Author's note: Thank you for all the kind wishes, I had a good time. Because you were so nice – here, have more angst and bromance. You are welcome.
I don't own anything, please review.
Sherlock and John followed Mycroft without uttering a word, both of them wondering what the elder Holmes wanted to show them. John was worried. He knew, even though the consulting detective tried to hide it, that Sherlock cared for his brother, and Mycroft was – he simply wasn't behaving like Mycroft. The British Government John knew had never looked upon his brother like he trusted him, was glad to see him.
Not that John and Mycroft were friends; in fact, John still bore him a grudge because he had sold his little brother for information.
He could understand it, on some level; he had been a soldier, and he knew what it meant to put his country before everything else. But to put his country before Sherlock... he wouldn't have ben able to do it.
Maybe he was a hypocrite; after all, his relationship with Harry wasn't exactly the one siblings should have either; and yet –
Sherlock and Mycroft – they were different. They had always been different. Mycroft would have been the one person Sherlock could look up to, the one he came to for advice, the one he trusted. And Mycroft had not only left him completely alone – John could understand, university was university – but had barely spoken to him for years afterwards. And then he had forced him to stay in his house and kidnapped all his friends to threaten them.
And then he had sold Sherlock to Moriarty. He had told Sherlock's biggest enemy his life story, and had let him go after he had done it. John was convinced that Mycroft would have been able to hold Moriarty captive for as long as he wanted; the elder Holmes had simply been curious who Moriarty would cal, what he would do, and it had cost his younger brother three years of his life, not to mention what it had cost John.
John swallowed as he thought about the three years alone and how he had finally been ready to move on with Mary only to find Sherlock was willing to let him move on too – it hadn't taken long to see that a life without the consulting detective, or rather, without solving crimes with the consulting detective, wouldn't be life at all, so he had come back. And, to be honest, he wasn't even looking for a relationship right now – he would stay at Sherlock's side, and it was enough.
And now Mycroft was confused, probably hurt, it was difficult to say, and Sherlock was walking beside him, his face grim, his hands clenched into fists. John looked at Mycroft who was walking right in front of them, at his posture – Mycroft usually didn't walk like that; in the moment, he looked like he was taking a stroll. The footsteps John had come to recognize were always strong, confident. Mycroft always had somewhere to get to, he rarely relaxed, and he certainly never strolled like that.
And then John realized.
If Mycroft thought he had taken Sherlock with him all these years –
Maybe he thought he hadn't betrayed him either? Maybe he didn't remember? Either way, he would have to be careful. He couldn't be hostile towards someone who didn't even know what he did.
They finally arrived at Mycroft's limousine. Mycroft politely greeted the driver with his name, which seemed to shock the poor just as much as Sherlock. Most people wouldn't have realized the consulting detective was shocked at all, but John saw the tightening around his mouth and gently laid a hand on his elbow as they got in the car. Sherlock shot him a thankful glance.
The consulting detective didn't know what to think as he got in the limousine and sat down between Mycroft and John. Mycroft seemed to believe that he had taken him with him all those years ago and that he had been living with him. He, living with his elder brother. It was strange just to think about it.
He had no idea what had prompted this delusion; he didn't know what Doctor Trevelyan's experiment had been. Anthea would send him the particulars soon, without a doubt, but he couldn't imagine how an electric shock could make Mycroft see a different life, a life where they "got on", as John would say, a life –
A life, although he tried not to think about it, that might have been if Mycroft had taken him with him. A life they could have had.
Although he wasn't angry about being left behind anymore – or about being sacrificed for the sake of the nation – he had always wondered, in a secret corner of his mind palace, what could have been. If Mycroft had allowed him to come along, if he had lived with his brother – he might have finished his studies. He might have had a regular job.
But, and this was what always brought him back to the present –
From the corner of his eye, he could see John looking out the window of the limousine. The doctor, his doctor, always ready to help him, to nurse his wounds, to look after him –
If Mycroft had taken him with him, he might never have met John Watson because he wouldn't have been looking for a flat share.
And this thought was just inacceptable. John Watson belonged in his life. He couldn't imagine a life where he had never met John.
The doctor had been depressed when he met him, he knew. Without meeting Sherlock, he could have –
Sherlock wasn't prepared for the pain he felt at the simple thought that John might have committed suicide without him. He didn't think that a world without John would be a good one.
And Mycroft hadn't recognized John.
Sherlock bit his lip and stared straight ahead.
Mycroft had given the driver instructions to drive to his house; he was obviously convinced that, once there, he would find proof that he and Sherlock lived together. Perhaps he would come to his senses when he realized they hadn't.
