Author's note: I got so many reviews and more followers – I'm so glad I'm not the only crazy person here. Thank you so much; You make my day every time you leave a review (emotional blackmail to do it again, hehehe).

Warnings for feelings and – well, when you have read the last chapter, you know what I mean.

I don't own anything.

Mycroft stared at the certificate on his screen, not knowing neither caring how much time had passed since he had learned that John Watson didn't exist in this world anymore, because –

John Watson had taken his own life.

His relationship with the doctor had always been rather... complicated, and even more so since Sherlock's fake suicide. John Watson had never understood how he could have told Moriarty about Sherlock's life, and how could he blame him, who had always looked after his sister, even when she had called him drunk in the middle of the night.

And the man had looked after his little brother in a way Mycroft never could have, had made sure Sherlock ate and slept, had tended to his wounds, had mourned him for three years and yet welcomed him back into his life –

And now that man was gone.

No, not "now"; Sherlock didn't know who John Watson was. Sherlock would never know what had passed him by.

Mycroft tried to breathe. He was used to people dying – leading a nation and the Secret Service, how could he not be? And yet – the knowledge of John's loss, while realizing that his brother wouldn't care, would just look at him with this uncomprehending eyes again, probably ask, "Who?" was almost too much to bear.

It wasn't a surprise on some level, he suddenly realized. On the contrary; he remembered looking at John's record and the transcript of his therapy sessions for the first time, feeling concerned because his brother had obviously chosen an unstable flatmate, considering this man suicidal because he couldn't live without the war –

Sherlock had been his new war, his new purpose, but Sherlock hadn't appeared, because Sherlock hadn't looked for a flatmate. Sherlock had been living with him, apparently, and had had no reason to search for a flatmate. Therefore he had never told Mike Stamford (had most likely never met Mike Stamford) that he was in need of one, and the teacher had never introduced him and John...

Almost as if he was still standing in front of the machine, watching a life he had never known, he saw what these last months must have been like for John Watson. Day after day, always the same, hoping that today would be the day everything c hanged, always being disappointed, then finally, over time, giving up, losing all hope, until one evening he took out the gun in his drawer, put it in his mouth, and, without a single feeling of regret, without knowing that, in another life, he would have been the best friend of the world's only consulting detective, simply content to bid goodbye to this world that had taken everything from him and given him nothing in return, pulled the trigger. His body lying there, because there was nobody to come for him, nobody to look for him, for several days, maybe weeks, until finally his landlord decided to take a look because other tenants had complained about the smell. And then the funeral, with no one behind the casket but his sister (as likely drunk as not) and just possibly Mike Stamford, who had remembered that they had been friends once...

Mycroft swallowed and pulled himself together. He understood why he was thus affected, of course; John Watson had become a constant in his life too, just as he had become Sherlock's best friend and flatmate and colleague. He had become one of the few people Mycroft trusted.

And yet, somehow, until this moment, while acknowledging that he was thankful to John Watson and would be sorry to see anything happen to him, Mycroft had never realized that the doctor had come to mean something to him too. Maybe even something like a friend, despite the mistrust and anger hanging between them, although he might be the only person in the UK to have less friends than Sherlock Holmes.

In another reality, that was. Here, John was dead and Sherlock was not only unaware, but –

"I should have known you wouldn't rest" his brother's voice interrupted his musings. He looked up from his laptop. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard the door open. Sherlock stood in the doorway, shaking his head at him, although not without a certain exasperated fondness.

"I had to check something" Mycroft mumbled, closing the laptop.

Sherlock strode over to the bed, sitting down beside his brother.

"This – John Watson, I presume?"

Mycroft nodded, lost for words. He was aware that the news of John Watson's suicide wouldn't hurt Sherlock, and he should have been relieved, but instead, he dreaded his reaction. He didn't want to look into those eyes and see that it didn't mean anything to him. And yet, he already knew he would tell him, knew he would have to, knew he needed to see with his own eyes that Sherlock didn't care.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, and Mycroft swallowed again.

"He's – dead. He committed suicide a few years ago".

"I'm sorry" Sherlock replied, and Mycroft was, not for the first time that day, glad to be sitting down. Seeing Sherlock indifferent was worse than imagining him indifferent.

Although – no, that wasn't right. His brother wasn't wholly indifferent. He was sorry for Mycroft's loss. He could have laughed at the irony.

Sherlock was sorry because he believed that John Watson had meant something to Mycroft. And, in a way, he had. Just not as much as the ex-army doctor meant – should have meant – to Sherlock. But Sherlock only knew him from Mycroft's tale of the life he hadn't lived. He had no other connection with him.

"So you knew him rather well then – he was, after all, my flatmate" Sherlock added, looking at Mycroft questioningly, and the older Holmes nodded.

Then, Mycroft decided he would have to pull himself together. This was not his reality, this wasn't his life; John wasn't really dead, he told himself. John was safe with Sherlock at Baker Street.

"Tell me about your life" he demanded and, when Sherlock shot him a confused look, clarified, "our lives. After I took you with me".

