Author's note: I can proudly proclaim that now I am positive that this story isn't going to be much longer. After this, there will probably only one or two chapters more.
I don't own anything, please review.
John froze.
Somehow, after everything that had happened, he hadn't spared much thought to the one who had sent him back in time. Because, in the end, it didn't matter. What was done was done. He had chosen to return, he had chosen this life, and he couldn't get his old life back.
And, whoever had done it, he had given Sherlock a better life than John could ever have hoped. Yes, the doctor had been alone, he was limping, he was depressed. But Sherlock...
He shook himself. He really shouldn't let his thoughts run away like that. Of course it mattered.
If whoever had done this still had access to the time machine, he could do what he wanted, change what he wanted.
They had to stop him at all costs.
When Mycroft didn't say anything, John prompted, "And?"
The British Government didn't look at him, though. Instead, Mycroft looked at Sherlock.
He slowly began, "Two days ago, the night watch man at the lab filed a report saying that he thought he had heard something during his rounds; he searched the lab, but didn't find anything, so he concluded he'd imagined it. I figured there might be more to it, and there was. I just talked to him. When he came back to the front, he heard a car drive away. He recognized it because it belongs to someone who works there..."
And his younger brother understood immediately.
"Georges?"
He said it so quietly John almost didn't hear him, and the doctor stared at the scientist. He had never heard of someone named "Georges" – he would have known if he'd been a suspect in a case, and certainly would have remembered Sherlock mentioning a French acquaintance.
And yet Sherlock was pale as he uttered the name.
John knew he had to tread carefully. Whoever he was, it was clear that Sherlock knew him rather well.
"Georges?" he asked gently.
Sherlock had recovered and turned to him.
"You know him".
"In this reality, you mean?"
Sherlock nodded.
John frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't – "
"Doctor Vernet" Mycroft supplied.
"Wait – the one with the time machine? But why – "
"We didn't inform you" Sherlock said, letting himself fall into a chair, "that he is related to us".
John was about to ask why, when he remembered another information about the consulting detective's family that Sherlock had mentioned.
"Your French grandmother?"
The scientist nodded. "Yes. He's a distant cousin of Mycroft and me".
John shook his head.
"Sorry, I fail to see why he would do anything against me. I mean, I don't even know if he was in charge of the time machine in the other reality. You certainly never mentioned him. I guess if he did send me back, he must have done it in both realities, but wouldn't he have no reason to here, if he had a reason to begin with? And..."
He stopped, his attempt to make sense of all this only succeeding to make him more confused.
At least it got a small smile out of Sherlock.
"It is complicated" he said and stood up. "But it makes sense. He's the director of the lab where the time machine was constructed; therefore, he would easily be able to use it to send you back in time. As regards to motive – we don't have enough data to know".
John nodded. Whoever had sent him back must have had access to the time machine, and it couldn't be easy to break into a lab that most people didn't know existed.
When one already had the access, though, and knew where the cameras where and when the watchman made his rounds...
"Let's go" he said, and the brothers looked at him.
"We all know no one, especially not the police, would believe us" he elaborated, "so why wait? I want to meet him. I want to know."
He didn't only want to know, but he needed to know. His old life was becoming less real as the time passed, not because he didn't remember it anymore, but because his limp and Sherlock and everything reminded him again and again that this was reality, this was what his life was now.
As he followed Sherlock and Mycroft, another thought came to him.
Vernet had said that he could only send him to a time after he'd entered the machine. Then, he had had no reason to be suspicious.
But now...
What if Vernet had lied? What then?
What if there was a chance – what if John could go back? What if he could have his old life back?
Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't said anything, but the doctor was sure they wondered the same.
He limped behind them to the limousine, once more noting that they both walked more slowly than they normally would have so he had no problems catching up.
He was not only thankful because of his limp, but also because it gave him time – even if it was only five minutes – to think.
Think about what just the chance of changing everything back implied.
Sherlock was a scientist; Sherlock lived with Mycroft; Sherlock wasn't called a freak, had never played games with Moriarty.
Mycroft was much friendlier, more open, more relaxed, despite still being the British Government. He looked after his little brother, he had never betrayed him.
Greg was still married, it was true, but he was still a DI, and if his wife was cheating on him, it would be easy enough to tell him. Mrs. Hudson, however...
But Sherlock was right; they could look into the cases John remembered. They could help Mrs. Hudson. And the scientist had solved cases, had put murderers behind bars. He'd simply done so in a different way than he would have done if John hadn't changed the past.
And yet –
John hated himself for the fact that there even was an "And yet".
John was just selfish enough to desperately wish he could go back.
It had less to do with his leg and his depression and his meaningless life, and more with –
Sherlock.
The doctor told himself that, in many ways, this reality was preferable. Considering everything – yes, this reality was better. Fairer.
