A/N Wow, I actually really like this one. I'd love to see what you all think!

Thanks to johnsarmylady, Natalie Nallareet, and innenlebenaussenwelt (feel absolutely free to share it, I'd be extremely flattered!)

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XLIV. Two Roads

Sometimes, when he looks back, Sherlock can see that it didn't all have to play out this way. That there were other possibilities—countless collections of them, really—and he can't help but wonder amazedly at the fact that he managed to make each little choice, each tiny decision that happened to lead him here, to his life as a consulting detective in 221b Baker Street, assisted by Dr. John Watson.

Mycroft always wanted a different future for him, from the very start. You're hot-headed, brother. Volatile. Operating under your own lead would be an extremely unwise career decision.

Sherlock would sneer and scowl at the words, revealing a mean, cruel side to himself—intentionally so, rather than it being a pure expression of social ignorance—turn his small tousled head away, yell over his skinny shoulder that he'd never work for Mycroft, that he was too smart for that and that he'd find his own profession if he had to create a whole new type of career in order to do so.

Thinking back on that now, he reflects with a smirk that he did indeed—consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job. And where was Mycroft? Hidden somewhere in the higher reaches of the dreadfully mundane British government, perched in a velvet-cushioned chair and discussing foreign issues over cups of cold tea, while Sherlock lived in the smoke and darkness of London's grungier side, his life finding meaning in the thrill of the chase, the triumph of the game, the delight of the puzzle.

And, of course, in John.

He's not entirely sure how Mycroft works without an assistant of his own, or how he himself even operated before the army doctor came along. It must have been mundane, because despite the gorgeous pattern of mental challenges that his used to consist of, it's undeniable at this point that emotions, feelings—which, naturally, he wholly associates with John's arrival (January 29th, 2010, the computing part of his brain reminds him)—are one of the most powerful things, the most intriguing things that take a part in the activity of his mind and heart. Just because he doesn't approach them openly doesn't mean that he doesn't enjoy looking in on them. Perhaps enjoy isn't the right word, but it definitely feels good, feels good whenever he gets that strange little spark in his chest, caused undoubtedly by the gleam of John's hazel-blue eyes or the shape of his mouth curving into a careless grin.

Mycroft has that assistant of his, of course—that woman—but she's no John. She's dull, works only for the work, not for the connection. Early on, Sherlock remembers being able to admire her devotion, and his brother's ability to harness someone so very loyal.

But John is a thousand times more so, a fact that Sherlock holds in his heart constantly, practically a bragging right.

Mine is better than yours.

I went against your advice, brother, and I'm damn glad I did.