The morning came abruptly, a series of events that were not expected nor factored into his master plan. Sherlock had expected breakfast to go smoothly; he had imagined that his illegal escapades would only begin once lunch was digesting within his stomach. He hadn't expected to be woken up by consequences, especially not when the sun might still be asleep. There was knocking, loud knocking, pounding against the wood. Perhaps it was aggressive, though it still felt as if it was intermingling with the worst of Sherlock's dreams. He had somehow fallen to sleep with his palm squished against Victor's cheek, perhaps having begun as an affectionate tap and turning into something that appeared to be sleep repulsion. Their arms were tangled within the others', their weight unevenly distributed so that the other bore the whole of it. Sherlock was nearly suffocating under Victor's chest, perhaps that was why, in his sleep, he had chosen to defend himself. Either way it was no state to be caught in, and certainly no state to answer the door.
"Who the actual..." Sherlock was shushed by Victor before he had the chance to spew his choice words.
"They don't sound happy." Victor warned.
"Maybe it's about John!" Sherlock exclaimed hopefully, sitting up eagerly and nearly pushing Victor off the edge of the mattress. The boy scrambled to his feet, joined quickly by his companion as they allowed the mattress to squeak back into its most comfortable position. Sherlock could hear Victor fumbling with his outfit, trying to make it look as if he had simply popped in for a very early visit rather than stayed the night. Sherlock dashed to the door, not considering the consequences of his actions before he swung it open. Perhaps the more cautious side of his brain was still fast asleep, having forgotten about the enemies that lurked these halls. Sherlock couldn't see who was waiting for him, though by the forbidding presence on the other side of the hall he could tell that it wasn't one of his more trusted allies. If this news was about John it must have been grim. He could hear many hearts beating, he could hear many boots shifting their weight upon the tile.
"Mr. Holmes, move aside." It was Mr. Trevor's voice, perhaps the most unappreciated tone that could be heard in such a situation.
"Certainly not. I'm not decent." Sherlock demanded, nodding his head as if he figured that was a reasonable excuse. He tried to keep the door shut as tight as he could, hoping Victor had the sense to hide behind it and avoid his father's gaze.
"You're fully clothed." Mr. Trevor defended.
"Well then...well I have no way of knowing that. I'm blind." Sherlock pointed out.
"Move, or you will be moved. I know my son is in here." Mr. Trevor demanded.
"You can't move me. I could buy and...Hey!" Sherlock was interrupted with a violent push; apparently he had tested the older man's patience for a moment too long. Sherlock's balance was shaky to begin with, so an unexpected push was all it took to knock him to the ground. Sherlock collapsed upon the tiles, dropping his hands in front of his head and trying to roll into a protective ball upon the floor. Half of him expected to get kicked from all angles, as if those heavy boots that were hesitating in the hallway were here to inflict pain. Instead he was passed by, ignored. This was not usual treatment within the agency, though for the sake of his life expectancy Sherlock was glad to hear the parade continue by without passing him another glance. This procession, however, was not good news for his lowly bodyguard.
"Victor, I've had enough of you." Mr. Trevor announced, his voice calm and collective in that icy cold retaliation. That sort of voice that was somehow much more frightening than a yell. "This is the second Holmes brother I have caught you with, and my patience has run thin."
"It wasn't like that!" Sherlock protested, though his voice was drowned out with a hallow scream, one which used the voice of Victor Trevor. It was a garbled thing, as if it was already choked with blood. Another body hit the floor, a bigger one. From his place on the tile Sherlock could hear the vibrations of Victor's impact, the smacking of his head and the whispered moan.
"Mr. Trevor, we didn't do anything! He's my bodyguard, he's allowed to..."
"Be quiet, Sherlock, or I shall arrest you too." Mr. Trevor threatened.
"Arrest? Is that what you're doing with your son? Throwing him in jail for homosexuality, as if this is the nineteen twenties? Like some sort of homophobic witch hunt?" Sherlock scoffed.
"He breached contract. It's a perfectly legal reason for imprisonment. Gentlemen, take him away." Mr. Trevor demanded. Sherlock writhed upon the ground, hearing only Victor's groans and the scraping of his fancy shoes against the tiles. He must have been lifted between two of the guards, carried away in an unconscious state.
"How monstrous." Sherlock declared after the boots had faded away. He didn't bother offering Victor a farewell, as he knew his words would be wasted on deaf ears. Whatever consciousness had been left in that boy had been knocked into the floor.
