Author's note: This is another story that just wouldn't go away, and I'm testing whether anyone would be interested.
I don't own anything, please review.
It was a part of his work Mycroft never had much affection, but which was nonetheless necessary.
Even though he would never understand why the Government insisted on conducting strange experiments and hoping that someday something useful would come out of them. He was still trying to get them to understand that until now nothing had because nothing could – take Baskerville for example. He simply couldn't imagine a use for glowing rabbits, no matter how many times Doctor Stapleton was granted more funding.
Sherlock would enjoy checking the different labs, hidden all over the land (for all the high security, Baskerville was too obvious, really; if they conducted all the experiments people believed they did, nobody would know where they were, or that they even existed), visiting them, making sure everything was right. Mycroft did not.
First of all, he had to leave London for almost a whole week – he visited the labs a long way from the capital first and slowly made his way back to the city. Then he had to look at science equipment he knew everything about but didn't really care for – Sherlock would have had the time of his life, no doubt, and he would gladly have allowed his little brother to do it for him, but he wasn't responsible. Not even with John Watson beside him; the good doctor had always made clear where his loyalties lay, and he would probably turn a blind eye if Sherlock wanted to annoy his older brother by playing around or stealing something.
The one good thing that could be said about the week was that it was almost over now; only the lab in London (which he would never allow Sherlock to know about) remained, and then he could happily forget about all the money being thrown away on useless science for another year.
Yes, Sherlock would definitely like it here, he mused while being shown around the facility yet again, appearing interested even though he wasn't. It was a pity they weren't as close as they once had been.
Their relationship had changed for the better, though – after Sherlock had returned. Of the three years he'd been gone, Mycroft had known for two that his brother was alive. And he didn't care to remember the year he'd spent grieving and illogically wishing that everything could have turned out differently.
He knew of course that telling Moriarty about Sherlock's life had been the only way to get him to talk, that he'd had no other choice. And yet –
If their relationship hadn't been so complicated, he could have warned his brother himself, instead of telling John to look after him. He and Sherlock could have made sure Moriarty never saw the light of day again.
But it could never have happened that way. Not since he had driven away from an eleven year old Sherlock to go to university, leaving him with an indifferent mother and a father whose ideas of discipline seemed to come from another century. He had told himself it was the right thing to do, that Sherlock needed to learn to cope on his own. He had been distancing himself from his brother for quite some time by this point, to prepare him for their separation, anyhow; it would do him no harm.
Now he was convinced that those lonely years were what had turned Sherlock into who he was now, and that he never would see the small happy boy again, pretending to be a pirate and demanding Mycroft tell him everything he knew about ships and the sea.
He didn't know whether Sherlock still remembered, or if he had long ago deleted all of those memories. It didn't matter anyway.
At least his brother spoke to him now from time to time without insulting him about his weight or asking him to leave every two minutes.
Not that it changed anything. All his actions had been justified. There was no reason to think about the past.
It was this annoying tour that had made him so sentimental; with Anthea looking after the office, he really didn't have much to do but nod and pretend he listened and think.
He decided to make an effort to actually listen – even though he certainly would have preferred not to hear about attempts to produce energy through cucumbers. But Doctor Trevelyan was polite enough, and showed an enthusiasm for his work that reminded him of his brother, so he listened carefully as the scient5ist, getting more excited by the moment, brought him to a room deep in the lab to see the "highlight" (as he put it) of the tour.
"I don't think you have been shown this before – we decided to keep it quiet until we succeeded in operating it" he announced and opened the door.
Mycroft looked at a big round metallic machine, standing on a small pedestal, shining in the neon light. It looked a little bit like a portal. In the middle, there was a square field made from some other metal, and he suspected that whoever operated the machine was supposed to put his hand there.
"This" Doctor Trevelyan said with the air of a proud father, "is the Choice Portal".
Mycroft raised an eyebrow; he couldn't help it. Trevelyan shrugged and smiled.
"I know, but we wanted to call it something different than TIHLX379 – its official name. Plus, it fits."
"What does it do?" Mycroft asked, now genuinely curious. While he didn't have the time to keep informed about all the experiments Trevelyan supervised, he knew that the man was one of the best scientists in the UK, if not the world, and he certainly looked excited. Whatever the machine did, it must be something interesting.
"This machine" Trevelyan elaborated, "is based on the principle of free will".
Mycroft waited for him to explain; the scientist certainly loved to be dramatic, but not even he could completely escape that criticism.
"Every choice we make can change the course of our lives, would you agree?" Trevelyan asked.
