Author's note: The plot thickens... hopefully. Something will happen in this chapter, I think.

I have no idea how much longer this story is going to be. My fics have a tendency to become very long indeed, and I guess this one won't be much different.

I don't own anything, please review. Pretty please? The last time my begging worked, so...

John was waiting in front of the pub, but he wasn't worried. Somehow, he knew Sherlock would come back because he had to, because this was how things worked.

Maybe he was going crazy. Then again, with everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, he might as well already have gone crazy; maybe he wasn't aware of it. Maybe some strange experiment of Sherlock's or another one of the consulting detective's stunts had finally caused him to flip and he was sitting in a room in a mental hospital, unaware of what was going on around him. Maybe he was lying in a coma after another hunt; maybe he was severely injured.

Only...

To think he was in a coma, to think all of this was just his subconscious trying to deal with it all, it felt too simple.

And nothing having to do with Sherlock Holmes had ever been simple.

John had always trusted his instincts. And every instinct he had told him that this was real, that Sherlock was real.

He didn't know how he knew, but he knew that he had to look after him, just like he had always done, and that he would come back.

Sherlock had come back from the dead – he wouldn't disappear now, even if this was the past, even if he wasn't the man he was going to become yet, even if he had left to buy drugs.

John had to admit that standing alone on the street had some side effects, though.

Because, if he really started to think about it...

This whole situation was simply too confusing.

Had he just changed Sherlock's life? If so – had he changed his own, too? And were they about to chase down Moriarty years before anyone knew of his existence?

John sighed and admitted to himself that he wasn't as intelligent as Sherlock and couldn't figure out what was going on. He would just have to deal on his own, while keeping Sherlock of the drugs and Moriarty from killing more people, of course.

He resigned himself to waiting.

Of course this had to be the moment when the limousine (a little smaller than what he was accustomed to) stopped in front of him.

Somehow, after the little he'd heard from Sherlock, he'd expected Mycroft not to watch over his brother; as far as he had been able to tell, the elder Holmes hadn't even talked to Sherlock in years.

Which didn't stop him from kidnapping anyone who showed an interest in Sherlock, apparently.

Before anyone could get out of the limousine, John turned around and sprinted back into the pub, dragging Shinwell into the back room.

"What – "

"Shinwell, listen. If Sherlock shows up, don't let him leave, alright? I'll be back soon".

Before Shinwell could demand an explanation, John went out again; Mycroft didn't appreciate being kept waiting, and he was sure his younger self wasn't much different.

When he stepped out of the door, a young man was waiting for him; naturally, Anthea couldn't be old enough to work for Mycroft yet. He was of a distinctly Greek appearance, and John had to admit it was strange to see any assistant of Mycroft's without a blackberry in his hands.

John nodded, suppressing a sigh.

"I assume you want me to come with you?"

The young man, who had just opened his mouth to tell him so, closed it again and nodded, gesturing towards the car. Before he could say anything, though, John had already opened the door and slipped inside.

The other man, looking even more confused, followed him and the car drove off.

John didn't ask where they were taking him because it would be useless. Instead, he asked the man his name.

If he had been confused before, now he was struck speechless. He needed a few moments to compose himself before he managed, "Melas".

John nodded and looked out of the window.

He could almost feel Melas' confusion – he was sure most people he kidnapped had questions or at least reacted appropriately – but he didn't care. He just wanted to get this over with so he could return to the pub.

The car halted in an abandoned warehouse, naturally; it wasn't one John was familiar with, though.

Mycroft was waiting for them, dressed in a suit like always. But John (and maybe he should have wondered when he came to know every aspect of the Holmes' life so well) realized that it wasn't yet made of the expensive material he was used too.

Also, Sherlock had been right; Mycroft had always struggled with his weight. He was exactly overweight, but he certainly wasn't thin either.

The strangest thing was that his umbrella was missing, though. John couldn't recall a single time where Mycroft hadn't had an umbrella with him. The doctor had always suspected that it contained some form of weapon.

The elder Holmes was mustering him, deducing him like his younger brother had done; but of course he wouldn't be able to tell he came from the future.

John decided he didn't want to wait until the other man spoke and said, "Mycroft".

He could clearly remember the one time he had managed to surprise the British Government – when he'd stormed into the Diogenes Club after he'd realized it must have been Mycroft who had told Moriarty Sherlock's life story. He had done it again, now (or from Mycroft's point of view, for the first time); the elder Holmes raised an eyebrow and assumed an expression that told John he hadn't expected him to know his name.

