"Boring," Sherlock Holmes sighed, and tossed the letter away. It landed on his brother's desk.

"Rich," Mycroft Holmes countered, waving it at Holmes disapprovingly. "You can't always pick and choose."

"I can," Sherlock pointed out, "because you answer all the ones that pay well."

"And I do," Mycroft said with a glare, "because you pick and choose."

"And so our arrangement works out," Sherlock replied as he lit his pipe.

"And so you need to start carrying your weight."

"I…" Sherlock began to defend himself, but he was cut off.

"And so," Mrs. Hudson, the landlady who rented them the office, said as she came in, "one of you needs to take a case that takes you away from the office. You're insufferable when you're both here without the doctor. Where is he? He usually gets you both to behave."

"He's on an errand for me," both brothers said at once. Sherlock scowled at Mycroft and Mycroft scowled right back.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, placing the tea she'd made for them on a table and quickly leaving. She'd heard this fight before; she didn't need to again.

"He's my secretary; stop ordering him around," Sherlock snapped.

"I pay his salary," Mycroft reminded him. "John Watson is just as much my secretary as he is yours."

"I hired him. For myself, not you."

"And if it was up to you he would tag along on all your little adventures and you'd never remember to pay him."

"And if it was up to you he'd never go on adventures and only take your dictations all day and run your errands."

"He likes writing."

"And he likes going on adventures with me."

"We can hire a new secretary for you," Mycroft proposed. "There's room in the budget."

"Good. In that case, let's hire one for you. Someone as stuffy and ridiculous who will sit around all day and find you interesting."

"Please, brother, don't be so petty and jealous simply because he met you first but spends most of his time with me."

"Only when he doesn't feel up to travelling. He works for you, but he's my friend."

"And you're a horrible boss."

Sherlock paused at that. "Maybe," he conceded, "for I deduced he would be back by now…"

Mycroft paused, too. "So did I…"

"We didn't make anyone angry lately, did we?" Sherlock asked, his voice not quite nervous but not quite calm.

"You tell me," Mycroft replied. "You're the one who constantly makes enemies."

Holmes shrugged. "I don't think so. Nevertheless…"

The two brothers stood together.

"I'm sure he's fine," Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure he is."

"I'll go after him," Sherlock said.

"I'll come with you."

"That's not necessary."

"Let's hope none of this is necessary."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well." He glanced worriedly at Watson's empty desk. He was never this late without a reason, and he usually sent word if something was keeping him. Sherlock hoped he was alright.

John Watson woke in the office of the Holmes and Holmes detective agency. How had he gotten here? What had happened? He didn't remember, and his head was throbbing which was probably why he didn't. He groaned, lifting his hand to his head and trying to think. He wasn't worried, just confused. He knew he was safe here.

He'd been working for the Holmes brothers for two years. He'd met Sherlock Holmes by accident, and the eccentric genius had offered him a job as his secretary on the spot. Watson had decided taking the offer seemed like a bad idea, but took it anyway. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Watson needed the money, didn't mind secretarial work, and wasn't afraid of the man everyone else thought was strange. And, as it turned out, he didn't need to be.

Sherlock Holmes had proved to be eccentric, yes, but harmless. He was kind, and liked to take Watson with him on adventures when he could. He was also the more reckless of the two brothers.

When Watson was in the office with Mycroft, he knew he'd be spending the day taking dictation and listening to a long winded story about something that had happened in parliament or about some foreign policy or event. Watson didn't mind, not really. He liked knowing what was going on in the world, and he liked writing. He'd never tell Sherlock, but he respected Mycroft as the intellectual superior between the two brothers. He could solve cases just by having the letters mailed to him whereas it might take Sherlock a few days of investigating in person to solve the same case.

When Watson was in the office alone with Sherlock, he could expect, well, nothing. Sometimes Sherlock would lounge around all day smoking and thinking. Sometimes they would talk all day. Sometimes they would leave to take cases anywhere from down the street to the African savannah. He never knew what to expect with Sherlock Holmes.

When both of them were in the office, he was caught in the middle and usually had to take the role of peacekeeper between them. It was like a dance, and Watson knew all the steps. When the three of them were all there, it could even be fun. Waton knew, though he'd never say, that he was likely the only friend each of them had outside of each other. They had plenty of acquaintances, of course, and plenty of business associates, but as far as friends went, he was just about the only person either of them liked enough to call a friend. It was a big responsibility, but he took it seriously. They may be his bosses, but he was determined to be a good friend, too. He liked them both and liked his job.

He knew that whatever had happened to him, the brothers had been the ones to come and save him. He groaned and reached a hand up to his head. He heard footsteps beyond him and before he opened his eyes he knew the brothers were here.

"Watson?"

That was Sherlock's voice. And if Watson were to guess, he'd say that was Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. It was probably Mycroft who was pressing something into his other hand. When the world stopped spinning, he opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said immediately. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Are you well, Watson?" Mycroft asked.

"What happened?" Watson asked.