Mycroft nodded; he had seen important negotiations abandoned because someone decided to wear the wrong tie that day.
"And the thing is that no one can say for sure what would have happened if we had made another choice at a certain point..."
Mycroft nodded again, wishing Trevelyan would come to the point.
"So" the scientist announced proudly, "This machine will show you".
Mycroft blinked. "I am sorry – you are telling me that a simple machine is able to calculate how things would have turned out if we had, figuratively speaking, taken another path?"
Trevelyan nodded excitedly before replying, "There is no "simple" about it. We have been working on this machine for almost ten years."
Mycroft decided not to answer – he was once again thinking about the funds for this project – and asked, "And, please, I hope you don't mind me asking – how"
"How could it help us to see what could have happened, but didn't?" Trevelyan interrupted him. "This, Mr. Holmes, is only the beginning. We figured it would be easier to start with the past – looking back needs less energy than looking forward".
"Are you saying" Mycroft inquired, incredulously, "That you plan to make people see the future?"
"Not "the" future, Mr. Holmes. A future. A possible future. Think about the advantages – to be able to see what our choices could lead to."
That made sense to Mycroft, especially considering how near-sighted some politicians could be. However, showing anyone the past – or rather, as Doctor Trevelyan would undoubtedly say, "a past" couldn't lead to anything. And that they would succeed in making the machine show somebody a version of the future was by no means certain.
Trevelyan seemed to realize what he was thinking and ventured, "Would you like to try it?"
Mycroft looked at the enthusiastic scientist and realized that he wouldn't take no for an answer.
He sighed and stepped up to the portal.
"So, what do I do?"
"You concentrate on a choice you have made in your life – it has to be a choice you feel strongly about, though, we haven't quite figured out yet how to make appear the little choices" of course they hadn't, Mycroft thought "and you put your hand on the square. You should see what had happened if you had made a different choice in your head – almost like a movie".
Mycroft sighed again. "And how long will this take?"
"Normally the test subjects are able to see a different life in less than five minutes, Mr. Holmes – the mind is quicker than you think". Trevelyan sounded delighted to have another "subject" and Mycroft, deciding to get it over with, put his hand on the square and thought about not telling Moriarty about Sherlock's life.
Nothing happened.
"Another choice" Trevelyan said, "think of something different. The memory wasn't strong enough".
There was only one memory, one choice Mycroft could think of, one he didn't care to remember, but if it got him out of here soon...
"Mycroft, please stay – or take me with you!" the eleven year old begged.
"Sherlock, don't be stupid" Mycroft explained, patiently, "I have to go to my lectures, I can't – "
"I would stay in your flat all day, I promise!" Sherlock looked at him with pleading yes. "Don't leave me here, not with –"
"Sherlock, they are our parents. You will stay here, and you will try to be a good boy, you hear?" Mycroft's voice brooked no argument, and Sherlock, realizing that he couldn't go, looked down at the floor and nodded.
His eyes followed his brother, though, as he walked over to the limousine and was driven to the train station.
Mycroft didn't turn around as the limousine drove away; he knew it was best for Sherlock.
"See?" Trevelyan exclaimed, as a few lights on the machine began to blink.
"The other choice should show up any moment now".
Mycroft wanted to shake his head when suddenly something that hadn't happened entered his head.
He couldn't help himself; he had to turn around.
What he saw was Sherlock, looking after the car with sad eyes, already starting to build a wall between himself and the world.
"Stop!" he cried to the driver, who, while looking confused, did as he was told.
Mycroft jumped out and walked back. When he reached Sherlock, he kneeled down and looked into his brother's eyes. "When I take you with me, you'll behave? No dead animals in the flat? No violin playing in the middle of the night?"
"I swear!" Sherlock exclaimed happily, and Mycroft nodded, taking him with him to the limousine. There parent would return from the city in the evening; by this time, Sherlock would be safe and sound in his flat.
Mycroft blinked, wondering what would come now, how this would have affected their lives, when suddenly, the lights on the machine started blinking more and more quickly and he wanted to draw his hand back instinctively, but found he couldn't.
He thought he heard Trevelyan exclaim something, then there was an explosion, and everything turned black.
Author's note: I'm an admirer of H.G. Wells, which is why the idea for the portal came into my head.
The cucumbers are an allusion to Jonathan Swift, the idea to make it all happen because of choices we have made comes from Douglas Adams.
Doctor Trevelyan is from "The resident patient" from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
So, yeah, I read too much.
Please tell me what you think.