"This must have been dropped by them." Sherlock declared, bending down to retrieve the jacket from the mud. Already the landscape was blinking, the changeable nature of the realm they now tried to stay put in.
"Are they here?" Mycroft wondered, looking down upon the jacket with admitted confusion.
"They could be anywhere. But they might be close." Sherlock guessed. He rose to his feet, draping the muddy black fabric across his shoulder and pressing his nose to the collar. It smelled like dirt, though there was a splash of cologne still lingering. It was a pleasant smell, one that must have been manufactured closer to their present time. The staying power it had within the fabric and against the elements also had some telling qualities. The jacket itself was ancient, pawned or bought from an antique shop, though the cologne spoke of its recent significance. The travelers had been here, they had perhaps been wandering in the same direction that Sherlock and Mycroft were now going. And so the brothers followed. They allowed themselves to wander in and out of the time zones, succumbing to the choices of the atmosphere that surrounded them. In this realm the time was more like a liquid, like waves rolling across and forcing them under its influence. In some cases Sherlock felt as though he was being pummeled underneath, as if he was lost and tossed, unable to catch a proper breath and unable to clarify anything about the world surrounding him. Other times he recognized the gentle lolling of a soft current, as if he was floating upon an inner tube above a slowly flowing stream. In this setting the timelines rolled carefully over, cleanly with every step he took, and sometimes they allowed him to walk a couple of paces through their allotted time, as if he had accidentally strayed too far into the second that had been captured and, instead of wandering across time, had delved into it once again. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was seeing the same things as Mycroft, though the brothers kept the beam of light on their left, making sure never to stray too far from their only source of escape. Every now and then Sherlock checked in on the present time, making sure that there was no talk of turning off the machine once and for all. Somehow they had not walked away from the spot of interest, for each time Sherlock looked he could see the machine in all of its humming glory. No matter how far Sherlock walked, no matter how his feet ached or his body began to wither from exhaustion, they had never taken one step away from the machine's place of residence. According to infrastructure of the present Sherlock had yet to move a step from where he originally spawned. The room itself stayed consistent as well. Occasionally there were scientists poking with it, reading the dials and trying to ensure that it was maintaining its speed and consistency. Other times the room was empty, which honestly made Sherlock feel more confident about his countdown. The moment the scientists began to swarm he would have to make a decision fast, which was never his strong suit.
"We must be walking closer to the present, not farther from the agency." Sherlock suggested. "I can see still see the machine."
"I hope that means we're on the right track." Mycroft grumbled. Sherlock nodded, shoving his free hand in his pocket while he pushed up the visors and swung the jacket across his shoulders like a preppy schoolboy. He wasn't too coy to acknowledge the elephant in the room; in fact he was already beginning to consider the most polite way to ask. As they continued on in their silence it had only grown too apparent that Sherlock had done all of the talking. He had summed up the whole of his life since his brother's death, and yet Mycroft had never done him the same honor. Sherlock didn't care if the occurrences in these long years did not make any logical sense. He just wanted to know what had become of his brother since the life leaked out of him in the warm, perfumed bathwater.
"Have you been wandering through this the whole time?" Sherlock asked at last. Mycroft remained quiet, down casting his eyes and making for a rather incompetent search party.
"Yes." He agreed hesitantly, as if this confession would have come to a surprise.
"What are you searching for?" Sherlock wondered.
"I'm just walking to walk."
"That doesn't sound like you. Not Mycroft, the man who's allergic to exercise." Sherlock defended, prodding his brother in the side as a sort of mockery. Mycroft merely growled, as if he wasn't quite as acceptant of his brother's jokes on this side of the curtain. Sherlock took the hint, clearing his throat shamefully and deciding it was better to hold this conversation in the serious tone it ought to be.
"Have you been able to review your past? Or are you trying to review the past that has been created since you left?" Sherlock wondered.
"I'm not looking for anything specific." Mycroft said again. Sherlock quieted, supposing that it wasn't a question he was supposed to be asking. And so he changed his tone, changed his attack.
"Can you tell me anything from before you died? We never got an explanation. Never a note." Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft grunted, as if he regretted having left his family in a plunging darkness. Perhaps he didn't understand just how hefty his loss had been, how difficult for his mother and brother to decipher.
"I found out about our father, Sherlock."
"Charles Milverton." Sherlock agreed, stammering out the name almost subconsciously as it overtook the fallacy of the 'William Holmes' he thought he had grown used to. His father and his farce. Mycroft nearly stopped in his tracks, his leather shoes hesitating within the mud before he resumed his pace reluctantly.
"How do you know that name?" he wondered.
"John Watson discovered it. He's done his research, thirty years of it before I even met him." Sherlock admitted.
