Mycroft had eliminated the impossible: That he had dropped through the cracks into some parallel universe. He was now left with several improbable alternatives. He was asleep and dreaming. He was dead and this was some kind of punishment. Somehow Nicholas had lived and Sherlock had died, and the past twenty eight years had been a figment of his imagination. He had amnesia and this was his brains way of filling in the blanks. All were equally unsatisfactory. But one of them must be the truth.

He had just made it to the bathroom when Nick had told him about Sherlock. And as soon as he had stopped vomiting and splashed cold water on his face he wished he hadn't bothered. The face in the mirror looking back at him had his china blue eyes and gingery stubble, the eyes red rimmed from crying. But the owner of the face in the mirror couldn't possibly be him. And then he thought how much Sherlock would have laughed. Mycroft was fat, his belly hanging over the tight waistband of his pyjamas. Sherlock would have wet himself. If he had been there. If he was alive.

So in this place he found himself in Mycroft had lost his brother and gained about sixty pounds. Interesting. He took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom, hoping that the world and his backside would have somehow snapped back to normal. Nick was sat up in bed reading the Lancet with the black Labrador from earlier watching him with an adoring expression on its face. The dog regarded Mycroft curiously for a moment, before totally ignoring him.

"I've asked John to call round, just to check you over."

"You're a Doctor. Why can't you do it?" Amnesia or no his powers of deduction were still intact.

"You know the rules on treating family members. The GMC would have a field day."

"Do i count as a family member?"

"I think so." Nick wiggled his right hand at Mycroft, who immediately noticed the gold band on his ring finger. A gold band exactly like the one Mycroft was currently wearing. Somewhere downstairs there was the sound of a knock. "That'll be John. Just lay down. Baskeville, come on boy." The dog regarded Mycroft coolly once more before gambolling out after Nick.

John Watson was barely recognisable in this reality. Really it was only the determined expression on his face and the dark blue-green eyes that said it was the same man. He was skin and bone, seemingly held up right by willpower and the steel cane he leant heavily on. Mycroft looked at him intently as John shone a light into his eyes and tested his reflexes. It was as though someone had taken the real John Watson and burnt out his heart, leaving just the shell behind. John's right hand shook slightly.

"There's no sign of concussion. All your motor functions seem normal. Nothing to worry about. But if you experience any numbness, tingling, double vision, anything unusual, call me straight away."

"Thanks John. You look tired. You okay?" The adult Nick had the same easy, concerned manner his teenage self had possessed.

"Hell of a night. The Five Pips Bomber has had another one. Some poor guy got turned inside out in Piccadilly Circus. They're still picking bits of him off Eros."

"Same as before?"

"Yes. Stupid cryptic phone call using a stooge. The Scotland yard boys are running round like blue arsed flies trying to work it all out. Deadline arrives. Bang. LeStrade's tearing his hair out. And I'm trying to do an autopsy on 60 kilos of dog meat that used to be someone's son."

Mycroft's eyes widened. Obviously in this world, Moriarty was still playing his little game. Only Sherlock wasn't there to stop him.