If you recognize it, it's not mine.
Sherlock opens his eyes to the barrel of a gun. He stops mid-groan and freezes. His eyes travel up the length of the barrel, past the well-muscled arm and broad shoulders barely covered by a ratty black T-shirt to meet intense hazel eyes. Sherlock blinks three times as he reconciles the lean red-headed man to a person in his mind palace.
"Mycroft?" He gasps in shock. The handsome man, in his early thirties, grins a perfect smile and nods.
"The one and only."
Mycroft leans forward and Sherlock, realizing he is lying on hard cement in a dimly lit tunnel, struggles to sit up. "Oh no, none of that," Mycroft chides and presses the gun to Sherlock's forehead. "You're going to have to tell me who you are and whose side you're on before I can let you up."
Sherlock slumps backwards. For once in his life he is absolutely confused. The last thing he remembers is telling John goodbye and jumping off the roof of St. Bart's. He is supposed to be with Molly now, how did he end up here?
"I'm Sherlock," he manages, because Mycroft is starting to get a dangerous look in his eyes, and Sherlock really does not want to get his brains blown out by his brother. That would definitely be embarrassing above all else.
Mycroft's expression hardens. "So I'm supposed to believe that you're my baby brother."
Sherlock is about to make an acidic comment about how he is definitely not Mycroft's baby brother, when Mycroft raises the gun and brings it down sharply on top of Sherlock's head. The world falls into darkness once more.
Sherlock registers that his head is throbbing viciously, and his neck is sore from being tied to a chair while unconscious. He wakes up hating Mycroft a little more than usual, but is silenced at the sight of Lestrade sitting across from him, eating a raw steak. This confirms that he is definitely not in his London, considering his Lestrade is not this tall, or buff, nor would be casually blotting blood running in trials from the corners of his mouth with a grubby napkin. And his Lestrade would definitely not smile at him with a mouth full of feral razor-sharp teeth.
"Awake, are you?" Lestrade growls. In Sherlock's London, he would sneer at Lestrade's obvious deduction, but here Sherlock just sits in mild shock. Lestrade stands up and places his plate, wet with blood, on a small table and leaves the room. As the door shuts with a soft click, Sherlock's mind begins buzzing sharply.
Room. Pale grey walls. Perfect square. Constructed recently. Small black scuffs on the ground. Tables and chairs used to be here. Study room. Scent of food still lingers. Worn floors. Many people coming and going. Not study room. Lunch room. Tables and chairs were moved out to make it look like an interrogation room. Mouth. Dry. Kink in neck. Not too bad. Unconscious for four hours at most. What side are you on? War. Battle. Rebellion. Mycroft. Not Mycroft. Lestrade. Not Lestrade. Definitely not London. Same characters. Alternate universe? John. Where's John?
The door suddenly opens and in strides Mycroft. He looks arrogantly down at Sherlock, and Sherlock immediately tenses and meets his gaze haughtily.
"I'm going to ask you again, and you're going to tell me your story." Mycroft says commandingly. Sherlock suddenly finds the words tumbling out of his mouth. Moriarty, the Great Game, how he jumped off the roof of St. Barts and woke up here.
When Sherlock's brain catches up with his mouth, he slams it shut, and looks in distrust at Mycroft. "How did you do that?" he snarls angrily, hating the feeling of being out of control.
"Do what?" Mycroft says innocently. Sherlock narrows his eyes.
"Make me say everything."
Mycroft raises a single eyebrow, and that gesture, so familiar, is what brings Sherlock's confidence back enough for him to spew out his deductions. "Lestrade was guarding me, but when I woke up, brought you. Obviously you're the leader of some rebel movement in….your world." It feels wrong to say London in a place that is evidently not Sherlock's London. "You're in here alone with me, so confident about your prowess over mine, but I can tell you have backup ready in case I do pose a threat. Most likely a hidden camera in that plate that Lestrade left on the table, it's deliberately placed, so not embedded in the plate, but rather just underneath it, though I can't see it because of the shadow that the plate casts. You've heard the name Moriarty before, obviously he's a threat to you, as much as he was a threat to me."
Mycroft smiles and raises a hand. Sherlock immediately is quiet although he has a queasy feeling in his gut that says there is something else acting besides that simple gesture that is making him comply with his older brother.
"Very good." Mycroft laughs lightly. "Evidently you are my long lost baby brother." He has a gleam in his eye that Sherlock is all too familiar with, "Let's see if we can't make good use of you."
As Mycroft frees him, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. "What makes you think I'll do what you want?" As Mycroft slices through the last knot, he straightens, slides the blade into a hidden sheath, and gazes at Sherlock analytically.
"Because if you don't, your world, as well as mine, may be destroyed."
Sherlock follows Mycroft out of the room and into a dimly lit circular foyer. There are eight doors leading out the foyer, each of them identical. Mycroft strides to the door directly opposite of the room they just left and walks into a black tunnel. Sherlock hesitates once in the tunnel, but his eyes cannot adjust to the disorienting darkness. Mycroft's voice floats humorously towards him. "Just walk forward until you bump into me." Sherlock counts his steps as he walks uncertainly into the darkness. Twenty three steps later, his outstretched hands brush Mycroft's back. "You were counting? Good. I would hate for you get lost the next time you come here."
Sherlock scowls in the darkness and waits as Mycroft deftly pushes a sequence of buttons, opening up another door to the left of them. Blinking in the sudden light, Sherlock steps through into another circular room. A single round table with several keyboards lying askew and various computers mounted to the walls. The main attraction of the room is the people though. Sherlock's mind palace trembles as he tries to reconcile the images of the similar, yet entirely different faces sitting at the table, or leaning against the walls.
