Author's note: Followers and reviews. I am so happy. Thank you all so much.

Anyway, more weirdness and confused Mycroft.

I don't own anything.

It almost seemed like a dream, him sitting in the dining room while Sherlock made a late lunch in the kitchen, all the while talking how Percy had called him and he had been worried and therefore he had come to check on his brother.

All the while he sipped the brandy Sherlock had put before him and tried to make sense of all this.

There had been an accident in the lab.

Doctor Trevelyan – or "Percy" as Sherlock insisted on calling him – had been overly concerned for his well-being. The furniture in his house had changed. Sherlock had shown up, in casual, demanding what had happened to him and why he hadn't answered his phone.

None of it made sense.

No one would dare change the furniture in his house; Doctor Trevelyan, who had just met him, would never allow such familiarity; and Sherlock –

Sherlock would never cook him "a very late lunch". He would never be so concerned about him. He would never make sure his brother was comfortable, lay plates in the dining room, tell him about his day...

And this was when things got really complicated.

When Sherlock had dragged Mycroft into the dining room, forced him into a chair, put the glass of brandy in his hands, the older Holmes had been deducing his younger brother.

Judging from the slight smell of chemicals on his clothes, he had either come from St. Bart's or from his flat. . There were no other options.

But he told an entirely different story.

Apparently he had been at a well-known chemical laboratory in the north of town, experimenting on several formulas they had paid him to find; he was obviously happy, convinced that he'd finally found the missing ingredient, but had come "home" – and it was undoubtedly strange to hear him refer to Mycroft's house in this way – as soon as "Percy" had let him know that something had gone wrong and Mycroft had lost consciousness.

Evidently, it was the most natural thing in the world to him to check up on his brother.

So Mycroft sat there, listening to his rambling, trying to make sense of everything, until Sherlock came out of the kitchen with two plates and a big bowl of pasta, demanding Mycroft eat enough to "get his strength back". Strangely enough (or not so strange, considering what else he had to deal with), he found his brother to be a good cook.

He ate almost all to pacify this strange domestic version of his brother before asking, without looking up, "Where's John?"

The answer, even though he had suspected it almost subconsciously, made him glad to be sitting down.

Sherlock (even though he didn't look up, he could tell) looked at him with blank eyes, asking "Who's John?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and replied, using the same calm tone he used in discussions with foreign diplomats, ""Doctor John Watson. The ex-army doctor you share a flat with".

Sherlock laughed, but his brother could tell it was forced.

"Mycroft" he then explained, slowly as one would to a child, "you know I never had a flatmate – well, if we don't count you". He chuckled before becoming serious again. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you couldn't afford one on your own" Mycroft replied, aware how weird this must sound to a Sherlock who obviously spent most of his time here, if he didn't live here full-time.

Sherlock snorted. "And you couldn't help me out? Sure." He shook his head. "Mycroft, the experiment gave you and electrical shock, and it's obviously still messing with your perception of reality. Why don't we go to the living room and you can tell me what exactly happened?"

Knowing there was nothing else to do, Mycroft acquiesced and followed Sherlock into the living room.

His brother insisted on him sitting down on the sofa and getting "comfortable" before their talk, and Mycroft looked at him and asked himself what would happen if he ever told the Sherlock he remembered what had happened. He would probably laugh and then start playing his violin.

"So" the Sherlock now with him said, sitting down opposite him and looking at him in a way that calmed him, because he was deducing him – even if he probably didn't know he was doing it.

"Tell me about Percy's experiment. I know what it's supposed to do, of course – it's his favourite subject. I can barely get him to talk about anything else".

Mycroft nodded and started, unsure what Sherlock would think.

"I did what he told me – put my hand on the square and think about a choice I made. First I thought about – something else" he decided not to mention Moriarty, not until he knew which role the consulting criminal played in this strange world "and it didn't work."

Sherlock nodded as if that made sense to him and it most likely did. "It's a problem Percy has been working on for some time – it only works when you feel very passionately about the choice. He's desperate to fix it. He even asked me for help, and I have a few theories, but it's not really my area."

"Then I thought about – " Mycroft started again, then looked at Sherlock, sitting in front of him, looking at him with concerned eyes, dressed in jeans, utterly comfortable in his presence. And then, for the first time in a long time, he found he simply couldn't go on talking. But maybe that wasn't surprising. He and Sherlock had never talked about the day Mycroft had left him behind; he wasn't even sure his brother still remembered. Maybe he had deleted it. There were quite enough reasons for Sherlock to resent him even without that first one, he thought bitterly.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "Go on. Please. Tell me what happened. I can't help you otherwise".

He put his hands in front of his mouth in the prayer position he had decided to adopt from his brother when he was seven years old, and this made Mycroft decided he had to tell him.

"The day I left for university".

"Ah". Sherlock's eyes softened, and he smiled as if thinking about a fond memory. "You wanted to see what would have happened if you hadn't taken me with you?"

"No, I – " Mycroft stopped again when he realized what Sherlock had said.

"Sherlock" he said slowly, "I didn't take you with me. I left you there."

