A/N: I rediscovered the word "triumvirate" whilst looking for something other than "trilogy", and I liked it. I think I've been adjourning a dystopian piece for a long time, and so I started this weeks ago. I'm pushing it up on the cue, it's not fully sketched out yet. Don't get excited, I'm not a writer, remember?

Sure it's Britain, sometime in the future, don't ask me how Britain got there. Any similarities with real life people and events would have me as a much better writer than I am.

I'm not repeating this warning to get attention. (Not a drama queen. Trust me, I deal with plenty of those, I know how they're like.) But: I'm not done with this story, and if it's too grim I'll take it down yet. It just fits my mood right now. -csf


1..

Sherlock Holmes called them the Triumvirate of Evil. What a pompous name for a set of three of the most powerful and influential men in the Western culture of Today. But not even Sherlock, outspoken as he is in his devil-may-care attitude, would dare to call them out like that today. Not since these three started gaining power and traction on the media as the people's heroes, sanctified as saviours and vilified as miscreants alike. Polarised sides shouted out their opinions as facts, unwilling to hear each other. But those were the extremes, too busy belittling each other, causing us to miss the bigger picture.

Somewhere in the spectrum there were all sorts of opinions about the three wise men of Today, at least at first. Then slowly, but inexorably, all those dissonant voices were silenced – won over, some claim; enlightened, singled out, or plain bribed and threatened – others whisper; until all the press, radio and telly outputs, all the pub conversations and neighbours over fences in rural areas, followed the same mantra. The wining sides' words became attuned to the carefully scripted sentences of the power. And if you were not with them, then you were against them, queen and country. A traitor, a scoundrel, a misleading clown that would next say left was right and right was left. It didn't really matter which was which. The officials will tell you which way to turn, that's all you need to know, why ask questions, you must have a hidden agenda or like the authorities' spotlight.

Along with the quietening of any differing voices – mocked at first, then targeted by the public and finally outlawed by the government that made them offensive in the first place – came the publishing of official propaganda and then guidelines and laws with fines and imprisonment. The pace was slow, incremental, and so we missed its progress altogether.

No one thought it possible in the twenty first century Britain. If one man foresaw it first, the slow decline of democracy, lifting his head above the crowd to look straight in the beast's eye, it wasn't even Sherlock. It was his big brother Mycroft Holmes, who got side-lined from his "minor governmental position" early on, silenced by a powerful non-disclosure agreement and subject to official ridicule of disbelief if he shared the dark secrets he had had access to.

Mycroft has retired to a deserted island in the Pacific, I believe. Too bad. He might have helped give us the leverage we need. I hope he likes coconuts and gets plenty of those wherever he is.

Sherlock won't talk about his brother when we meet up in absolute secrecy, us a bunch of renegades, trying to keep ourselves together long enough to overthrow an insidious dictatorship of sorts (a validated dictatorship, some argue), and return some form of liberty to the land. Our biggest hindrance being that the voice of the official propaganda is also said to be the voice of the majority, nowadays. No one is too sure, because the polls are government issued anyway. It could be the British people are against us. There is no fight, they would say. We like the orders we're given. And those who don't conform to the standard message? They can pack up and leave. There's a new reason why Great Britain is an island nowadays. It's not just geography. It keeps itself whole, locked, tight, insular.

.

I walk the much too quiet London streets with a spring in my step. My hands in my jacket pockets, one clutching the provisional document allowing me to cross the territories under constant vigilance because I'm a doctor, and on the other hand my cocked handgun, taking no risks. I glance around sharply, detecting the usual snipers placed in the rooftops of high buildings. That's how peace is maintained nowadays in the tourist filled areas beyond, where I'm not allowed to enter. London has been split between postcard anachronism and hidden reality. Snipers are the game's judges, that keep the players to each of their fields. But if snipers are meant to keep the order of the lucky foreigners travelling on complicated visas, then how come the snipers are always facing the outskirts of the Tourist Area? Looking down on us? Why is the government so keen that us two groups not meet? Forget Big Brother, the Orwellian analogy is outdated. This is Big Voice In Your Head.