Or it would cause him to lose his mind completely.
Sherlock wasn't often worried, or at least, he didn't admit he was, but imagining his elder brother might lose everything he had always held dear – his work and his mind – he definitely was. He acted like he wasn't, even though it was useless; John had looked through him in a second.
He would have to wait and see, though. See what Mycroft said when he looked at his big, empty house.
Mycroft didn't seem to be concerned at all – or, rather, concerned about himself; he kept shooting Sherlock worried glances, as if he was the one who was confused. Mycroft had never given Sherlock such looks, but he hadn't looked at him with such – fondness before, either, at least not since they were children.
Sherlock, for once, didn't know what to think. He was used to not knowing what to feel – but he had always known what to think.
And having his certainties slip out of his grasp like that was rather disconcerting.
Mycroft left the limousine as soon as it stopped, politely thanking the driver, and Sherlock decided to remind his brother that the poor man needed a raise once he was back to normal; he looked like Mycroft had never talked to him before, which he most likely hadn't.
Just as Sherlock had predicted, Mycroft looked around shocked after he had entered the house, although not for the reason he'd thought.
"What happened to the window?" Mycroft asked.
"The window?" Sherlock repeated, confused. The hall was dark, he would admit that; but his brother had always preferred darker furniture. The windows of the hall were small and didn't let much light in, just as he liked it.
"Yes, Sherlock, the window" Mycroft explained patiently, "the hall is incredibly dark without it. I prefer to see where I'm going..." he trailed of, turned around and started walking towards the dining room. Sherlock followed, John at his side.
Mycroft was standing in the middle of the room, frowning at the furniture. "I'd never have bought this. It's too dark and impersonal". He looked at Sherlock. "'Locky, you know how the room looked before. Tell me you know".
Sherlock simply shook his head, and Mycroft swept past him and up the stairs. John moved to follow him, but Sherlock grasped his arm and shook his head. He knew his brother. Mycroft would want to come to his conclusions alone. He knew where he had gone; there was really no other room he could be looking at but "his" room, as he had called it while Sherlock was forced to stay in his house. He wouldn't be able to see anything else than the proof that Sherlock had not lived there for years, and hopefully realize that he had been hallucinating all along.
He was not prepared for the look on his brother's face as he came down the stairs, and he saw John biting his lip beside him.
Mycroft's face was pale, and he looked at Sherlock like he didn't know what was going on.
"Sherlock – your room... I – Are all the rooms like this?"
Sherlock assumed that he meant "impersonal" or "too tidy" or "boring" so he nodded. Mycroft had to lean against a wall.
"I don't understand..." he said, softly. "Sherlock, we were living together. I left the house this morning when you were still asleep. I certainly furnished it differently."
"Mycroft" John interrupted, realizing that Sherlock didn't know what to say "you received an electric shock less than two hours ago. You're confused. Sherlock doesn't live here, and nothing has been changed. Why don't you go and lie down for a bit?"
He didn't sound hopeful; Sherlock supposed this was because he knew his sleeping habits and suspected, quite rightly, that Mycroft didn't sleep much either. As predicted, his brother shook his head.
"No, thank you... John".
It was difficult to ignore the slight pause Mycroft made before saying John's name, obviously trying to remember whether it was the right one, but Sherlock managed. Barely. John shot him a concerned glance and then nodded at Mycroft.
"How about some tea, then?" he inquired and, before they had had time to answer, walked towards the kitchen. Mycroft apparently wanted to call after him, to tell him where it was located, but after taking a look at Sherlock's face, he decided not to. He slowly came down the stairs and gazed into his brother's face.
"Are you alright?" he asked, and Sherlock was once more taken aback at how quickly Mycroft went from being confused to concerned about him, as if his wellbeing was the most important thing in the world. Barely a minute ago, he had been shocked, unsure; now he was desperately searching his face for an answer so he could help him.
"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" he replied casually.
Mycroft's brows furrowed. "When I came down the stairs just now – your face – something is wrong".
He was right, but there was no use in telling him he was delusional again, so Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile. "It's been a difficult day".
Mycroft frowned, then smiled back, although it didn't reach his eyes – then again, with Mycroft, it hardly ever did.
"Let's go to the dining room and wait for your friend" he suggested, "Then you can tell me everything".
Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what "everything" entailed, but he nodded, and they made their way to the dining room.
Author's note: I am having too much fun portraying all of them confused. And Mycroft caring and Sherlock concerned and Sherlock and John bromance... God I love this show. And writing. I guess it's obvious.
Anyway, thank you for patiently waiting.
I hope you liked it, please review.