"No, that's merciful. I'm taking pity on my poor, impressionable son. Anyone else would have been fired, perhaps jailed in a federal facility. No, this is kind."
"We didn't sleep together." Sherlock demanded. "We just slept in the same room. It's like a sleepover. You don't find police raiding middle school girl's houses, do you?"
"I wrote specifically that he was not to get attached. This was not a personal assignment, it was a professional one. He was not to have sleepovers...or whatever the correct terminology is." Mr. Trevor admitted. "Not after his first escapade with your brother." the man's footsteps were moving, quietly in an attempt to keep his mobilization hidden. Perhaps his long speeches were only attempting to hide his search, as if he didn't want Sherlock to notice that he was moving progressively around the room. And yet he was interested, not so much in his son, but in the remnants of his stay.
"Why was Victor at John Watson's apartment?"
"He was there to get me something. It was a personal trifle." Sherlock insisted, rising to his feet with some difficulty and straightening the world out within his mind. He was upright, standing upon two feet which felt lost underneath him. The world was black, and he could not yet tell which way was up.
"Oh yes? And do tell what that trifle is. We need record of everything that comes into our facility, and everything that goes out."
"Don't start making up rules now." Sherlock snarled.
"We've had these rules the whole time, it's not our fault you've neglected to follow them!" Mr. Trevor demanded. "Now, if you'd be so kind...?"
"It was a sweater. One of his cashmere sweaters. I missed the texture, that's all." Sherlock admitted with a little snarl.
"Familiar with it, are you?" Mr. Trevor scoffed.
"Going to arrest him too? In fact, I'd love to see you try. I'd love to see you heathens try to get him! Better let him rot in jail than starve in the time space continuum!" Sherlock exclaimed. Mr. Trevor clicked his tongue, followed by the most damning sound of laptop hinges.
"I don't remember this being among your personal belongings." Mr. Trevor muttered.
"It's a gift. Shut that, don't look at it!" Sherlock lunged towards where he remembered his desk to be, trying to take the old man down but instead being met with a most frightening choke hold. Mr. Trevor may have been withering in stature, though his strength seemed to have stayed about constant to his younger years. His fingers wrapped around Sherlock's windpipe with such a deadly grasp the boy was almost knocked backwards, stuck in the equivalent of a metal trap. He gasped, trying to pass air through as much space as he could manage between the clenching fingers.
"This is no time for games, Mr. Holmes. If you do not cooperate with your superiors I shall have you arrested as well!" Mr. Trevor threatened. "Hold your tongue, and stay still."
"Yes sir." Sherlock managed, pulling helplessly at the man's fingers as they remained closed around his throat. "Yes sir!" he repeated, this time more urgently, kicking his feet out from underneath himself in order to use gravity to his advantage. Thankfully this worked, and for the second time Sherlock crumbled to his knees.
"Now then." Mr. Trevor hummed, clicking onto the computer and pausing in his commentary for the brief moment it took him to recognize the importance of the folders he was skimming. Sherlock winced, rubbing his eyes behind the glasses before reaching for his headband where he had left it on the nightstand. For the moment he would prefer that lapse in time, he would prefer being one step behind than plunged into eternal darkness. He wanted to have tabs upon this man, he wanted to know what all of his limbs were doing at any given moment. Sherlock was fitting the device over his eyes as he heard Mr. Trevor utter the first of his profanities.
"This is...this isn't possible." The scientist muttered, pulling his fingers across the keyboard as if he was trying to take his anger out upon the laptop itself. "This is...what is this?" within a split second the man's mysticism had turned to betrayal, and Sherlock could feel those black eyes bearing into his very soul. He clenched his muscles, retreating towards the edge of the bed in an attempt to protect himself from the old man's violent process of discovery.
"It's a flash drive, sir. Information." Sherlock admitted.
"It's like nothing I've seen before. It's not math of this age." Trevor demanded.
"Actually, it is. You've seen its translated version." Sherlock defended. "That's what got our men lost in the first place. That math failed us, it failed its creator!"
"Boy, I don't like riddles." Mr. Trevor warned, taking a threatening step in Sherlock's direction and pounding his shoe hard against the tile to make his point evermore clear. He wanted the boy to cower; he liked to know when he was properly instilling fear. Perhaps the man mistook Sherlock's fright to be similar to submission, to cooperation. Yet the more he threatened the more of a martyr Sherlock was willing to become, and as Mr. Trevor crept dangerously close to the truth Sherlock decided that was enough. He would keep John's secrets, at least as long as they kept the man with all the answers lost within their final frontier.