Just on cue, my phone rings in my pocket. I let go of the doctor's pass, not the gun, to take up the expected call.

"Is everything alright, doctor Watson, member 13369851 of the civilian population?"

'Yes, just fine. Thought I saw a funny shaped cloud, that's all.'

"Your report has been logged. No further action is required. We will send you a transcript of this interview later on. Goodbye."

'See ya', I hang up, doing my best to control an imminent outburst of short temper. Don't want to be invited for another Reintegration Camp, thank you very much. It was much too boring. Sherlock almost went bananas. That's when we found we had lost the influence of the elder Holmes by our side. Damn Mycroft and his rediscovered principles. He played right into their hand. So he got kicked out for his trouble.

At least he didn't have to see the inside of a Reintegration Camp. All physical work and absolute silence, enough silence to drive a man insane. No talking, no music, no dance, no religion, no internet, no sex, no contact with each other or the outside world. Just you and your darker inner self, and hard manual labour. After a while, most cracked by the sheer weight of their own demons, and that's how it was so clever. We were all so used to distractions, mind numbing telly providing us with the emotion thrills that compensated for the increased societal levels of loneliness reported, mock celebrity feuds online and outrageous political figures in ultimate absurd remarks contests playing the international arena. We couldn't cope when suddenly it was just us. I didn't crack, but it was close. I had something to keep a hold on my sanity, my friendship with the greatest man I've ever met. I kept replaying Sherlock's cases in my mind, much after they started feeling like strange, detached figments of my imagination and not real recollections. There might have been something in the drinking water too. I kept my faith in Sherlock and it got me through. Sherlock locked himself up in his mind palace, reorganizing the place in reverse alphabetical order. He now takes a couple of extra seconds to retrieve data, he's a bit messed up in the head, but he made it out sane. Just like me.

I still swear it was lucky they didn't persecute Sherlock Holmes like they did with so many other public figures. They are stuck in the Tourist Area. I hear they perform 24/7, give autographs and smile for the tourists' cameras as permanent access ambassadors to a country that is no longer like they portray it. They put on a show constantly in fear of becoming superfluous if they fall out of fame. Well, in some ways that has not changed.

I glance at my watch. I must hurry. Sherlock will be going out of his mind. He hates it when I take risks. I'm all he's got left of his beloved Baker Street, since Mrs Hudson went to live with her sister in the States (Mrs Hudson still had her double nationality, I hear they live in a nice farm) and 221B has had mandatory governmental cctv cameras installed, like all homes in Britain. Most people installed them willingly, under the guise of artificial intelligence helpers and with nice feminine names like Alexandra or Sheeri.

At first Sheeri would tell you how to make apple pie or how tall the Eiffel tower is. Now it gently reminds you it's time to get up, how to brush your teeth, when to put rationed petrol in your car and what your healthy, balanced takeaway meal, state ordered and delivered, will be (extra sauces if you are one of the 10 best productive employees in your company today). Under the new regime, the economy has soared to higher planes. There was unprecedented cash flow coming to the kingdom's safes. They take care of the ordinary citizen's every need. Even the need to think, question, or argument a point of view is done for you. All with streamlined efficiency.

Actually, I think doing any reasoning has been outlawed too. All important things have. Except for cricket and football. Those are national sports still.

I arrive at the familiar dark door with the golden numbers, lean in to the eye retina scanner (always gives me the shivers, that laser beam) and get IDed in.

The government knows who I am, alright. In fact, they technically own my biometric data. Hence why there is no more criminality, they tell us. All murders are recorded by Sheeri (et al), all fraudsters are caught by eye scanners and DNA markers, all shoplifters are sent to Reintegration Camps.

Sherlock is not amused.

There is, however, a triumvirate of powerful men who have methodically stripped us from our burdens – and liberties. And a bunch of renegades fighting them from the heart of Baker Street itself. That's us, by the way.

.

'Sherlock, I'm home!'

The man himself lowers his violin, the one luxury of personality he couldn't leg go. He hates it that Sheeri records his playing and refuses to play his own material, keeping his own creations locked up in his head.

