And so it Goes, a sherlock fanfic

And so it Goes

Listen:

Mycroft Holmes has come unstuck in time.

Mycroft Holmes has gone to sleep a senile widower and awakened on his wedding day. He has walked through a door in 2030 and come out another one in 2016. He has gone back through that door to find himself in 2008. He has seen his birth and death many times, he says, and pays random visits to all the events in between.

He says.

Mycroft is a spastic in time, has no control over where he is going next, and the trips aren't necessarily fun. He is in a constant state of stage fright, he says, because he never knows what part of his life he is going to have to act in next.

All this happened, more or less...

Mycroft was working on a letter 'A Complete Compilation of My Travels Through Time' in the basement room of his empty house. It was his housekeeper's day off. There was an old laptop computer in the basement room.

It was a beast of a thing. You - kind readers - who will have taken precious time out of your days to read this, would look at it and perhaps envy what you perceive to be the newest model of computer. But let me remind you that the year is 2030. And it is a brave new world out there.

A world not suited for the tired old dinosaur laptop. It belonged in the basement room with the other storage material, a shrine of a life past that Mycroft didn't have the heart to disturb, which was why Mycroft was typing there instead of somewhere else.

The electronic heater had quit. A mouse had eaten through the insulation of a wire leading to the thermostat. The temperature in the house was down to fifty degrees, but Mycroft hadn't noticed. He wasn't warmly dressed, either. He was barefoot, and still in his pajamas and a bathrobe, though it was late afternoon. His bare feet were blue and ivory.

But here is where the traditional story of 'Slaughterhouse-Five', which you all know so well, ends.

This is where everything changes.

The old grandfather clock upstairs in the sitting room, practically as old as Mycroft was, if not older, chimed low and resonant.

Mycroft looked up from his laptop screen, blinked, and took off his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes. He had been typing diligently for hours now.

His vision fogged and faded.

And gone were shrunken, arthritic fingers, creaky bones, wispy white hair, and thin sallow skin.

Mycroft Holmes was a young man again.

Mycroft opened his eyes in the Diogenes Club.

Funny how the old gentleman's club had survived over the years, even into the far future. The name, and all the bloody rules with it. Lestrade never really cared for them.

Sleet was falling heavily outside, casting and eerie silence over the world sans the pop-crackle of the fireplace and the chink-clink of teacups, wine glasses, and tumblers being lifted and put down.

Then, the front door flew open with a loud boom.

Mycroft did not see it, but he heard it. The entire building heard it. All those ancient old men raising their white heads out of their solitary turtle shells to pay attention.

There was a brief stomping of feet down the hall and the cherry wood door of the paneled sitting room opened.

A silver-haired gentleman strode in casually, hands in his jean pants pockets. This man was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

He saw Mycroft, grinned, and walked over. He threw himself into a stuffed leather couch, deliberately squirming and shifting to get comfortable, causing loud and obnoxious farting noises.

Mycroft whipped his head away and subtly stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to quell a growing giggle at the man's antics. He could never grow tired of it.

With one long, final shift, Lestrade let out a loud and satisfied sigh and settled.

Everyone else in the room sat stunned, scandalized, and in no small amount, disgusted.

Mycroft reached over and slapped Lestrade's arm with a rolled up newspaper and an exasperated smile. Lestrade smiled back and nodded to the still open door.

Mycroft realized belatedly that Lestrade had never bothered to close it after himself. He nodded.

Lestrade grinned wider and stood up slowly, careful to transfer his body weight forward ever so deliberately in one last defiant flatus before standing up. He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat all the while.

Mycroft lost it. He stood up swiftly, stalking as fast as he could out of the room, trusting Lestrade to follow him in his own good time.

He did.

"You arse." Mycroft hissed through his grinning teeth as they left the Club.

"What?" Lestrade whined. "It was funny, admit it, you laughed."

"Was it really necessary?"

"Entirely, Mycroft." Lestrade burst out laughing. "You have to learn to enjoy the small things in life!"

"Like immature flatulation?" Mycroft shot back dubiously.

