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They ate mostly in silence, Mycroft staring at his plate instead of making polite conversation, and John suspected that he had researched his life here – of course he wouldn't rest when he said he would. Holmes never did.
He had caught Sherlock's eye when the consulting detective entered the dining room, and, while not completely assured that everything was fine, at least he and Mycroft didn't seem to have fought.
He still didn't know what to think about Trevelyan's theory; although it had a certain logic to it; this logic being that Mycroft Holmes wouldn't be so open to someone he thought he had never met, like John, and he definitely wouldn't trust someone simply because Sherlock did. And yet he couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was clinging to it because it was easier than to admit his brother had lost his mind.
Well, not "lost". Maybe more "replaced". Still...
Sherlock's phone rang. Both John and Mycroft looked up. The consulting detective took it out of his pocket.
It was Greg Lestrade. He should have known; most of his friends and acquaintances knew he preferred to text. The DI was the only one who insisted on calling him – even Mrs. Hudson sent him texts and was rather proud that she had "learned how to handle a phone" in "her old age" – and Sherlock secretly liked it, because it was something just between the two of them.
They had just solved their last case, however, and it was unlikely that another murder that would interest Sherlock had occurred within such a short time.
He picked up the DI and greeted him by his first name. He had never paid much attention to the fact that he still called him by his last name, even after he had learned he was called Greg; but after he had returned he had seen the slight hesitation in his DI's eyes every time he used "Lestrade" and realized he would prefer the consulting detective to use his first name. So he did, and the twinkle in Greg's eyes when he had done it for the first time had told him he'd been right.
"Sherlock". By now, Sherlock knew the DI good enough to hear the concern in his voice. He waited patiently for him to continue.
Greg asked, softly, "Is everything alright? I wanted to visit you, and Mrs. Hudson told me you left the flat "looking anxious" a few hours ago".
Sherlock should have known. Greg had made a habit of dropping by at 221B in the evening, even if there were no cases to be solved, and simply keeping Sherlock and John company, sometimes talking, sometimes watching telly with John, sometimes listening to Sherlock playing the violin.
And Mrs. Hudson had told him that they had left quickly and unexpectedly. That was not unusual; but, remembering John's sign that she shouldn't worry, Sherlock realized that he must have looked agitated.
"There's been an accident" he finally replied, and hastened to add, "Me and John are fine. But Mycroft – "
"Is he injured?" Greg inquired, anxiously, and Sherlock didn't know what to answer. Mycroft wasn't injured per se; but he didn't think that the DI would react well to "there is a very remote possibility that he has been exchanged with a Mycroft from another universe". He finally settled on, "Physically, no".
"And mentally?" It should have been clear to Sherlock that Greg would see through his feeble attempt at deception immediately; he had known him for years, even longer than John had, and he had been his first (even though he hadn't used the word for a long time, not until – Moriarty) friend, excluding Mrs. Hudson, who most of the time behaved more like his mother than his landlady.
Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who had stopped eating and was scrutinizing him with the sharp gaze he remembered so well, even if it was somewhat softened by the curiosity and fondness in his eyes.
"It's – complicated" he said after a few moments of silence. He didn't want to explain everything in front of Mycroft and hoped Greg would understand.
He did, as usual. "You don't want to talk in front of him, am I right?"
"Yes" he replied simply.
Greg didn't answer immediately, and Sherlock could imagine him, the phone at his ear, biting his lip, bouncing on his feet, wondering what to say next. He waited.
After a short while, Greg asked, "Where are you? Do you want me to come over?"
Once upon a time, Sherlock would have answered "Why?" but he had learned enough about human interaction over the last few years to know that this meant Greg wanted to "come over" to check on them, so he said, "In Mycroft's mansion. You can come, if you want. It's – "
"I know where it is. I'll be there in half an hour". Greg hung up, leaving Sherlock wondering when exactly the DI had found out Mycroft's address, and address that was protected and supposedly impossible to find.
Deciding to think about it at another time, he stored the information in his mind palace and told Mycroft and John that Greg was on his way as he put his phone back in his pocket.
"Greg?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock hadn't thought anything this Mycroft did would upset him as much as his wondering who John was. He'd been wrong.
"DI Lestrade" John helped out, and Mycroft nodded.
"The DI you help with his cases? Of course, silly of me". He concentrated on his plate again. "I look forward to meeting him".
Sherlock and John looked at each other but chose to say nothing. They understood each other without words.
Greg arrived precisely half an hour later. Mycroft stood up to open the door, but Sherlock insisted that he stay in the dining room with John; he wanted to prepare his DI. He had known Mycroft for a rather long time too, after all, and he shouldn't have to come face to face with a Mycroft Holmes who didn't recognize him unprepared.
Despite his best efforts, what he was feeling must have been showing on his face, because as soon as he opened the door, Greg took a deep breath and said, "Sherlock..."
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Get in. I'll explain everything".
Or not. To explain to someone that the whole life his brother had led had been erased – replaced really – from his mind wasn't easy.