"Thirty...Sherlock! You're dating someone who's at least fifty years old?" Mycroft exclaimed, slapping his brother playfully upon the shoulder as if trying to knock any sort of common sense into him. Sherlock merely grinned, figuring this was a good chance to explain the more complex side of John Watson. He told the story of the flash drive from his own perspective, starting with the time traveler and ending with Victor's search and seizure. Though this he was able to explain their theory about John's connection to the traveler, as well as the loads of information he had at his disposal in order to make the machine they were now taking advantage of. It seemed a fantastic story, and Mycroft listened with the quiet content of someone who did not have to do the talking. As Sherlock spoke he felt his voice becoming choked, and when he ended with the theory that the time traveler loved him his voice twisted and went silent all together. The boy clenched his fist, realizing just how powerfully he loved that man. Mycroft must have sensed this, too, though for his part he stayed silent. Perhaps he was reflecting on his own love life, and how much he wished there had been some effort on Victor's part to demonstrate how his love was justifiable and returned. Both brothers struggled with their internal thoughts, both mending broken hearts and becoming too engrossed in the act. Sherlock was so busy weeping for himself that he hardly noticed the sound of a voice coming from somewhere off his left shoulder. The sound of a cry, distant and aggressive, from somewhere within the timeline that he now tread. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, unable to accredit that yell to a lonely farmer or a stray bird. The field was empty this time of year, not hosting a tractor nor any sort of wildlife. Sherlock could see for miles, and when he stopped in his tracks he could hear it again...a yell, undeniably human.
"Mycroft, do you hear that?" Sherlock whispered, pulling his brother by the wrist and hoping they might share the same time zone. There was no way to tell if they were coordinated appropriately, though as Sherlock concentrated his energy he was able to step forward within the world, blocking the rest of the seconds out for this moment of dedication. There it was again, a cry. Sherlock picked up his speed, now recognizing that the consistency of the cornfields had been interrupted with lumps upon the ground, the heaving and twisting bodies of very lost men. It took the whole of the boy's willpower not to concentrate on them yet, he denied himself the freedom to make theories he might rely too heavily upon. If he focused on anything other than where his footprints landed he might go running off thirty years too far, coming back empty handed without the chance to try again. All that mattered in this moment was staying consistent within this timeline, running towards the shimmering light that meant a free ride home.
"Sherlock, they're people!" Mycroft exclaimed, catching up to his brother's shoulder as the two boys descended upon the squirming lumps on the ground. Mycroft was right, of course. The lumps were humanoid, colored blobs that did not belong in the cornfield. They were splayed across the ground, their heads sunken into the mud, their limbs sprawled. Sherlock was unsure if they were exhausted or close to death, though as he yelled out his return he felt the truth of the matter fall freely from his lips. It was not just the orange blob struggling in the corn. It was the feeling he got, the feeling of reconciliation. He knew what it was; he recognized the body before he could identify it any further.
"John!" Sherlock screamed, descending towards the figure and nearly falling face first in the corn in an attempt to steady himself upon his knees. The boy wobbled in the mud, pulling at the shoulder that was now shielding him from the rest of the Doctor's body. John was lying on his side, and with some effort Sherlock was able to flip him upon his back to reveal his face, gasping for breath with parched lips. It was indeed John Watson, more accurately; it was whatever was left of him. Sherlock's heart plummeted, unsure if there was any life left within the body.

"Sherlock, they're withered." Mycroft commented, prodding at one of the other scientists who now lay groaning where she lay in the dirt. He was still on his feet, emotionless, poking a bit nervously with his toe. Sherlock took a startled breath, cupping John's face in his hands as he tried to ignore the gaunt cheeks that exposed the smooth bone structure beneath. There was a faded look to his hazel eyes, and even as they stared up upon his savior it did not appear as if he recognized him. And yet there was life. And that was enough for now.
"John, can you hear me?" Sherlock demanded, rubbing his fingers across John's face in an attempt to wake him from this exhausted delirium.
"I'm...what time is it?" John whispered, his voice jumping as his trains of thought collided. Perhaps he thought he was being woken by an obscure alarm, as if he was being scolded for being late to work. John used his fading strength to hook one of his hands across Sherlock's wrist, as if he didn't understand the sentiment but appreciated it all the same. Sherlock's heart leapt, though he clutched the hand close upon his own and knelt his face closer to the stirring Doctor, thankful for the simple action of being acknowledged.
"It's been about four days since you left." Sherlock explained. "Four difficult days, I can see."
"This one's dead." Mycroft announced, crouching over the other scientist who was lying remarkably still compared to his companions. "Dehydration, I presume."
"We need to take them back." Sherlock insisted, his voice wavering but determined. "Somehow we need to take them through that beam."
"We fell out of it." John explained weakly, his fingers loosening across Sherlock's wrist as if he imagined that he had said all he was expected to say. Sherlock nodded, shushing the Doctor to ensure he saved his words for the most important questions. John fell silent, wobbling his head through the mud and staring with lost eyes.