"It's like sneezing and farting simultaneously during a test in school." Lestrade explained patiently. "And dammit, you gotta live for those moments."

Mycroft's car drove up and Anthea got out and let them in, she would catch another vehicle to wherever she went when not shadowing Mycroft. And despite Lestrade's best efforts, he never did get her to tell him where that was.

Mycroft's driver drove them smoothly to a restaurant without being directed. Lestrade noticed this. "Looks like someone's been planning this for a while." he teased.

Mycroft smiled back. "Of course." He handed Lestrade an ornately wrapped gift that he pulled out of his inner jacket pocket. "It's a bit early, but... happy anniversary."

Lestrade looked a little surprised but regained his composure, smiling and accepting the gift. He placed it down on the seat next to him and kissed Mycroft. "Thanks, Mycroft." he said. "I love it."

"You haven't even opened it."

Lestrade smiled and kissed him again. "I'm sure that whatever it is, I'll love it." Then, he shifted and rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder, absently stroking the band of gold on his ring finger.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Mycroft dropped his head on Lestrade's and let his eyes slide closed, searing this wonderful moment into his brain.

He opened his eyes in Baker Street with Sherlock ranting and raving at him about some case.

"And Mycroft, I swear to God, if you so much as look at Sergeant Lestrade..." Sherlock was saying. That got Mycroft's attention.

"What is this about Sergeant Lestrade?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned, eyebrows furrowed. "You-... don't know? I thought you would have his entire life neatly compiled in a file on your desk by now since it's our second case together. You're getting slow."

"I had other more important matters to deal with rather than micromanaging your life." Mycroft sniffed. "I would have thought you'd be a little more enthusiastic."

Sherlock considered that for a moment before shrugging it off. "Anyway, this Sergeant Lestrade gets me cases and I give him his criminals. We have an agreement."

"And what is this... 'agreement'?" Mycroft asked cautiously.

Sherlock shifted, eyes flitting from one point in the room to another without really focusing. "He... he said I had to get clean." he told his brother.

"Off the drugs." Mycroft elaborated.

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft was silent for a few minutes. "Is it working?" he asked finally.

Sherlock absently scratched the crook of his elbow through his ratty blue dressing gown. "It's-... " he faltered. "The cases are dull and boring. I could solve them at half my brain's functions."

"That's alright." Mycroft said softly. "That's good."

Sherlock swallowed a few times and nodded jerkily. "Yes."

"Then, you should continue this... endeavor." Mycroft told him.

"You approve?" Sherlock nearly screeched in his shock. "I thought you would be the hardest to convince."

Mycroft smiled inwardly. He knew Sherlock would be as safe under Lestrade's supervision as a Holmes could be. There would be that minor hiccup of an overdose that Sherlock would fall victim to next month, but he would pull through.

Lestrade would be there to call an ambulance and resuscitate him.

"Hardly." he sniffed, contrary to his thoughts. "But, I suppose I am at my wit's end. I don't know what to do with you anymore. At this moment, I'm quite willing to try anything."

"Well, now that you've made your unneeded opinion clear, you may leave now." Sherlock said.

"Of course." Mycroft smiled indulgently, rising from his seat slowly and walking toward the door.

He moved at a leisurely pace for good reason. There was someone it was very important for him to meet. His future self remembered this moment well.

The door opened from the outside just as Mycroft reached for the handle.

He came face-to-face with Gregory Lestrade.

The current Detective Sergeant looked mildly surprised at seeing Mycroft. "Oh, hello." he greeted politely, stepping aside for Mycroft to pass.

"Good evening." Mycroft tipped his head in acknowledgement as he stepped out of his brother's flat.

Lestrade offered him one last smile before entering Sherlock's flat and closing the door after himself. Mycroft stared at the closed door longingly for a moment, wondering if he could be permitted to simply open the door again and reenter.

He had no time to make his mind up as he once again slipped into the time stream.

Mycroft blinked his eyes when he found himself sitting in the armchair of his old house. He remembered that he was contemplating a very important question a few years ago on that day he first met Lestrade.