"An old enemy wanted to get to us," Sherlock said.

"Got to you first," Mycroft finished for him. "And for that, we sincerely apologize. Had we known he had escaped from Dartmoor prison, we would have warned you. We would have stopped him."

Watson couldn't help himself, he grinned. "Did you… work together to save me?"

The brothers exchanged a look. "I suppose we did," Sherlock said. "But don't expect it to happen often."

Watson drank the water that was given to him by Mycroft. "Tell me," he said.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not much to tell. You didn't come to the office, and so we went to look for you."

"Well," Mycroft said, "It was a bit more than that."

Watson hid his grin behind his glass. He was sure Mycroft was going to start on one of his stories, and that would infuriate Sherlock. Mycroft loved a story where he was the main character.

"We go to Scotland Yard," Mycroft reiterated.

"No, we go survey the route Watson would have taken from the courthouse to the office. Then, if that yields nothing, we go to Scotland Yard."

"This has to do with something from the past, Sherlock, not the present. We need information immediately as to the whereabouts of the criminals we've put away."

"No, what we need urgently is to find Watson! We know something has happened to him and we need to get to him!"

"Don't do anything rash, Sherlock. I don't want to have to deal with you incapacitated, too."

"And I don't want to let Watson die out there somewhere!"

"Neither do I, brother. That's why I'm finding out what I need to know right away!"

"Fine! And that's why I'm going after him!" Sherlock stomped off while Mycoft hailed a hansom cab. They would see which one of them had the right idea.

Sherlock Holmes found what he had feared he would: there was the signs of a recent fight in one of alleyways Watson would have passed on his way back to the office. There was nothing to definitively say it was Watson who was engaged in it besides some threads that looked like they could be from his coat, but it was what Holmes had been expecting to find. There was a blood trail that led away from the fight, and the blood was fresh. Holmes followed it, hoping that it meant Watson was still alive, and especially hoping his idiot brother would come to his senses and come help him.

Mycroft Holmes looked over the report Inspector Gregson at Scotland Yard gave to him, nodding to himself as he found what he was expecting to be there. He now knew who would have attacked Watson and where he would be if he had been kidnapped. He had what he needed to go save his secretary. He only hoped his idiot brother would come to his senses and come help him.

The brothers arrived at the same time, but that didn't stop either of them from quickly pointing out that since they had arrived first their method was obviously superior. They didn't spend long arguing, however, as they had a friend to rescue. They agreed to have Sherlock sneak in the back while Mycroft entered through the front.

Holmes slipped his thin body through a window, finding Watson unconscious and bloody in a backroom. He heard a commotion, pausing to listen. He nodded, knowing Mycroft had won. He lifted Watson in his arms as he heard his brother click the door open.

Mycroft was looking down at his hand where his knuckles were bloody. "I haven't punched anyone in a long time," he mused. Then, he peered at Watson. "Is he alright?"

"He's heavy," Sherlock grunted. "Help me!"

Mycroft simply felt the doctor's pulse."He'll be fine, I'm sure."

Sherlock grunted again. "He's a fully grown man! Help me carry him or get out of the way!"

Mycroft lifted one of Watson's eyelids and peered at him before finally stepping out of Sherlock's way. It looked like, despite the odds, they'd succeeded.

"And so you see, Watson, it's Mycroft's fault that you are hurt," Sherlock said once they'd told their stories. "He wouldn't get out of the way, and that's why I accidentally hit your head on the doorframe."

"It is your fault," Mycroft countered, "because you failed to look out for him. I did what I was supposed to. I rescued you, Watson."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I rescued you, Watson," he insisted. "Don't listen to him."

"Rescue..." Watson insisted, "I'd almost forgotten! I've found us a new client! We need to help him… and I do think it will take both of you."

The brothers frowned at each other and were about to protest when Watson went on.

"His name is Ms. Melas, and he needs to speak with both of you at once. And with myself out of commission, you'll both need to be there."

"I'm sure Mycroft can take care of it," at the same time Mycroft made the opposite claim.

"Both of you," Watson insisted. "Here, I have the address in my pocket. Let me rest, I'll never recover with you here, and it is your fault this happened. Now go!"

Both brothers couldn't help but obey, Mycroft much more reluctantly. He'd had enough exercise for the day and now he was being forced out again. He didn't like it.

Watson couldn't help it; once the Holmes brothers were gone and Mrs. Hudson came in, giving him an odd look, he laughed. That made his head hurt more, but he didn't care. He would, he was sure, make a team of those two brothers yet. And when he did, there wouldn't be a criminal in England that would be able to stand against them.

What If: Mycroft had also become a detective?

And so, dear readers, we see a world similar to the one we're familiar with and yet very different. A world where an older brother is more business minded and the younger shines less brightly for sharing his starlight with another. A world where familial squabbles burst in more frequently, and yet a stronger bond is able to be formed between brothers, perhaps by the aide of another. Will that bond, in the end, be stronger than one from a different world? Our world? I can't say, I can only report what is. I am the writer.