"What have you done with Charles Milverton?" Sherlock demanded, deciding to return fire. He was sick of being asked question, he wanted answers instead.
"Who?" Mr. Trevor attempted, though his hesitation before the question only spoke to his knowledge on the subject.
"Charles Milverton! William Holmes! My father, the one your agency stole from us. What have you done with him, where has he been taken?" Sherlock demanded.
"Those are not questions I'm permitted to answer. Not questions you're permitted to ask!" the man insisted, his voice dropping back to that controlled and icy determination.
"I'll trade answers for answers, Trevor, but you better start telling your story first." Sherlock demanded. "It seems as though we've both got some infuriating mysteries on our hands."
"This is out of my jurisdiction." Mr. Trevor insisted.
"Unfortunately that flash drive is out of mine as well. Shame that the man who can answer your questions has been abandoned." Sherlock pouted.
"John knew the risk. He knew that he may never get back, and that was something he was prepared to do." Mr. Trevor pointed out sharply. The boy stumbled to his feet, finally able to see the room around him. He could still watch as the old man's face contorted, happy that the thirty second lapse allowed him to enjoy it during a period of silence, one where he could peacefully watch the man's face burst into a remarkable shade of crimson.
"I've had it with you." Sherlock decided. "Don't touch my things, and get my bodyguard out of prison."
"Sherlock, you're in no position to make a demand!" Mr. Trevor reminded him, though he was met with a retreating back. Sherlock knew that he was currently on the edge of a precipice, one he would be pushed over in due time once the true interrogations would start. Once Moriarty caught wind of a secret being harbored within his facility neither Sherlock nor Victor would see the light of day (not that Sherlock had seen that in years) until the matter was settled. And yet it couldn't be settled so easily, could it? Never so easily. It would be days until Moriarty would be convinced of the truth, and those days were simply not possible for the travelers lost on the other side. They would starve before Sherlock had the chance to escape his prison cell. If he was going to save them he would have to do it now.
"Don't walk away from me, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Trevor warned, his throat growing a deep and ugly roar. Sherlock had no intentions of listening, nor even of standing to defend his cause. Instead he kept moving; he kept his visor pointed to the ground, watching for any dangers that might impede his direct shot towards the laboratory. Thankfully Mr. Trevor had sent all of his guards away with his son, as if he had expected Victor to put up more of a fight. Based on strength alone this would have been a safe guess, though Mr. Trevor had failed to factor in the sheer ability of misbehaving. Victor was programmed to follow orders, while it was Sherlock's natural predisposition to ignore them. He had to do what he had to do. This was one of those times when Mr. Trevor's demands were met with careless ears. Sherlock looked back, noticing that he was being followed. The old man was still yelling, though his fragile limbs were not built for the high speed chase Sherlock was willing to begin. The boy began to walk faster, following the trail his feet had begun to memorize after all of these weeks. Even though he had the advantage of sight he remained mostly blind, staring at his feet instead of the road ahead. Either way he knew where he would end up, he knew how many steps he had to maintain this distance.
"Sherlock, stop right there!" Mr. Trevor called, suddenly breathless by his attempt to start into a light jog. As soon as Sherlock noticed the old man's tempo change he decided to match it, and then to surpass it. Thankfully his young body, as unworked as it was, was still able to get into a quicker pace much more quickly and reliably than could his adversary. And at this time of morning these quiet and empty hallways were perfect for Sherlock to take off unopposed. There was no one lingering about, ready to take the scientist's side. He would not be restrained by passerby. So long as Sherlock could leap into that machine's influence before Mr. Trevor caught up he would be free to pursue his goal. At the moment all he could think about was how to get in, even as he ran Sherlock did not consider how he would get back out. Sherlock could hear Mr. Trevor's pounding footsteps behind him, and yet the man was wasting his time and strength. Sherlock lifted his head and hand at the perfect time, unlatching the door with such precision that he didn't have to lose momentum as he passed cleanly through. The boy slammed the door shut and, upon failing to find a lock, set to work as quickly as he could to reverse the stream of the machine. The buttons were not so confusing, a couple of levers and buttons left for him to press. Sherlock cranked the lever for good measure, pressed the big green button that most certainly meant 'go', and momentarily halted the machine's monotonous humming. It took a split second, where he held his breath and the machine held its churning. It was as if they were both waiting for something extraordinary.
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare!" Mr. Trevor roared, forcing himself against the handle and stumbling into the room.
"I wouldn't step in here if I were you." Sherlock warned tauntingly. "It'll start any moment."