If he knew the future. If he knew how the future would pan out around him. Could he change it? Was it right?

There was a quotation from a film not yet created, that outlined his question perfectly: If God created the world, how do we know what things we can change and what things must remain sacred and inviable?

Was every moment a fixed point in time? If not, how would his actions and non-actions affect the future?

He sat alone in his dark home and thought on his question for the rest of his brief time in that era.

The next day - or rather - twenty-four hours since he was last a withered old man, Mycroft found himself standing in front of a beautiful two-story, brick walled house.

"I mean it, Mycroft." He turned to see Lestrade standing beside him, hands in his pockets, staring up at the house in satisfaction. "You're not allowed to call on your minions to scurry around and arrange your furniture for you. We're going to figure this one out on our own, yeah?"

Mycroft looked back at the house and realized that it was empty. He turned and stared up the driveway where a large truck was parked with furniture and cardboard boxes were being unloaded onto the pavement by his 'minions'.

"But, they know where everything goes." he remarked at length.

Lestrade snorted at him. "No, they know where everything should go." he replied pointedly. "And I never understood why they put your shoe collection in your closet, and not near the door. Or the bleach under the kitchen sink and not in the laundry room. So sod that, we're doing this our way."

Mycroft chuckled a little. "If you say so." he said coolly. "You'll regret it when you see how much we both actually own combined."

Both turned and watched Mycroft's men scurrying about their business. There was already a large mountain of neatly stacked and arranged boxes and furniture climbing high into the air.

"Fine." Lestrade compromised. "They'll move the stuff, we'll just tell them where."

"Deal."

Lestrade looked at him knowingly. "Legwork?"

"Legwork."

They moved in tandem from room to room in the house, mapping out their new home. They were in the master bedroom, unpacking their personal belongings when Lestrade found the first few scraps of Mycroft's future autobiography 'A Complete Compilation of My Travels Through Time'.

He flipped through a few of the loose pages, hastily handwritten and bound together with string. Mycroft had been seven years old when he first began.

After a few moments of studying, Lestrade walked across the room, not moving his gaze from the pages, and sat down in an armchair.

"What is that, Gregory?" Mycroft asked over his shoulder, only now noticing his lover's absence at his side.

"That's what I'm wondering." Lestrade replied, turning the last of roughly seven pages and lifting it up for Mycroft's observation. "What is this?"

Mycroft turned fully and saw what it was Lestrade had been looking at for the last several minuets. "Ah." he said after a moment's panic.

Lestrade merely raised his eyebrows and began reading aloud. "'The year is 1973. I know this because I remember it. But I also remember that I came to be here from 2009 when I was thirty-six years old. I was mid conversation with Sergeant Lestrade down at the Diogenes Club, I wonder how my shift through the time-space continuum will affect the outcome of my past-future conversation?'" He put the pages down slowly. "The Diogenes Club didn't exist yet in the year 1973, Mycroft. And we had never met."

Mycroft nodded, turning his back to Lestrade and continuing his unpacking. "I know."

He could hear Lestrade tapping his finger on his chair's armrest. "What is this, Mycroft?" he asked firmly, at length.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth." Mycroft told him.

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked slowly. "... Have you tried to tell me before?"

Bless him, he was already considering various avenues of explanation to this phenomenon. Nothing was too crazy to be believed. He was most likely considering a sort of time loop scenario in which Mycroft told him everything and he simply did not remember the incident.

"No." Mycroft assured him. "It was just an assumption."

Lestrade looked at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Mycroft took the pages that had started this whole conversation and tucked it away with several other scraps of future references which had been locked up tight to prevent Sherlock from prying.

Then, he took both Lestrade's hands in his and told him everything.

He talked and talked till late in the night until he could not physically keep himself awake any longer. He was drained, both bodily and emotionally. He wrapped his arms tightly around Lestrade and wept.

Lestrade stayed calm and strong through the entire night, running his hand through Mycroft's hair and cooing soothingly until Mycroft slipped through time again.

Mycroft shifted into the year 2013 just in time to hear Lestrade ask him. "You mean you have no idea how this will all come about?"