He tried to explain though, even though he let out their theory about a parallel universe – he would wait until Greg had seen Mycroft and realized that the man he was talking to may look like Sherlock's brother, but somehow wasn't.
When he had finished, Greg leaned against the door and rubbed a hand over his face.
"So he thinks you are a scientist. A scientist he raised". He looked up, waiting for confirmation, and Sherlock nodded.
"And he doesn't remember your cases or – or Moriarty. Or John". Sherlock nodded again.
"So he won't remember me either" Greg added and not even Sherlock could have mistaken the pain in his voice for something else.
He raised an eyebrow.
Greg cleared his throat. "I started to come by after you – after you disappeared, to keep Mycroft company. We drank brandy and talked".
Sherlock was surprised, though not as much as he could have been. Mycroft and Greg had several things in common, most of all a certain obsession with knowing where he was and if he was safe; he had always suspected that they would get on quite well, should they decide to talk to one another for other reasons than cases Sherlock was called in on.
And he knew that John had withdrawn from Greg after his so-called suicide – the doctor had admitted as much to him, obviously ashamed – so that the only "friend" Greg had had left he'd known as long as Sherlock had been Mycroft. He probably had given the elder Holmes his condolences, and it had progressed from there.
So he simply answered, "Fine. Do you want to – " He looked away and bit his lip.
"Yes" Greg replied, "Yes, I want to see him. I guess John's with him?"
Sherlock nodded and let the way to the dining room.
Greg hadn't known what to expect. He had known as soon as Mrs. Hudson had told him about Sherlock's anxiety that something was wrong; she knew "her boys" better than anyone else, and if she thought something was amiss, it most likely was.
He hadn't considered that something might have happened to Mycroft though, to his shame. He knew Sherlock cared about his brother; he just hadn't expected him to show it so openly. Then again, if Anthea had texted him, told him to come to the hospital, the consulting detective would have known that something serious must have happened...
The news that Mycroft wouldn't recognize him hit him harder than he would have supposed it would. True, he and Mycroft had become friends of sorts while Sherlock had been gone; and yet - what did they have in common? Sherlock. They had needed several months of silently drinking brandy to even start talking.
But still – he was rather sure he was the closest thing Mycroft had to a friend, and in these years when Sherlock had been gone (John hadn't really talked to him for a year after his "death") Mycroft had been Greg's only friend too. The DI had never had many friends, hadn't even had close friends until he had met Sherlock. So, really, befriending Mycroft had been something new in the first place, and he didn't want to lose that.
It was clear that Mycroft didn't recognize him when he stepped into the dining room.
The elder Holmes was polite enough – wishing him a "Good evening" and apologizing for not knowing who he was – but, nevertheless, it hurt. Greg could only imagine what this must do to Sherlock, who, despite his best efforts to hide the fact, cared for his brother. A brother who knew nothing of his life, career, Moriarty, or his friends.
He swallowed and greeted Mycroft before nodding at John. He knew, just from the way the doctor was looking at Sherlock, that he wanted to talk to him, and alone at that.
So he suggested, seeing the empty plates, "Mycroft, could I help you with those?"
Mycroft happily acquiesced and they carried the plates to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and John to discuss things.
"They could act a little more subtly, but then, subtlety has never been Sherlock's strongest suit" Mycroft commented lightly, putting the plates in the sink.
"No" Greg replied, doing the same, "no, it hasn't".
Mycroft turned to look at him, regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry – Greg... I understand we knew each other".
Greg nodded.
"We were friends". It was a statement, not a question, and if Greg hadn't known the Holmes so well, he would probably have asked how Mycroft knew, but he simply decided to nod again.
Mycroft laughed, although it was a short, bitter laugh. "I guess I should be happy that I have one friend in this life who is genuinely concerned about me – and not because he knows my brother."
Greg didn't know what to say. Mycroft smiled weakly. "I apologize. The situation is rather confusing".
"Tell me about it". They both chuckled, and Mycroft asked, "How did we become friends? If you don't mind me asking".
Greg told him.
Meanwhile, John and Sherlock were talking about Sherlock's theory, John having found that he'd somehow started to believe it against his will. In a bizarre way, it made more sense for Mycroft to come from a parallel universe than him grieving for the consulting criminal.
"What are we going to do about it?" he asked. "It's not like we can try to contact Mycroft – if he should happen to be in this parallel universe – or could we?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so. But Mycroft is intelligent enough to figure out where he is, and what he has to do – namely to find a way to open a portal in our universe."
"If he's there."
"Yes" Sherlock confirmed. "I'm going to work with Trevelyan, find out what went wrong, try to repair the portal".
"I'm coming with you" John said determinedly.
"And Mycroft? We can't leave him alone."
"Don't worry" John said with a small smile, indicating the kitchen with a move of his head, "you both have more friends than you think".
This, Sherlock decided, could only be a good thing.
Author's note: I am a big fan of a Mycroft and Lestrade bromance – and, yes, I took the details of their relationship from my own series about them. At least I am stealing from myself.
I hope you liked it, please review.