Author's note:I'm sorry, I accidentally uploaded the wrong chapter. Won't happen again.
So this is where it gets weird, or, considering my other stories, I should probably say normal for me... Anyway, I'm curious what you'll think.
I don't own anything.
Mycroft didn't know how long he'd been unconscious; he only knew that he suddenly woke up on the floor, the concerned face of Doctor Trevelyan above him.
For a moment, he was confused, then he remembered. The machine had malfunctioned. He had lost consciousness because of it. Maybe he could convince the government now that the research was simply a waste of money.
He swallowed and found his voice.
"How long?" He trusted that Trevelyan would be able to tell what he wanted to know.
"Almost ten minutes, Mycroft". He registered the unwanted familiarity – only Sherlock, John (if he wanted to prove a point) and DI Lestrade (no, he was supposed to call him Greg by now) ever used his last name – but didn't really care at this point.
"I don't know what happened – the machine has never done this before. Maybe your emotions were too strong, then again, I suppose you do have an extraordinary brain..."
Mycroft sighed, realizing that, although he certainly would prefer silence, he wouldn't get it anytime soon. He tried to sit up – despite Trevelyan's protests – and succeeded, taking a deep breath, relieved to find his faithful umbrella (apparently he had still held it in his left hand while using his right to conduct the experiment) at his side.
Trevelyan looked him over, almost panicking. "Mycroft? Can you hear me? Are you in any pain?"
Mycroft took his time to answer – it was Trevelyan who had persuaded him to try the machine, after all – and look around, gathering his thoughts.
He frowned.
He was sure that the wall had looked slightly less yellow before his... experience. Then again, he had just had several volts run through him; a slight disorientation was only to be expected.
As was Trevelyan's panic, considering he was the one responsible for Mycroft trying out the machine in the first place.
He stared at the scientist and frowned; something, although he couldn't out his finger on it, seemed different about him.
"Mycroft? Is everything alright? Should I call Sherlock?"
The older Holmes was taken aback by the question; why should Trevelyan think about calling his brother? How did he even know who his brother was? He consoled himself with the knowledge that Trevelyan had probably heard about Sherlock because of the media coverage of his death and return; he should have thought about it before. That didn't explain why he wanted to call Sherlock – then, again, maybe he figured it was the normal thing to do. After all, Mycroft had just had an accident.
He stood up, leaning on his umbrella. "No, thank you, Doctor Trevelyan. I think I'll just leave".
"Are you sure, Mycroft?" Again the scientist had used his first name, and again he looked at Mycroft in a way that was entirely too familiar. He simply shrugged off the concern, assured Trevelyan that he was alright and left the scientist trying to figure out what had gone wrong.
His driver seemed to be concerned too – rather strange, considering he never encouraged familiarity between himself and the staff – but simply asked where he wanted to go.
At first, he had thought about going back to the office; then he realized he was too weak, much as he hated to admit it. His knees still felt rather wobbly, and he had a difficult time just getting into the limousine. Son he gave up and decided to go home; Anthea wasn't really expecting him anyway – these inspections could get rather long – and if a crisis occurred she could always contact him.
He didn't pay attention to London flying by the car's windows; his head was pounding and he left like he'd just run a marathon. Maybe it would at least get him out of this assignment next year. He certainly could argue now that he didn't want to go back to a place where he'd almost been electrocuted.
The driver insisted on helping him out of the limousine, asked if he needed anything else, and only let him enter the house alone after he'd glared at him and ordered him to leave.
He sighed relieved when he entered his mansion and leaned against the door. It would certainly be best to take things easy for this afternoon; a bit of brandy, two or three files...
Suddenly he looked at the hall and frowned. Something wasn't right.
It was his house, there was no doubt about it, and his umbrella stand stood here it always had, but...
When had he had another window installed?
He shook his head; he didn't make sense; he had lived in this house for over twenty years – he'd moved in shortly after he'd earned his degree in politics – and there had always been just one window, and a rather small one at that, in the hall. It had been a bit dim, that was true, but in many ways, he preferred twilight to the blinding light of day. Things took different shapes in twilight, people let their masks drop, and information was easier obtained. And, of course, even after he had obtained it, he had never seen the need to drag everything into the light.
So he'd always felt comfortable with his dim entrance hall, and now –
Now, just opposite his small window, there was a much bigger one, letting in the light of the mid-afternoon. He shook his head again; he closed his eyes; the window was still there.
He couldn't deny that it made the hall seem – friendlier, more inviting. But then, he had never cared for that.
But that was beside the point. Why would a window that had no business to be there suddenly appear out of nowhere? It was impossible. The shock must have done more to his mind than he'd thought, and certainly more than he cared to admit.
Therefore, instead of thinking any more about it, he made his way to his dining room, deciding on the way to drink a brandy first and worry about the window later.
Only to stop in the door and stare at the room.
Apparently the hall wasn't the only thing to have changed.