"Since you know my name and we both know there exists no Peter Jones who corresponds with your description, would you kindly tell me your name?"

John realized he couldn't do that. Expecting Sherlock – well, not expecting, but hoping – to believe him that he came from the future was one thing. Mycroft – he would never get Mycroft to believe him.

And maybe he didn't want to.

His relationship, for lack of a better word, with the elder Holmes had always been complicated; while John had understood that their childhood couldn't have exactly been easy, he had never been able to grasp why Mycroft had left his younger brother behind. He had spent most of his younger years looking after his sister – first to shield her from their father, then to keep her of the booze – and simply couldn't comprehend why one would abandon one's younger sibling like that.

He was sure Sherlock had looked up to Mycroft at one point; he was sure his older brother had been his confidante; he was sure that Sherlock had taken his brother's abandonment hard. He didn't blame Mycroft for Sherlock's drug addiction, he didn't blame him for the way Sherlock's life had turned out; how could he; if Mycroft had been around more, there was every reason to believe that John and Sherlock would never have met. But he blamed him for not being there for his brother, for not trying harder to get him of the drugs –

And he blamed him for telling Moriarty all he needed to know to ruin Sherlock.

It was the one thing he would never be able to forgive him. He didn't care that he didn't have any right to demand an apology; he didn't care that Sherlock was apparently indifferent to his brother's betrayal; he would never be able to forgive anyone for betraying Sherlock Holmes. It was as simple as that.

This Mycroft, though, this Mycroft hadn't betrayed Sherlock yet, and for one crazy moment, John considered telling him everything and begging him not to let Moriarty go, but despite the fact that he would probably end up in a mental hospital, he couldn't say what this might mean for the future. Much as he still doubted he had indeed travelled through time, he couldn't risk Mycroft whisking Sherlock away. He was too selfish for that.

"I would rather not tell you" John finally answered when he realized Mycroft was waiting for a reply.

Mycroft drummed the fingers of his right hand against his leg, and John wondered if he would later buy an umbrella just to hold something in his hand, when the other man said, slowly, "I do not think you realize – "

"Look" John said tiredly, "I will not tell you anything. I have to get back to your brother. Someone has to take care of him".

For once, it looked like he had genuinely hurt Mycroft, and the doctor reminded himself that this wasn't the British Government he was sued to; this was a younger, more open Mycroft, a Mycroft who, despite acting like he didn't care, still had his younger brother supervised.

"And what makes you think you can take care of him?" Mycroft's voice was controlled again, calm, his eyes hard.

"I do not think I can" John answered honestly; even though he had kept Sherlock mostly of the drugs and had brought him to a crime scene, he was aware that Sherlock wasn't the Sherlock he had met yet, and that the young man therefore didn't need him the way he would. "But I have to try".

With these words, he turned around, waving to Melas; but just as he had taken a few steps towards the limousine, Mycroft called after him. Something the Mycroft John knew would never have done.

"I – Please, do try."

He didn't say anything else, but his intent was clear, and John turned around and nodded before getting into the limousine.

He didn't doubt that Mycroft would continue to try to discover his identity, but he didn't think he was likely to succeed. If there was one option the British Government wouldn't consider, it was time travel.

Melas didn't say anything, and John was grateful for it. He needed time to order his thoughts. If any of the books he'd read or the movies and shows he'd watched were right, he had just changed yet another point in the future – he had met Mycroft years before he was supposed to, too.

John wondered what Sherlock would have done in the same situation. Knowing him, he would probably have been delighted about the puzzle. John wasn't sure how much more he could take, though; all this worrying about time travel and paradoxes and futures made his head ache.

"It is important that you understand – " Melas started to say about half-way to the pub, and John shook his head.

"I know. You'll keep an eye on me and Sherlock". He didn't continue, because the thought that Mycroft only might have put surveillance on his brother again because John showed up and someone caught a glimpse of them from a security camera by accident...

John shook his head and concentrated on finding Sherlock.

Thankfully, he didn't have to, because, just like he had hoped, the young man was waiting for him in front of the pub.

Author's note: Hello, Mycroft. Fancy seeing you here. Nice of you to show up – this also seems to be a "other characters from the ACD canon show up"-story. Interesting.

I hope you liked it, please review.