Warnings for mentions of violence, actual violence, gore, death and the like throughout this story.
The series of operations meant to save his life had been successful. For the most part. Mycroft studied the man pacing in the room he'd been confined to since his release from hospital. It was his brother, and yet...it was not. There had been damage done. Of course the surgeon responsible had paid for whatever mistakes he'd made, mistakes that had resulted in...this.
As if sensing he was being watched, Sherlock paused in his endless pacing and stared up at the camera mounted above the securely locked door. Mycroft looked away, unable to stand the sight of his brother's eyes. No longer the clear blue-green that they'd once been, they were instead a cloudy grey, as if cataracts had filmed his vision, with permanent streaks of red in the sullen yellow that had once been pristine white sclera.
His eyes weren't the only physical changes that had resulted from his return to life after several hours of death: his skin was even paler than when he'd been living, with a grey tinge to it; the bones in his left hand had never reset properly, leaving it a gnarled claw; and there was a series of nearly invisible scars along his hairline, where his scalp had been peeled away during the delicate surgical procedure that had reactivated his central nervous system. But it was his mental state that was the most disturbing part of his transformation from corpse to living man. Sherlock had always been cold, reserved - much like Mycroft, point of fact - but now his gaze burned with an intensity that was almost alien. There was madness there, where before had only been pure, icy logic and intensity of purpose. A purpose many would call evil, but with no signs of the insanity that lurked there now.
"Where is she, Mykie?" Sherlock asked, his voice rougher and far more gravelly than it had been in his previous life. There had been permanent damage to his vocal cords during the days spent in cryonic suspension immediately after Mycroft had found him bled out on the floor of Professor Smythe's laboratory. "You promised you'd find Molly Hooper and bring her to me! Where is she?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes. His brother's obsession with the Hooper woman only worsened with every day that passed. "I, I want her, Mykie," Sherlock whined. "I need her. Bring her to me NOW!" He screamed the last word, spittle flying from his lips as he clenched his fists and raised them above his head.
Mycroft watched unflinchingly as Sherlock worked himself into a rage, pounding his fists against the walls until they were bruised and bloodied while he screamed himself hoarse. After approximately thirty seconds of this display, the elder Holmes pressed a button, releasing the aerosol sedative that would send him into swift unconsciousness, the only way to free him from the grip of one of his maniacal rages.
He turned away from the monitor as Sherlock collapsed to the floor and activated a second one, entering a complex string of numbers known only to himself. He hadn't saved his brother out of sentiment; anyone who believed him capable of such a soft emotion didn't know the real Mycroft Holmes. And if any such hypothetical person required proof of his cold-hearted pragmatism, well, the fate of the other Holmes brother, Sherrinford, would surely be enough to disabuse them of their foolish notion. And quite possibly send them screaming into madness as seemingly incurable as that which currently afflicted the youngest of the three Holmes siblings.
No, he'd had his brother brought back to life purely to serve as a guinea pig, to allow the delicate series of surgeries to be perfected on someone less important to Mycroft's future than his actual target: Dr. Harrison Smythe. The man who'd created the only working interdimensional transportation device known to science in any nation - and he'd made damned sure of that.
Oh, he had plans for Smythe and his singular machine. He'd been working feverishly on reproducing it from scratch ever since Mycroft had had him brought back to life, his terror at the possibility of dying again being all the incentive needed to ensure his cooperation. Mycroft watched him for a few minutes, then shut down the feed, complacently certain that things were going according to plan.
He continued to believe that right up until the moment he discovered that Smythe had secretly altered the specifications of his device so that it worked as a one-way portal only, designed to self-destruct after a single use - and that Sherlock had escaped, murdered Smythe (permanently, as it would turn out), and used the device to transport himself to another universe.
A/N: Hang onto your hats, folks, this is going to be a bumpy and (hopefully) scary ride.