"Uh..." Mycroft faltered.

Lestrade looked sympathetic. "Again?" he asked.

"Yes." Mycroft admitted sheepishly.

"You told me you were spastic in time last month." Lestrade informed him. "We were talking about this 'Fall' Sherlock would have that you saw in the future and how we were going to figure out a way to stop it."

"Figure out a way to avoid certain undesirable downsides of the Fall, you mean." Mycroft reminded.

"Not stop, right." Lestrade nodded.

"I remember that we sent Ms. Hooper a message through Sherlock." Mycroft mentioned.

"That's a good place to start piecing together our future's-... current plan." Lestrade raked his fingers through his hair. "This time shifting business, it's awfully complicated, isn't it?"

Mycroft smiled. "More than you'd believe."

Farther into the future, Mycroft slipped into time, straight into what seemed to be a battleground.

Bullets were zinging and ricocheting everywhere, wood splinters spraying over him as he ducked behind a solid wood desk.

John was crouched at his side, shooting back at their opponents with his Browning L9A1. Mycroft had gone through the trouble to legalize his ownership of it for his birthday last year.

"Sherlock... where's Sherlock?" John shouted over the noise.

"I don't know." Mycroft yelled back. "Flouncing around and causing trouble behind enemy lines, I'd imagine!"

An easy grin cracked John's face and he resumed his shooting. "Sounds about right." he said. "I'm going to go look for him."

Mycroft dove over and yanked John back as the ex-military man attempted to leave the cover of the desk. "Are you mad? You do realize that there are people shooting at us?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, and Sherlock's out there." he said simply. "I'm going, Mycroft."

"And I won't stop you." Mycroft replied. "I'm just making sure you're aware of the danger surrounding this mission of yours." he said dryly.

John snorted. "I've lived with Sherlock for years now, Mycroft." he said. "Before and after Mary." A brief spark of pain at the memory if his late wife. "He's never eased up on that bloody wall. I know how to dodge bullets."

Mycroft nodded and let him go.

Oh. He remembered.

This is the day... in fact, this is The Day. Capitalized and stressed in a sentence.

As in, the one day in the life of Mycroft Holmes wherein pain and suffering transcended even Sherlock's Fall.

He reached out, but stopped himself from grabbing the back of John's jacket a second time.

He closed his eyes.

Last chance. He told himself as John crouched, ready to take action. You can stop this. But will you?

And the answer came, clear and firm.

No. Not this day. Not this event. This is a fixed point in time. This moment was, is, and will always be. It cannot be changed.

John moved, dashing out from behind the desk. And Mycroft did not stop him. Did not open his eyes. Did not watch him disappear out of the room.

He merely slipped away from this moment quietly.

"And earlier this morning, in the terrorist attack, there are seven confirmed deaths, twelve injured, and counting. We have reason to believe-..."

Mycroft barely tuned into the newscaster on television as he opened his heavy eyelids. He was in a hospital, sitting on a hard waiting room chair. His suit was torn, bloodied, and covered in filth. But he was alive.

Sherlock was in the seat beside his, staring at his feet with a gaze as dead as the corpses he used in his experiments.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Sherlock broke the silence, questioning through his raw and raspy-throated voice. "Why didn't you stop John?"

Mycroft also studied his feet. "Brother, you of all people should know that nobody could stop a man like John Watson when he's on a mission."

Sherlock sucked in an unsteady breath. "And his mission was accomplished." He said. "He saved my life, Mycroft."

"I know." Mycroft whispered.

Tears rolled down Sherlock's cheeks. "He's dead."

"I know."

Just at that moment, a doctor walked into the waiting room from the operating theater. He shook his head grimly. "I'm sorry Mister Holmes." he said, pulling off his mask. "We did all we could."

Gregory Lestrade was also dead.

"I know." Mycroft repeated. "I know." He had always known.

He buried his face in his hands and shut himself off from the world for two days straight. Not even Anthea nor Sherlock were permitted to see him.

And the next time he traveled through time...

John was standing there, looming over him in the Diogenes Club, fuming mad and so very alive.

