook. Thankfully it had escaped damage. He looked at it, smoothing down a bent corner on the first page of his notes. He turned and handed it reluctantly to his brother, then, looking up into Mycroft's eyes, he said some of the hardest words he had ever had to say, "I don't understand what I was trying to do." Startled, he looked around when he felt a large hand on his shoulder. John had stood at some point and was trying to reassure him, for which Sherlock was oddly thankful.

Mycroft looked at the notebook seriously. "Then we shall find out. Gentlemen." He stepped aside and gestured for the other two men to precede him from the room.

After several minutes of reading, Mycroft closed Sherlock's lab book and closed his eyes. He didn't say anything for several long seconds, finally he looked at his brother, sitting across from him, and said, "Sherlock, you can't really have expected your experiment to work. In order to experiment at the quantum level, you would need the resources of CERN, not your kitchen."

Sherlock, all 5'6" of him, bristled. "I got a result."

"Some result," John rumbled, with a hint of bite. "I would much have preferred no result, you git."

There wasn't much the detective could say to that. He bit his lip and looked out the car window, feeling more than a bit guilty for getting them into this situation.

John, who was sitting as close to Sherlock, nudged his friend. He needed the grounding effect of the detective's arm around his shoulders. Sherlock lifted his arm and put it around him without further prompting. As soon as the doctor felt more stable, he addressed Mycroft. "What's wrong with Baskerville? I mean, I don't look forward to going back to that place, but you've brought an entourage with us."

"Yes, what are you afraid of, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked his brother.

The elder Holmes decided to be frank. "I'm afraid of losing you."

John and Sherlock exchanged incredulous looks.

"What do you mean?" the detective asked. "What's the danger?"

Mycroft sighed. "There's a program that forcefully 'recruits' volunteers of a particular nature: highly intelligent, sociopathic individuals. They..."

John cut him off. "He's not a sociopath."

"I know that, John," Mycroft soothed. "But the people who run this particular program are not convinced. My people ran interference the last time the two of you were here. Now, though... Can you imagine any of the researchers at Baskerville wanting to let the two of you go now that they have proof personality transference is possible? You will be the perfect lab rats to them. I won't let them keep either of you."

Mycroft's voice was fierce and determined at the last, unlike anything John had ever heard before. Sherlock had heard it the day he had been checked into rehab against his will. He knew what it meant: God help anyone who got in the way of the British Government.