'John.'

He looks relieved as he lays eyes on me. We do our little show for the cameras. He comes to hug me – as if it was absolutely normal that the detective was a hugger – and as he walks away he's got hold of my illegal gun to put it away, holding it hidden away from the cameras. I don't turn as he goes to the kitchen. The oven door, I hear. Ah, that's where he's hiding it today. No need for Sunday roasts when the kingdom provides nutritiously balanced meals.

Somewhere we still have some of Mrs Hudson's apple pie, frozen for posterity. And it isn't done to Sheeri's recipe.

'How was it, today?' Sherlock asks me.

'Young woman. She had been caught by the cctv handing out flyers under the bridge. Or maybe some concerned citizen panicked and turned her in. The tasers had roughed her up badly.'

'Another one? Still some renegades out there, then?' Sherlock dares to ask.

I know the correct answer by heart: 'Traitors, yes.'

Codename: Blue. One of our new operatives. I don't know her real name, it's best that way, I can't ever be coerced to give an information I don't know. But I suspect she's one of Molly's friends, Molly introduced her to us once.

Yes, Molly Hooper is one of us.

'Is that all?' Sherlock asks.

I blink. Right. Now for the code. 'I counted my steps today. You know, for exercise. Eighty-six steps across Baker Street from the Tube.'

There are 86 of us now. I recruited the young woman. She had come to a meeting and left without a word. The leaflets were not our idea. Too dangerous to hand out proof of dissidence. I offered her a different kind of danger, alongside us. Gave her hope.

'I thought you said eleven steps yesterday.'

Meeting tonight at eleven. Will do.

'You're hearing things, I tell ya.'

Sheeri settles our dispute, in its shrill automated voice: "Doctor Watson has said eighty-five yesterday, according to my transcripts, Mr Holmes."

'Ta, Sheeri', I mutter, disguising a grimace.

"You're welcome, doctor Watson."

.

Night filters in through every window and every pore of 221B. I know it's dark and late. If I hadn't held on to my father's analogue wristwatch instead of more modern 5G enabled wrist bracelets, I wouldn't be able to tell the time without waking up Sheeri. I want to avoid her insidious spying presence.

Eleven o'clock. Time to get the action rolling.

I furtively climb down the steps from my bedroom, carefully avoiding the creaking ones. There are no motion sensors on the landing just yet. Sheeri is thought to be enough to record our comings and goings. And besides, I'm just heading towards the bathroom. Very natural. Or it would be, if Sherlock was not about to meet me there.

Don't think the kingdom cares about our sexualities, even if there was something there, but I want to avoid the lowdown about STDs and how to stop their spread, that Sheeri is commanded to give any pairing. Romance is absolutely dead in Sheeri's AI world.

I walk the corridor in the darkness, knowing it by heart. I palm the wallpaper until I meet the frame. I open the bathroom door, sneak in and close the door after me, desperately trying to avoid the click of the catch.

'John.'

I jump a mile high as I turn, heart beating out of rhythm in my chest. We're caught!

'Shush!' I try, desperately, but it must be too late!

'Oh, please, John!' he decries, pulling up higher the thermos bottle in his hand. He shakes it in the air, suggestively.

'Sheeri?'

'Yeah. Inside. She won't be able to transmit from in there.' Looking me over he insists: 'Breathe, John.'

I glare at him. 'I'm a bit touchy, okay? They got me. They chipped me this afternoon.'

'GPS?' Sherlock's expression is at once all seriousness.

'Nano-neurotransmitters too. The whole shebang.'

GPS trackers, the type used to locate lost pets, were just the start. Every citizen accounted for. Next came the neurotransmitter levels modifiers. A deep skin tissue happy pills dispenser of sorts. That helped curb emigration, suicide and depression rates all at once.

'They must suspect you, John.'

I shake my head curtly. 'No. They're just paranoid bastards. Have you got my med kit?'

'Yes, of course. What should I do?'