"John..." Mycroft breathed, hiding his agony under many layers of perfected apathy. "I'm sorry."

John rolled his eyes and huffed disgustedly at him for betraying Sherlock's personal life to Moriarty. So ignorant of the future. "Oh please."

Sherlock. Oh God... Sherlock. John was dead. He was alive now, but not then... not in the future.

"... Tell him, would you?"

John turned and stalked out.

Then Mycroft's mask shattered and he dropped his face into his hands and sobbed.

It was too much. It was all too much.

Listen:

Mycroft Holmes has come unstuck in time.

He says.

All this happened, more or less...

Mycroft slipped back into his present. Reluctantly welcomed back his tired old bones, his paper-thin skin and wrinkles, and cold blue and ivory feet. His present, his fossil-old laptop and unheated house.

Empty house.

The funny thing about time shifting was that the future was a complete mystery to him now. Mycroft Holmes had never slipped into a future farther than 2030.

He had a suspicion he knew exactly what that meant.

There was no 2031 to slip into.

'So it goes.' And with those words he concluded his autobiography 'A Complete Compilation of My Travels Through Time'.

He saved the document and encrypted it so that only Anthea, who had graduated from being Mycroft's PA to Head of MI6 at Mycroft's retirement after the death of Gregory Lestrade, could decrypt it and decide what to do with it.

He closed his laptop and labored slowly up out of the basement and into the master bedroom.

He still lived in that two-story brick house he had moved into with Lestrade. Funny how things never changed even after his husband's death.

He pulled out a gun from the drawer of the nightstand by his bedside and held it in his hands thoughtfully.

Then, he moved into the bathroom and sat in the empty tub. Then, he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth and closed his eyes.

The phone rang in Mycroft's office, causing him to pause. It was silent enough in the house to make the noise deafening. After a few rings, the phone automatically switched to voicemail and Mycroft waited for the caller to hang up.

"Sir?" Mycroft inhaled sharply around the gun's barrel.

It was Anthea. And, bless her, she still called him 'Sir' without fail even though he was now just a retired and bitter old man.

"Sir, I know you're there." Anthea called again softly. Then, she cleared her throat. "Very well, you don't have to listen to me. But I have someone who you really do need to listen to. I have something I was told to let you listen to at my discretion."

That got Mycroft to pause. The only other person in the world he could think of who he would listen to was Sherlock, and the two Holmes brothers hadn't spoken to each other since That Day.

The day John Watson and Gregory Holmes-Lestrade were killed in a terrorist attack.

But it wasn't Sherlock who's voice came down the line next.

"Um-... hehe... hey Mycroft." Mycroft's startle nearly tapped his gun's trigger right then and there when he heard Lestrade's voice. "It's me... Gregory Lestrade."

His voice did not sound in the very least bit aged. This must've been recorded long before he had died. Before they even got married. It made Mycroft feel young again.

"Um... wow, this is actually really awkward." Lestrade said, embarrassed. "And I admit, the idea sounded better last night when I was drunk than right now when I'm taking action."

Mycroft lowered his gun and laid it flat on his stomach, curious now.

"And, I'm sorry if this sounds really cliche or whatever, but if you're listening to this, then I'm probably already dead." Lestrade said. "I - um - I don't understand a whole lot about this time shift stuff but it can't be easy making difficult decisions and losing people you care about, and then slipping back in a time where you had them with you always."

Mycroft sniffed slightly. "Right you are." he muttered.

"And I can't help with that, sorry." Lestrade's voice said sympathetically. "But I can remind you that you had a wonderful life. You have a wonderful life now too, even if you don't feel it. And your life will always be wonderful, because you're so brilliant, and crazy, and I have faith in you, Mycroft!"

Mycroft choked on a sob at Lestrade's enthusiastic tone. Bright, vibrant, and so, so alive.

"I have a dangerous job, Mycroft, we both do." Lestrade went on. "And I could die any day, I know that. And I can't travel through time to the future like you can, besides as a recording. And if you never hear this, then that's great! It's all good. But just in case you do, I want you to know that things will be okay. I believe it."