But –
Sherlock's and his relationship – it was –
They were slowly becoming friends, John was sure. Sherlock fed him, looked after him, had hugged him.
Maybe that was the problem.
Because, somehow –
It felt wrong.
It felt wrong to be the one looked after. It felt wrong that Sherlock was so careful with him, like he was something fragile, something that could easily be broken.
It felt wrong, plain and simple.
Yes, he was selfish, and he didn't want this choice. He found himself hoping that Vernet hadn't lied.
But a part of him was desperately wishing that he had.
He didn't know what he wanted. He only knew he didn't want to choose.
Because he didn't know what he would do if he could.
The limousine was empty this time – apparently Mycroft didn't even want Anthea to know what his relative had been up to – and they got in.
John kept bouncing his got leg, the thoughts whirling through his brain.
He caught Mycroft's gaze.
And he knew that the elder Holmes was thinking the same thing he was.
He didn't know, however, what Mycroft was expecting him to do. What he thought John would do.
There was a trace of well-concealed panic in Mycroft's eyes. Of course he didn't want to lose what he and Sherlock had.
And that was when John knew; knew he couldn't do that. He couldn't force Sherlock to live on the streets until Mycroft bought him a plane ticket; couldn't force Mycroft to betray his brother; couldn't force his best friend to fake his death for three years.
He just couldn't.
He glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye; the scientist had thankfully closed his eyes, was probably researching something, going through every conversation he ever had with Vernet in his mind palace.
John looked at Mycroft and shook his head.
Mycroft nodded and the doctor could see the relief in his eyes.
They arrived at the lab not ten minutes later and quickly made their way to the time machine.
Vernet was standing in front of it, reading some notes in a file.
He looked up. His eyes staid on John just a second too long.
The brothers had been right.
And he knew they knew. That didn't stop him from trying to pretend he didn't, however.
"Sherlock – Mycroft. And – isn't that the man I had to send forwards in time? Of course, I did send you into the year 2015, I should have remembered..."
"Please, Georges, don't embarrass yourself and us. We all know why we are here".
Vernet smiled. "Do we, Sherlock".
"Yes" John answered, finally feeling the anger at having his life ripped apart and put back together in a completely different way surge through him.
Before Mycroft or Sherlock could stop him, he had walked up to Vernet and grabbed his collar, yanking his face towards his own.
"Why?" he spat.
Vernet freed himself with one quick movement and took a step back. His face took a nasty expression.
"Because I couldn't stand it. Sherlock, who had been living on the street, being the hero, having a friend. And me? I was still just a scientist here. Mycroft wouldn't help me. Even though I am his flesh and blood too and certainly more worthy of his attention that his erratic brother. But no. And especially since he came back – I was glad he was gone, and then he came back – everyone has been so sorry for everything. For the poor Reichenbach hero. And I was still the scientist nobody, not even the people I worked for, acknowledged".
John hoped that Mycroft and Sherlock were working out a plan behind his back. He was standing there, frozen, staring at a madman who had ripped time apart because he had felt snubbed.
He got the feeling that Vernet and Moriarty would have got along quite well.
"So I decided to have some fun. I couldn't really harm him, not with you and Mycroft around. So I thought – why not send you somewhere in time? So, here we are. And I'm running this lab. Of course there are some things I still wish were different..." He looked at Sherlock, and a shiver ran down John's spine.
"You are insane."
Vernet shrugged.
"That may be, but you have to admit that one has to be to even attempt to build a time machine."
John wished he had his gun with him. He had foolishly not put it in his pocket when he had left his flat this morning.
Just as he thought that, Vernet pulled out a gun and took a step towards John. His eyes were blazing.
"Now, would you please step back like a good little soldier? I have decided to leave, and I don't want anyone playing around with the controls."
He wanted to take the time machine.
John couldn't allow that. God knew what this man could do to all of them if he disappeared in the time stream.
He didn't step back. He would gladly die, here and now, if it meant Sherlock and Mycroft and their lives were safe.
"I can't do that" he said.
"I can't allow you to change anything else, sorry".
Vernet smiled and, almost like in slow motion, John saw him raise the gun between his eyes.
If only he were as strong and quick as he had been when he'd left 221B for the last time.
Still, John was surprisingly calm as he realized that this was truly it. At least he had done something good with his life. And Sherlock would take care of the cases and Mrs. Hudson, he was sure.
Then, he was pulled back, just as a shot rang out.
He fell down, registering that he was still alive and that Vernet was cursing.
Mycroft rushed forward but stopped, giving Vernet time to enter the machine.
John wanted to ask him why, but when he turned around his breath caught in his throat.
Sherlock was lying on the floor, his breaths laboured.
There was a bullet wound in his neck.
Author's note: Cliffhanger? I don't see any cliffhanger.
I hope you liked it, please review.