Author's note: More musing! More angst! One more character! Hurray!

I don't own anything, please review.

Mycroft decided to make sure his position was truly unaltered – he might have been able to find John Watson's death certificate, but that didn't automatically mean he was as influential as he'd always best – and whether or not he had employed Anthea all those years ago.

As it turned out, he was still, as his Sherlock would have put it, "the British Government"; although he seemed to have encouraged more funding for research than usual. But, if Sherlock was a scientist, this was easily explained – he would simply have made sure that his brother's (useful, he didn't doubt that) plans came to fruition.

Anthea was still his PA, apparently, at least she still sent him mails at regular intervals. She called him by his first name instead of "sir"; all in all, she seemed to be on more familiar terms with him as well, and all he could do was wonder how Sherlock being in his life all these years could have done this.

So his little brother had lived with him. Necessarily, he had to have been at his flat more than he remembered to look after him. He always would have had to look after his education. He would have been the one Sherlock looked up to, to help him with his homework, to tell him all about his problems, to be there for him. Therefore, at least according to what this Sherlock had told him, and based on the attitudes of Doctor Trevelyan and his driver, plus judging by the furniture in the mansion, Mycroft had developed a different persona as well.

As far as he could tell, he definitely preferred the day to the night; he and Sherlock were friends as well as brothers; he had made sure more money went into science, because his little brother had become a scientist; he never told Moriarty about Sherlock's life, because Sherlock was safe, was with him, where he belonged; he wasn't the Ice man Moriarty had believed him to be, but simply a big brother who had done the right thing and got a faithful companion for his troubles. He had got Sherlock because had shown concern in his wellbeing; because he has sure he had never taken drugs, because he had been there for him during his studies.

It was rather confusing and made sense at the same time.

In a way, it was all he had ever wished for, without admitting it, apart from the fact –

Apart from the fact that John had committed suicide.

And, Mycroft had to admit, going through the rather short list of people he had to check up on, all of his so-called friends, or acquaintances, had sprung from them being connected to Sherlock. He had shown up at 221B, he had had DI Lestrade and John kidnapped. And, somehow, over the years, they had become fixtures in his life as well. He could think of no other person, safe Anthea, who had shown the slightest concern for his wellbeing. Mrs. Hudson had stuffed him with biscuits and tea every time he came to 221B after Sherlock's fake suicide; DI Lestrade had told him exactly what he thought of him (apparently John had explained who had told Moriarty all about Sherlock why they were at a pub) and had allowed him nonetheless to kidnap him occasionally, always looking at him in a way that made him suspect that the DI was the one checking up on him, instead of the other way around.

Without Sherlock, he would have been a ghost.

Even in this reality, he suspected; after all, Sherlock's... friends (like Trevelyan) seemed only to be concerned about him because they were acquainted with his brother.

But now was not the time for sentimentalities. He had to look up the only friends he had – or rather, the only friends Sherlock had had, once upon another reality – and try to make sense of all this.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to still live in Baker Street – without her abusive husband, by the looks of it, and Mycroft was even more relieved than he'd thought he would be. Mrs. Hudson had been a grounding influence for his brother. She had been there for him when Mycroft had not. At least she was still alive.

DI Lestrade was doing as well as could be expected without a consulting detective at his sight, apparently. Naturally, he hadn't solved his cases as quickly. But that was only to be expected; this Sherlock didn't seem to be very interested in murders. If he hadn't been, he would never have wandered unto DI Lestrade's crime scene. So the Di would never have met Sherlock, would never have offered him a job.

Mycroft had always been adverse to legwork; there was nothing he couldn't accomplish without running around. His mind was all he needed to solve problems, to figure out the culprit, to figure out how to manipulate people to do exactly what he wanted them to.

And yet, he felt that he would have to do it like Sherlock this time, track down his friends and see with his own eyes what had become of them. Sometimes surveillance footage wasn't enough. And this time, he felt that simply looking up the information wouldn't be right. These were Sherlock's friends in a strange scenario; he owed it to him to see what had happened to them himself.

He was sure that the Sherlock he had met in this reality wouldn't be pleased about his idea; but then, Sherlock had said he would go to the lab tomorrow. He could certainly leave after him and come back before his brother.