"That's naive." Mycroft scoffed weakly.

"Because I believe in you." Lestrade continued, not hearing. "And bloody Hell, you're Mycroft Holmes, and you don't let anything hold you back, you hear me? Not the present, not the future, and definitely not the past, okay?" Lestrade paused. "I refuse to hold you back like that."

"And I'm sorry that you're struggling now, but I know that somewhere in that gigantic brain of yours, there is a solution to make things better. I know there is! You just can't see it right now because you're not trying to. Well that's bollocks, Mycroft, get off your arse! Go out there, there are better things to do than sitting around moping, hop to!"

God help him, Lestrade sounded a little impatient, like he knew Mycroft wasn't moving.

At his late husband's words, Mycroft laid his gun aside and got out of the tub.

"Are you out?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, Gregory." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No need to sound so impatient."

"Get some shoes on your feet, if you haven't already, and a jacket." Lestrade carried on, heedless to Mycroft's protests.

Despite all this, Mycroft found himself in a better mood and even hastened a little in anticipation.

"Now that you're ready to go outside, where do you want to go? And no, this does not count ex-boyfriends, or dead people, or whatever I am."

Mycroft snorted.

"I mean now. In your present life. Who do you want to go see? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? Barring the Apocalypse, I think you must have something in mind." Lestrade's voice was slightly teasing.

Mycroft huffed and smiled slightly and closed his eyes in concentration. There were only four things that came to mind.

Sherlock, first and foremost. Anthea, because he could always talk to a friend. The Diogenes Club, where he could always find peace and quiet. And the New Scotland Yard. Lestrade would've been so proud to see how all his friends and colleagues were moving on.

Donovan was now a DCI with her own team of investigators, Dimmock was a Superintendent, and Molly lectured at Uni.

Lestrade would've loved to see that.

"Have you thought of what you want to do?" Lestrade asked him, sounding as if he was really there. "You did, I know you did!"

Mycroft still hadn't opened his eyes. It was nice to pretend. "Yes."

"Now go out there and do it." Lestrade smiled encouragingly. "Go on. Trust me, Mycroft. Take a leap of faith, the world's not as bad as you may think."

Mycroft opened his eyes and stared at his phone, willing the recording to continue.

"Are you still here?" Lestrade laughed. "If you're listening to this, then that means you're not gone yet. Go! Shoo!"

Mycroft shook his head, tears rolling down his cheeks and he chuckled. "I'm going! I'm going!"

He turned and walked to the door, calling for a car.

Just as he opened the front door, he slipped through time again.

But not to the past. No, he shifted to the unknown future. A future that he had never seen before.

A future he had convinced himself did not exist.

He was knocking on the front door of a very familiar flat. The door opened and an elderly, tall man appeared. His wild hair was salt-and-peppered, his fingers spidery-thin like the rest of his body, and his cheekbones sharp like his eyes, as always.

"Mycroft." Sherlock greeted solidly.

For a moment, Mycroft froze in panic. What could he do? What should he say? He stood there for a long moment, just staring at his younger brother.

Then, acting on a habit ingrained into him by Lestrade, Mycroft stepped closer and wrapped his arms around his younger brother for the first time in years.

"I'm sorry."

Then, the art of human gestures that John had painstakingly taught to Sherlock came into play and the younger Holmes hugged him back.

"Me too."

The two Holmeses stood in the doorway of 221b Baker Street and wept, apologizing for past offenses, and forgiving.

Then, they went inside and closed the door behind them.

Mycroft was brought back into his present at the front door of his own house when the car he called for pulled up on the curb.

He turned and glanced back into his house as if searching for a ghost.

"Go on, Mycroft!" Lestrade encouraged.

Mycroft could almost see him haunting the doorframes, hands in pockets, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorjamb.

"Show 'em you still got it."

THE END

A/N: Yes, I am aware that this story ended up more like The Time Traveler's Wife, than Slaughterhouse-Five. But the concept of time traveling was inspired by the latter, and also, I have never read, or watched the former, so I don't really know...

Anyway! Hope you liked!