I take a tight smile. 'I've got a chip nestled in my neck veins. Don't let me nick one and bleed out. No hospital would take me, no doctor in their right mind would help me.'

'No', he agrees solemnly. 'The only doctor in London who will take that risk is you.'

'Jackpot. Lucky me. I'm already here.'

'Sit down on the bathtub edge. I'll hold the lamp and the mirror. We'll get that out of you, John.'

'Sherlock?'

'Yes, John?'

'Thank you.'

'For what?'

'Risking your life to help me, for one.'

'You know me, John. I'm too selfish to share you', and he smiles warmly as he hands me the scalpel.

.

'You're late.'

Molly Hooper's voice is cold, so unlike the mousy morgue doctor we used to know. She has gone through quite a transformation. Quite, obedient government employee during the day, at nights like these she's an empress of fire and death. Her job has given her a particular ease with the scalpel and chainsaw, but her special talent does not lie there. She's... incredible.

Sherlock speaks first, after a wave to the gathering crowd. We all defied the imposed curfew to be here tonight. At midnight as usual. 'I had to clean John.'

'Another chip?'

'More than that.'

She looks past the detective, onto me.

'Is he fit to be here?' she asks coldly.

'He'll be fine', Sherlock vouches for me.

We managed to avoid the bloodbath in the tub. No traces were left. I've got a bandage on my neck and my shirt buttoned up.

'He doesn't look fine.'

'I said he's fine', Sherlock insists. She shrugs.

'Better to bleed out than to give us all away', Molly mutters as she turns back to the crowd. She scans the familiar faces with efficiency. Once there was an unfamiliar face, a spy sent from the enemy side. She grabbed my gun and shot the spy before I could open my mouth. We helped her dispose of the body, of course we did, it helps when you have a morgue full of those and you are the records keeper.

My turn for a shy wave about, behind her back. I get a few smiles returned. I recognise Blue on a front row of the seats. She looks hopeful, young, full of belief. She's the reason we fight, she's the future.

Sherlock takes me by the arm and leads me to a couple of seats nearby. Molly walks steadily to the pulpit, looking us all in turn. Double checking our identities, no doubt.

'I heard an auspicious rumour today.' Immediately the room erupts in precocious uproar. Molly gestures angrily. Immediately the whole place falls eerily silent. 'The triumvirate doesn't feel quite as secure in their perch since the shut down we caused last week. They are looking for leverage. Something that can legitimise their power once again. An object of dominion, sovereignty, victory. I heard it's going to be the crown jewels themselves.'

Sherlock blinks, opens his mouth, stops himself. My heart hurts for my friend. His brilliant mind slowed down is one of the most painful things to witness. I keep absolutely still, silently willing him on, avoiding any extra pressure. Finally Sherlock reconnects to the moment, and speaks out:

'It's been years that the crown jewels have been sold to a private collector to pay for the royal family's increasing financial debts. The Tower of London in the Tourist Area has nothing more than nice glass mounted on brass, in display. I believe Jim Moriarty was one of the last person's to handle the real deal.'

Molly looks down to Sherlock from her high perch. Gone are the blushing, the stuttering, the awkwardness. Gone is that adoration of the detective too.

'Then it's glass they'll seize, Sherlock. It hardly matters. The people will believe what they are told.'

Sherlock opens his mouth once again, no sound comes out. She waits kindly. He gives up, blank, empty. She presses her lips thin and carries on. I let my hand go find Sherlock's trembling one and wind my chubby fingers around his cold ones.

'The crown jewels are going to be moved, for the ceremony. We need to intercept this, stop the transfer. We must dent their power as we can. Erode it as water erodes rock. Steady and patiently. One day we'll have our country back. And we'll return those jewels to where they belong, away from the greedy hands of the triumvirate!'

The room cheers madly. Molly finally allows a short shy smile that makes that crowd the more wild, as they see the human side of their leader; and, of those who knew the pathologist, who would have guessed?

I glance at Sherlock. He's got his eyes closed and looks immersed in thought.

Hopefully somewhere in his mind palace he's planning the best way to go about snatching the nation's jewels.

.

TBC