"You wouldn't know how to start it." Mr. Trevor insisted, his voice spitting with a fabricated optimism.
"Dare to find out? Back off, Mr. Trevor, or be taken away." Sherlock warned. "I'm going to get John Watson back. And when we return, we're done with you. You and your ridiculous agency."
"Sherlock, turn it off." Mr. Trevor demanded, though for all his harsh words he seemed too reluctant to step any closer. In fact the voice seemed to be fading away.
"Any moment now, and you'll be caught up in that blinding flash." Sherlock warned. "You'll risk the lives of your scientists but never your own."
"There's no harm in this. You'll be trapped in there until you comply. You won't be able to get it to work." Mr. Trevor decided, retreating slowly out the door and closing it partially across the frame. He took cover behind it, too apprehensive to take any chances. Sherlock snarled, finding more time to play with the buttons on the machine. Thankfully they were labeled, though the words were no part of the English language that he would associate with time travel. Perhaps they were all just acronyms, made overly complicated by the egos of their creators. There was a dial to be set, this was the easy part. Sherlock twisted until it settled upon 1950, the scientists' ultimate destination. He had to wait until the seconds aligned with his actions, tapping his finger against the metal box until finally he could check that his dial was set correctly. Again the boy pressed the button. The machine started to beep, then began to emit that most welcomed humming. This was the same that had been droning throughout the agency for the past three days, though it was being sung in a more optimistic pitch. It was as if the machine rejoiced at being able to transport a savior for its previous explorers. Sherlock held his breath, remembering witnessing this same process from behind the observation glass. Little did he know that he would be following the same steps just days later. But this was for the greater good, not just selfish scientific theories. He had a motive, a most powerful motive that Mr. Trevor would never understand, nor ever approve. Sherlock sneered at the man through the crack in the door, now shut so securely that all he could see was a single black eye peering from the hallway. Mr. Trevor was a coward. Hopefully his negligence in this case would lead to some sort of punishment from the rest of the agency. How would he explain to Moriarty that he was too afraid to stop their most prized asset from following their most needed brain? Sherlock hoped that he appreciated this game of cat and mouse. Sherlock hoped that his cat understood he had lost. Sherlock flashed his snarkiest smile, and in return, as if cooperating with the dramatic effect, the machine flashed its own array. This flash was blinding to the onlooker, blinding him just effectively enough to hide the disappearance of Sherlock Holmes from the present time. With a sharp tug to his stomach and a brilliant radiance that not only shone through the vison but around it, Sherlock was suddenly launched into another world. It wasn't a momentary transition, not a flash, a second, and an arrival. Instead Sherlock could feel himself moving through time, he could feel as the layers continued to move past him at a constant rate. Every second of time, each one known to man, was beginning to work its way past the boy's eyes. Sherlock lifted the headband from his head, able to catch mere glimpses of each time period before they began to swirl faster, more aggressively, past his head. It was like a cartoon drawn on a stack of notecards, in which the little stick figures begin to dance as you flip the pages fast enough between your fingers. Almost as if time itself was moving Sherlock could see the room changing, changing in reverse. At first he was met with the room he had started in, watching figures dancing around, watching the machine begin to degrade into nothing and then ultimately disappear. The lights turned on and off, eventually lab tables erupted from the floors. These were the more familiar days, the ones Sherlock was most used to. As time continued Sherlock watched the walls get unpainted, the wires falling out of the plaster, the metal beams falling away from their structures. Soon he was in a shell, shivering through the nights and days of the construction as they focused on other rooms of the gigantic agency. Eventually the pillars fell away, the construction vehicles faded, fields erupted underneath his feet. This was the scene he was most familiar with, the scene he associated with John's designated time zone. He had been staring at an empty field, waiting for John Watson to show up. And perhaps he had, in some way. Perhaps Sherlock had missed him. He waited through about forty years of empty fields, watching as the plants grew, sprouted, and died underneath his feet. He shivered through long winters, watched as tractors and then workers came about and seeded. Beneath his toes Sherlock saw soybeans, corn, and various winter vegetables growing through the dirt. Forty years went by, and the whole affair might have lasted him a single minute. The machine must have been humming very loudly on the other side of the room, working its magic to get him transported back to the era he was supposed to go. Of course Sherlock hadn't considered how he would be getting back. He hadn't even considered if that was a possibility. All the boy cared about right now was John Watson. Everything else took a back burner, everything else felt insignificant. And if Sherlock had to live in the fifties with his Doctor, so be it. There was nothing in the present moment for him anyhow.