A naked Irene Adler types furiously on a keyboard, perched on Molly's lap. She is still beautiful, but free of makeup. Molly turns to look at him, and although all her features are as docile as ever, he is surprised by the intensity of her gaze.
Anderson smiles at him, and the smile doesn't look forced at all. Donovan's eyes are closed and she is leaning forward in concentration, left hand clutching at Anderson's, simple gold band winking on her fourth finger.
A blond man stares at the screen as Irene's fingers change the coordinates on a map. A handgun lies on the table in front of him and he spins it absentmindedly. An assassin. Mary, but not Mary. An older man grins welcomingly at Sherlock, his eyes clever and clear. He gestures at a plate of biscuits and a cup of steaming tea on the table. Mrs. Hudson? No, Mr. Hudson.
Another door on the other side of the room slides open and a massive silver wolf bounds through. A blur of movement, and then Lestrade is reaching over the table for the biscuits, a wolfish grin on his face.
The last person to enter the room starts shouting before she even is in clear sight. "Mycroft, what the hell were you thinking when you stopped my deployment to Sussex? It's a massacre out there. They need a doctor, more than you need assistance in interrogating some new recruit."
A petite young woman, with beautiful ebony wings curling from her back, storms into the room, glaring furiously at Mycroft with piercing navy eyes. She is dressed in military fatigues and combat boots, and a loose oatmeal jumper is tied around her waist.
Sherlock's mouth slides open and he can't help but croak in disbelief. "John?"
Lestrade bursts out laughing, and even Mycroft gives a throaty chuckle. The blond woman presses her lips together in distaste, sliding into a chair.
Mycroft grins; Sherlock can't get used to this new Mycroft who saunters and whose demeanor speaks charming confidence, rather than icy power. "Sherlock, this is my team of rebels. Everyone, this is Sherlock, my long lost baby brother."
Sherlock bristles at the term baby brother, but there is something about the way Mycroft says it that makes him feel…warm inside. Then he shudders lightly, because the last thing he wants is to start caring about his brother. Mycroft debriefs everyone on the fact that Sherlock is from an alternate dimension and then instructs Irene to provide an update on the battle in Sussex. Unnerved by the easy acceptance of the fact, Sherlock interrupts Irene, "This all well and dandy, brother dear, but I would really prefer to know what the hell is going on before I get recruited into another fight."
Mycroft looks tensely at him, and runs a hand through his hair. "Look Sherlock, I'll explain everything tonight, but first I have to stabilize this condition." John – not John – glares at him, and Sherlock feels even more out of place as everyone's voice tumbles over each other, speaking about strategy and referencing names he's never heard before. A touch at his elbow, and Sherlock turns to see Anderson smiling at him.
"Let's step outside and I'll try to explain everything to you."
Another trip down the dark tunnel and Sherlock follows Anderson into what looks like a small library. It feels wrong that Anderson of all people is the only one who is willing to help him out, and Sherlock has never felt so lost before. Anderson indicates that Sherlock take a seat and he leans against the wall, sighing thoughtfully.
"Where to begin? I know your story," Anderson interjects as Sherlock opens his mouth, "I was the one keeping an eye on Mycroft when he was interrogating you."
Sherlock wrinkles his brow, "but Jo-, that woman with wings, said that she was helping Mycroft interrogate me."
"She was," Anderson grins, "And her name is Joanna, not John. I'm guessing she's a man in your dimension."
Sherlock nods mutely, as Anderson continues, "I'm really tempted to ask about how my alternate person is, but I don't think I'd want to know." He goes on to tell Sherlock about the war raging in this London, a war that has been bubbling for over fifteen years and is ready to reach its climax. Moriarty had been ruling London for thirty years, and now Mycroft was leading a rebellion to change that. Sherlock absorbs the information greedily, and his interest peaks as Anderson begins to talk about talents.
"Not everyone has a potent one," Anderson says. "Mine is heightened senses, so I can see, smell, taste, hear and feel everything more acutely than most people. Mark Morstan is a crack shot, but he got that from training just as much as talent. Donovan, my wife, can see the future, but it's always shifting and hard to interpret. Irene's is invisibility, which is fairly common, but don't tell her I said that; same with Lestrade, he can shape shift – only into a wolf though, so in my mind, not as impressive as the people who can turn into all sorts of animals. Controlling the dead is Molly's talent – so she's useful whether we're winning or losing," Anderson laughs. "Mr. Hudson, I don't even have a term for his. He's just godly at organizing things, which, in a war, can honestly make or break a campaign. Mycroft, on top of being a genius, can manipulate thoughts." Sherlock blanches at this, remember who easily Mycroft extracted information from him. Anderson notices and twists his mouth in a half-smile, "I know, scary isn't it? He and Moriarty have really potent talents, which is why they're the ones leading each side." At Sherlock's questioning look, Anderson sighs, "Moriarty can manipulate fear." He trembles slightly, "He can figure out what haunts you and twist it so you do whatever he wants, which is how he ended up controlling all of London for a such a long time."
Sherlock nods thoughtfully, and then asks, "And Joanna? Is hers just that fact that she has wings?"
Anderson grins, "No, she and Mycroft are the reason we even have a chance against Moriarty. She's amplifies talents, and that's why Mycroft wanted her here when he was interrogating you. His nickname for her is his conductor of light."
Sherlock feels a flash of jealousy thinking about Mycroft and Joanna's closeness, then dismisses it quickly. Joanna is not John. "And my talent? If Mycroft has such a powerful one, is it reasonable to think because I am related to him, I also have something?"
"Oh definitely," Mycroft says, stepping through the door. His eyes are tired, but he looks satisfied, so Sherlock deduces that the battle of Sussex was a success. "Your talent is the reason I haven't seen you since the day you were born."
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