"Don't be ridiculous" Sherlock huffed, indignantly. "You would never leave me behind."

Mycroft swallowed. His brother had never expressed such faith in him – maybe when they were children, but not since that day. And he certainly would never do it now. He didn't believe in Mycroft. Sometimes the older Holmes even thought Sherlock didn't trust him, and who could blame him.

But, he suddenly realized, Sherlock telling him that he had taken him with him all those years ago might be a clue to what was going on.

Was he still at the machine? Maybe it hadn't malfunctioned at all, maybe it was only showing him what he had wanted to see. Dr. Trevelyan had said that it could show you a whole life in a few minutes, and perhaps that was why he had already spent – he looked at his watch – one and a half hours in this strange world.

Sherlock, apparently sensing what he was about say, shook his head.

"No, Mycroft. It wouldn't work like that – "

"Why not?" he interrupted him. "After all, the machine is supposed to show me a different version of reality – "

"Yes, but you should be aware that you are standing in front of the machine" Sherlock explained, patiently. "You should still feel that your hand rested on the square. Also, it should have started to show you your life from the choice on. Did it?"

"No" Mycroft admitted. "I just woke up in Trevelyan's lab".

Sherlock shook his head. "Percy should be glad he's my friend."

That casual mention of the word "friend" – a word Sherlock had always avoided, a word he had only used when it came to John – reminded Mycroft of the ex-army doctor.

"Sherlock, about John Watson..." he said, but his brother waved a hand.

"Mycroft, we can worry about him later. If you're still curious, I am sure you can check his service records and whatever there is to know about him – you do occupy a "minor position in the British Government" after all". His eyes twinkled mischievously in an utterly unlike-Sherlock manner.

Then he grew serious again. "But" he announced, "first we have to deal with your confusion."

Mycroft wanted to protest, but he knew it was pointless. This Sherlock wouldn't take no for an answer – just like the one he remembered. At least some things hadn't changed.

"So, tell me what you think happened when you left for university" Sherlock added.

And Mycroft told him, because there was nothing else to do. He told him everything – how he'd left, despite Sherlock's pleas. How they hadn't really been in contact during his studied. How he'd noticed that Sherlock was slipping into drugs when his little brother was seventeen, but hadn't acted the way he should have, instead simply chastising him and going back to London. How Sherlock had started to study chemistry, but dropped out because he had started taking cocaine. All the lost years in which his brother had been taking drugs, showing up now and then to demand money, then dropping off his radar again, and Mycroft had done nothing – except buy him a plane ticket to Florida to get him away from his suppliers. And, he admitted, feeling ashamed, so that he wouldn't have to worry about him for a while. How he'd at least met Mrs. Hudson there and decided that he wanted to solve crimes for a living. How he'd met DI Lestrade, who'd made him detox first, and how Mycroft had him living in his house for a few months after he got clean. How he'd met John and moved into 221B.

It was then that he stopped, because he somehow couldn't bring himself to tell his little brother about his other betrayal; plus he figured he'd already told him enough.

It was easier than he would have expected, telling Sherlock all of this; maybe because he wasn't his brother, not really.

Sherlock listened attentively, frowning now and then. At the end, he shook his head.

"My..."

He was startled at the nickname Sherlock hadn't used for over thirty years now; he had only called him that when he had been very little and had had problems pronouncing his name.

"My" Sherlock repeated, "You must see that what you are saying is ridiculous. You – "

"Yes, Sherlock, I would" Mycroft said tiredly, sensing that his brother was about to protest he would never leave him behind again. "I did. I'm sorry."

"Don't be" Sherlock said, looking at him worriedly. Then he suggested, "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down a bit? Things will look better after you have rested".

They wouldn't, but there was no use arguing with him. He was curious what life his brother had led after he'd taken him with him, but it was obvious Sherlock wanted him to get some rest and wouldn't answer any questions. Especially since he seemed convinced that Mycroft would remember how everything had truly happened soon.

So he sighed and nodded, standing up and making his way upstairs, Sherlock promising he would call Percy and "discuss things with him".

At least now he could look up John Watson without Sherlock protesting it was useless.

And his position as the British Government seemed unaltered, thank God.

He hesitated for a moment before taking out his laptop, his eyes lingering on the picture of Sherlock and him on the nightstand. After all, until now he had found this world to be rather... pleasant, for lack of a better word. Sherlock concerned about him, Sherlock believing in him, Sherlock trusting him...

He shook himself; Sherlock, the Sherlock he remembered, would never forgive him if he didn't check up on John.

As it turned out, he didn't have much checking to do.

Because the first document he laid his eyes on was simply labelled –

Death Certificate

Doctor John Hamish Watson

Died: July 23, 2010

Cause of death: Suicide

Author's note: This is the first time I've killed of a main character, but hey, it's not the real John – maybe... muahahaha

I decided to do it because I wanted this to be mainly about Mycroft's and Sherlock's relationship – and because I feared this might get too much like "Made Weak By Time And Fate, But Strong In Will".

Enough rambling.

I hope you liked it, please review.