The reality he was currently inhabiting, whatever it was, had mercifully kept the architecture the same, at least Mycroft could navigate his way around the house without too much inconvenience. The house was in fact, pretty much as it always was, just more cluttered and chaotic. And filled with dog. Mycroft wasn't sure what was troubling him most, the civil partnership they had obviously had, if the "Wedding" photos in the hallway were anything to go by. (And Nick did look truly amazing in that dark blue frock coat.) Or the fact that they had a dog. He was convinced that in no version of his reality had there ever been mention of a dog. But the house was the same. Even the picture above the mantelpiece in the lounge. The one Mycroft had seen in Sotheby's and paid rather a lot for. It was all there. He wondered about the locked room. What would that be like?
One thing that was different was his clothes. Mycroft looked a little dubiously at the clothes laid out on the bed for him. Even if this was a different reality he saw no reason why he should wear jeans. Faded blue jeans and some kind of casual black shirt at that. Still, it was what Nick had put out for him. The shirt was actually quite nice once he got used to it. The jeans were too tight around the waist. Mycroft could see that was going to be a running theme. And for some inexplicable reason his boxer shorts had Mr. Greedy on them. Well maybe not that inexplicable.
Mycroft climbed up the stairs to the top story of the house. To the locked room. So many times he had thought about clearing out that room. Throwing away all of the things in it. All the things he had bought for his dead friend. He couldn't quite use the term lover, or partner, or even boyfriend, because there had never been time for that. And here he was, in some never ending dream, hoping that he was dead, because then they would have all the time in the world. And not caring that it meant the sacrifice of his brother and being able to see his feet. Nick was up on the top floor, but not in the room Mycroft had been expecting. Nick was in one of the rooms on the left hand side of the corridor. The room was filled with books and papers and microscopes, and taking pride of place on a shelf, Wordsworth the Giraffe. So what was in that locked room?
The key was on Mycroft's watch chain. It turned in the lock easily and as the door opened Mycroft realised he should have known what was going to be in there. Books that had never been read, DVDs still in their wrappers, a microscope gleaming on a bench with a chemistry set and a frog dissection kit next to it. A skull sat morosely on a shelf. Clothes hanging up neatly on a rail. Suits tailored for someone much taller and more elegantly built than Nick. And a beautiful Belstaff coat with a blue scarf. Of course. Nick's shrine had been replaced with Sherlock. The other lost boy.
"Mikey? Are you okay?" Nick was standing behind him. Barefoot in Jeans and a pale blue shirt.
"Nick. I don't remember any of this. I want to. But I really don't remember it." Nick nodded slowly.
"What do you remember?" And Mycroft realised how ridiculous his next sentence would sound.
"I remember you dying. I remember burying you. And spending every day missing you. Sherlock didn't die. You did."
"How did I die?"
"You had a heart defect no one knew about. You were playing badminton and you collapsed. I wasn't there. I never got to say goodbye to you. You just died." Nick was quiet for a moment.
"Sherlock drowned in a swimming accident. A boy called Carl Powers pushed him in to the deep end. He didn't realise Sherlock couldn't swim. He dived in once he realised Sherlock wasn't just messing about. We did CPR on the side of the pool, but by the time the paramedics arrived his heart had been stopped for fifteen minutes. It was too late."
"What happened to Carl Powers?" Mycroft was beginning to see how everything seemed to be horribly linked.
"He died of an epileptic fit a couple of years later. None of it was anyone's fault Mycroft." Nick reached up and stroked Mycroft's face. "And if it were as simple as me dying and Sherlock living, I'd do it in a heartbeat Mikey. I miss him too."
The kiss was electric, charged with thirty years of repressed passion. Mycroft couldn't help himself. He knew he should be mourning his brother or trying to stop Moriarty, but all he could think of was making up for all those empty years, even if none of it were real.
"I'm glad you remember that you love me Mikey." Nick mumbled through a mouthful of lips.
"That's the only thing I don't think I've ever forgotten." Moriarty was just going to have to wait.