The furniture of the dining room was of a lighter wood than it had been before, and the curtains permitted more light to filter through too.
Before he knew what he was doing, he felt the wood of one of the chairs under his hand, and realized he had blindly walked into the room, feeling the need to reassure himself that what he saw was true.
He sat down and put his head in his hands. What was going on? Had Sherlock – who was the only one who could get into his house without being noticed, he had a top-notch security system – decided to play a prank on him? What for? The only other person who could have done it, if she put her mind to it, was Anthea, and she knew his taste. She wouldn't risk her job by doing something like this.
And even a prank certainly didn't explain the appearance of a window.
Aside from the fact that no one could have done all this in the few hours since he'd left the house to visit the lab this morning.
God, he needed brandy.
Thankfully it was still where he'd always kept it – that is, to the right of the first window in the dining room, the cabinet had, of course, also changed – and sat down, staring at the much-too-light table. He let his gaze wander across the room.
What had happened? And –
Had it happened to the rest of the house too?
There was only one way to find out, so he stood up, refilled his glass – he would probably need it – and set out to investigate.
Only to find that every room had changed. All of them were furnished differently; all of them looked lighter; all of them looked – comfortable, for lack of a better word. He had never needed or wanted much comfort, not even in his home, and he didn't understand why anyone would decide he should have it now.
The biggest surprise downstairs, even counting the window in the hall and the dining room, was the living room – not because it, too, looked too comfortable for Mycroft's taste, but because, on the fireplace, there stood pictures of him and Sherlock when they were younger –
And he could have sworn that Sherlock must at least be fourteen years old on one of the pictures. Of course, that was impossible – by this time, his brother had refused to let their picture be taken.
Also, the background seemed to –
Sherlock had certainly never been in the flat he'd lived in during his studies. It was utterly impossible.
Someone was playing a trick on him, and Mycroft felt himself finally getting angry. He downed his brandy and went upstairs to check the other rooms.
The same light furniture, but he had come to expect that. What surprised him, though, just as he had come to the conclusion that nothing could surprise him anymore, were his and Sherlock's bedrooms.
It wasn't exactly "Sherlock's bedroom" – he had spent a few months there after his detox at the age of twenty-nine, Mycroft had wanted to keep an even closer eye on him than usual, until he was sure that he could stay clean. Naturally, he had resented both his brother's insistence and the room. Therefore, he had resisted all Mycroft's attempts to make him comfortable, preferring a narrow bed and only a desk –
And now the room not only had a very comfortably-looking bed and a much nicer looking desk in it, but a violin stand – with Sherlock's violin on it, no less – several bookstands, a poster of the periodic table on the wall and another picture of the two brothers as children on the nightstand.
Mycroft quickly made his way to his bedroom, just next door to Sherlock's, and found it looked much like his brother's – except that there were more books dedicated to politics than to chemistry, but that was just to be expected. At least he recognized the picture on the nightstand. It had always been there – it had been taken the summer before he left for university and he had kept it in a drawer in the living room.
It just didn't make any sense. Why would Sherlock bring his violin to Mycroft's house? Why would anyone do any of this?
Mycroft was confused, and it was neither a feeling he was used to nor one he cared for.
He heard someone unlock the front door and frowned. No one had the keys to the mansion, not even Anthea.
Quickly checking his bedroom, he was relieved to find the gun he had hidden in a bedpost still where it was supposed to be. As quietly as possible, he made his way towards the stairs –
Only to hear Sherlock's voice call "Mycroft? Mycroft? Are you there? I tried calling, but you didn't answer."
As if this day hadn't held enough surprises already. Sherlock sounded – concerned? About him? No, it was impossible. Even if Sherlock should feel concern when it came to Mycroft – which was doubtful – he wouldn't show it, not like this. At least he could leave the gun in the hallway. On the way down he pulled out his phone – seven missed calls, all from Sherlock. He had forgotten to change the settings after he'd left the lab.
"I must have – " he raised his eyes as he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up, trailing off. Sherlock was standing in front of him, mustering him with obvious concern in his eyes –
Wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt and having just hung up his jacket.
Mycroft had to swallow and his brother was immediately at his side.
"Mycroft? I knew you wouldn't admit anything was the matter, I immediately came here when you wouldn't answer, thank God Percy called me – "
"Percy?" Mycroft asked, even more confused than before, and Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly (good-naturedly? That was certainly a word he had never associated with his brother.
"Trevelyan, Mycroft. We studied together, remember?"
No, they hadn't. Sherlock had left university without a degree – true, he had studied chemistry for half a year, but Mycroft would have known if he had met Trevelyan during his time there.
He wanted to open his mouth, to protest, but Sherlock chose this moment to say, "Come on. You need something to eat, and I'm hungry as well. I'll just make a quick snack, and you can tell me what happened".
Then he all but dragged a decidedly confused Mycroft into the dining room.
Author's note: Any theories? Writing confused Mycroft is much more fun than I would have thought.
I hope you liked it, please review.