"Do you think being with us will be enough?" Mycroft wondered apprehensively. "If they were thrown from the beam I'm not sure my grip will be tight enough to keep them steady."
"They must have landed here. What time period is it?" Sherlock looked around, unable to recognize any landmarks that would be telling. There didn't appear to be familiar infrastructure, though the cabin that he had sought refuge in had slowly caved in, its roof sagging and waterlogged from years of disuse. The family must be gone, then. Perhaps they were thirty years out, enough for the children to have moved on and the parents to have died. That would put them somewhere in the two thousands, allowing twenty years of time to separate themselves from their present time.
"Not close enough." Mycroft admitted dismally.
"We must try." Sherlock begged, sitting back upon his heels while keeping a single hand pressed against John's cheek, as if to remind the Doctor that he was still here even if his face did not appear in the man's direct line of sight.
"Blood." John whispered, his voice so minimal that his cracked lips hardly moved to form the words. "We need blood." He repeated, this time with more emphasis, his body quaking from the pressure of speech. Sherlock's eyebrows creased.
"That's...that's awfully terrifying." Sherlock admitted, recoiling from his lover despite his most aggressive tendencies to lean forward. Mycroft regained his position at Sherlock's side and squatted down, stroking his palm against John's cheek as if trying to coax more words from his exhausted mouth. The Doctor mumbled something incoherent, though his eyes sparked with an unexpected recognition.
"You need our blood?" Mycroft clarified in as soft a voice as he could manage, to which John nodded minimally. The Doctor's hand finally fell onto his chest, as if he didn't have strength enough to clutch to Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock's heart came close to shattering, worried that John's time in the past had driven away not only his life force but his intelligence as well. What was he rambling about, what sort of solution would that be?
"What's that going to do?" Sherlock wondered, asking his brother rather than the decrepit man who was beginning to drool across his own chin. Mycroft hesitated with his answer, as if he knew what he had to say but not exactly how to say it.
"In my final days they experimented with me, they drew my blood and tested it against the normal human's. It was...unique." Mycroft admitted hesitantly. Sherlock remembered his quick vision of the past, in which he watched scientists labeling beakers of his brother's blood. Could such an inhumane practice now save their lives?
"Being unique doesn't mean a splash of it will help these poor things step back into the beam." Sherlock defended.
"I actually suspect it will." The man admitted, sitting back on his feet and rummaging through his pocket with careful fingers. Mycroft produced a razorblade onto his palm, a shining and fresh knife that still gleamed dangerously across the edge. The man chuckled a bit guiltily, glancing only once in his brother's direction to gauge Sherlock's reaction.
"The irony of death, I suppose. You sometimes get to carry it with you." Mycroft muttered. Sherlock swallowed down his response, worried that he might scream or vomit in an all too delicate situation. He didn't appreciate that thing; he didn't like to see the murder weapon any closer than he had to. That was the very blade that had been bobbling within the draining water, the gleaming spark of metallic that Sherlock himself had fished from the blood red bath. John gave a sigh of relief, thrusting his arm in Mycroft's direction in the hope that he would understand the urgency.
"Our blood has a way of altering DNA." Mycroft explained quickly, as if hoping science could help disguise the morbidity of the situation. "When entered into a blood stream it can take over, rewriting the abilities of the host cells almost instantaneously. Of course we never knew the significance of this, as the hosts never started to see into the past...though we of course did not have a time machine to test any farther theories."
"You're not planning on bleeding him? Mycroft, he's hardly got enough in his system as it is!" Sherlock defended, snatching John's exposed forearm away from his brother in an attempt to save it from a similar fate. In one hand Mycroft held the razorblade; the other groped its fingers uselessly in the air, looking for a victim.
"Let him." John demanded in his struggling voice. "He's right." Sherlock doubted that John recognized the faces above him, much less the voices which had taken to arguing. There would be no emotional bias here; nothing to force the Doctor's logical brain from straying.
"We've got no choice. We can't risk him falling through again, there's no guarantee we'll find him again." Mycroft explained. "They have to make this trip, or they'll certainly die."
"And to make this trip we need..."

"We need your blood." Mycroft finished, holding out his hand in welcome. Sherlock's eyes widened, glancing from his brother to John Watson and wondering just how trustworthy those familiar faces seemed to appear. Mycroft looked serious; his black eyes did not show a spark of hesitation. Then again the man had always been so set in his ways. Even if he did have second doubts about their plan he would not show it, he tried to demonstrate an utmost dedication to his original intentions. It was annoying how stubborn he was, and it was even worse to know that there was nothing you could do to counter it. Sherlock was helpless against his brother's will, and even more so helpless against his own. If this was the only way to save John Watson then he would have to struggle through. It was almost ironic, a blood sacrifice. It was terribly medieval, even when they were existing on the brink of futuristic advances. Finally Sherlock extended his arm, allowing his brother to unbutton the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his thin yet unbroken forearm.