Sherlock bit his lip, and Mycroft could easily tell what he was thinking; that telling him about it, instead of waiting for him to remember, might harm his "healing process". But he knew exactly what to say. He doubted it would have worked with the brother he remembered – yet, considering what he had learned about this version of Sherlock so far...

"Please" he added.

Sherlock stared down at the bed, then he nodded slowly, and Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief.

His brother looked up and met his eyes. He began after taking a deep breath.

"When I was eleven – from your story, I understand that our memories are the same before this point – you took me with you. I was scared when you drove off – scared to be left with our father. We both know Mummy didn't really count, at least not until she got older and wasn't so busy socializing anymore. And father was..." he trailed off, and Mycroft understood. He winced.

"But you took me with you" Sherlock hastened to add. "You took me with you and installed me in your flat and found me a school in London. When Father found out, he was furious. He came to your flat and wanted to take me back, but you refused". He smiled. "You promised I wouldn't have to go back, and I didn't. When you had finished your studied, you bought this house – not even Father could keep you from grandfather's trust fond – and we have been living here ever since. There was simply no reason for me to move out."

"And you – finished your degree?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. First I studied chemistry – "

"First?"

"Yes, and then physics."

Mycroft nodded and stated, "So you became a scientist".

"Yes – and" Sherlock smirked "since I published a few articles about the work ethics of scientist, you always called me a "part-time philosopher"".

Mycroft remembered a conversation he had held with a dead man after the Adler case and had to admit this reality at least followed some rules. The thought of John brought the thoughts he'd been fighting off for a few minutes now back to the surface, so he asked, even though he would rather not, "And you never took drugs?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And let you catch me at it? Why would I do something stupid like that?"

"Because you were bored?" Mycroft suggested before he could stop himself, and Sherlock actually giggled at that.

"Bored? With you around? I assure you, brother, you always kept me well-occupied."

"Of course I did" Mycroft mumbled, and only now his gaze fell on Sherlock's arms. The electric shock and the strange environment had kept him from employing his observatory skills. But now, when he was finally starting to take everything in –

Sherlock never wore short-sleeved shirts, and for a good reason. Injection had been his favourite method of taking drugs, so his arms weren't exactly fit to be shown –

Or rather, they wouldn't have been, because there were no needle marks there now. Before he knew what he was doing, Mycroft had reached out and touched Sherlock's right arm.

His brother was obviously convinced this was a good thing, for he beamed.

"See? I never took any drugs."

Mycroft nodded, then swallowed. He wished he could be as relieved as he should be, because, somehow, just looking at Sherlock, this reality wasn't bad. After all, his brother was a scientist, he had friends, he had never taken drugs –

But John Watson was dead, and Mycroft knew his Sherlock well enough to know this was simply inacceptable.

He dropped his hand, and Sherlock sighed. Then he said, "I called Percy while you were" he looked over at the laptop "resting. He has still no idea what happened. I'm going to go over there tomorrow and check".

Mycroft nodded; Sherlock should go to the lab, so he would have time to check up on Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade. He had to know how they were faring in this reality.

Suddenly, Sherlock looked rather guilty and Mycroft knew exactly what he was about to say. "I also called – "

"I don't need a psychiatrist" he interrupted him. Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. "The Professor said he would be here tomorrow evening – if you should remember by this time, I can call him and tell him not to bother".

""The Professor?"" Mycroft asked, deciding it would be useless to protest that there was nothing to remember; Sherlock would never believe him.

Sherlock nodded, trying not to let show that he was slightly hurt by Mycroft's ignorance – another expression he had never seen on his face.

"Yes. He's my best friend. We met when we were twelve".

"And you call him "Professor" because – "

"Because he managed to become Professor at the age of twenty-nine" Sherlock replied, simply. "It's something like a joke."

Mycroft nodded, because he couldn't think of another reaction. Sherlock seemed to believe that this was quite enough information, for he asked, "So – how about dinner?"

"Dinner? Sherlock, we just ate barely two hours ago."

His brother shrugged. "I get hungry when I'm concerned".

Now this was certainly something he would never have expected to hear from his brother. Mycroft swallowed and then said, "No, thank you, not for me. I'll call it an early night".

It was barely seven, but he needed to check his life, make sure his position was really unchanged, that Anthea still worked for him and Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade were still alive and well.

Sherlock's face brightened. "Good". He stood up; Mycroft did as well, unsure what to do or say now. A simple "Good night" seemed so odd.

And then Sherlock hugged him. He froze. Sherlock had never hugged him, not even when he had returned from the dead.

His brother pulled back, again unsuccessfully trying to mask the pain in his eyes and said, "Rest well."

"Thank you" he replied, not knowing what to do.

Sherlock looked at him again and then left.

Mycroft sat down on the bed, sighed and pulled the laptop towards him. He had a lot of work to do.

Author's note: This wasn't supposed to get so angsty – if you can believe it.

But I felt it was rather important to show Mycroft's feelings.

I hope you liked it, please review.