With this thought and after several hours of research, he decided to try and get some rest. He didn't expect to sleep; there was simply no way his mind could –

And then Sherlock started playing the violin.

He wondered how Sherlock had guessed that he wasn't asleep (then again, this version seemed to know him rather well), but it didn't matter; all he knew was that Sherlock was playing music, and obviously for him, something he hadn't done ever since Mycroft left.

He lay in the bed and listened; it was one of his favourite pieces by Dvořák, and Sherlock was an even better player than he remembered. Then again, if he had lived with Mycroft he had probably practised more.

After a while of listening to his brother trying to soothe him, he fell asleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw when he opened his drawers were jeans and t-shirts; it seemed that not only Sherlock preferred casual wear in his – in their home. He shrugged and put on a suit – he had never liked wearing jeans, and he wouldn't start now – and made his way downstairs.

Sherlock was waiting for him with coffee – of course this version of his brother would know he preferred not to have breakfast – and turned his head away slightly when he came into the dining room, so Mycroft wouldn't see the disappointment in his eyes that he obviously still didn't remember.

He sat down, accepting the coffee. The silence stretched between them. Sherlock was looking over some lab results, Mycroft took out his phone, frowning. Surely Anthea should have asked where he was by now?

"I informed her yesterday that you had had an accident and wouldn't be in the office for a few days" Sherlock answered his unspoken question. "She as concerned, of course, but I told her I'd keep an eye on you".

Mycroft nodded, telling himself not to be surprised that his PA and his brother were on such good terms. He probably helped pick her.

Sherlock turned back to his results, and Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Thank you. For... last night".

It felt strange, thanking his brother. They rarely thanked one another, simply because they rarely did something for each other. And certainly not as – for lack of a better word – intimate things as playing him to sleep.

Sherlock shrugged. "You're welcome". Then, he added, so quietly that Mycroft almost couldn't hear him, "as always".

Mycroft didn't know what to say. Sherlock stood up abruptly and announced, "I'm going to meet Percy in the lab and take a look at the machine myself. There has to be a solution to our... problem".

Mycroft doubted it, but didn't say anything.

Sherlock looked at him. "Promise you'll stay here?"

"Of course" Mycroft answered, lying smoothly as always. As it turned out, this Sherlock knew him too well; his shoulders slumped and he sighed.

"Fine, but just be back tonight so you can meet – "

"The Professor, I know. I promise."

Sherlock nodded and left without another word, and Mycroft thought how difficult this must be for him, to suddenly live with a brother who didn't really know him, who was so different from the one he remembered. At least for him this whole situation was so strange that meeting a different Sherlock, while confusing, had almost been... normal. But Sherlock had come home to find a stranger when he expected the older brother who had taken him with his all those years ago.

Mycroft sighed and stood up. It couldn't be helped; this reality wasn't his reality and he couldn't pretend that it was. He could, however, while waiting for something to happen (preferably him waking up in Trevelyan's lab) check up on Sherlock's other friends.

He took his umbrella with him – one could never know – and left, having decided against calling a driver. He could very well take cabs for the day, and he didn't want anyone to know where he was going.

He quickly caught a cab and drove to 221B Baker Street. Really, it should have been enough to know that Mrs. Hudson still lived there, but he felt the need to see with his own eyes that she was alright nonetheless.

London hadn't changed much, if at all, at least he could say that looking out the window. True, it was difficult to see how his decision could have affected the topography of the city, but it was a comfort.

221B seemed to be unchanged as well, and Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson was apparently doing just fine, most likely she had even found other lodgers...

Then he noticed several locks on the front door and frowned. Why would Mrs. Hudson have so many locks? Baker Street was hardly a centre of crime; even if she lived alone, she wouldn't be that concerned –

And then he saw her come towards him. She had obviously been to the stores.

She looked almost like the landlady he remembered. Almost. Because there was a certain – gaunt, tight look in her eyes he didn't remember. She also kept turning around and she seemed to have bought enough groceries to last for a week. Was she planning on not leaving the flat during this whole time?

Seeing her stagger beneath the many bags, Mycroft approached her and asked politely, "May I help you with that?"

She was startled, but composed herself when she saw him. Not because she knew him, he realized, but because he wasn't who she had been expecting.

She gave him a tired smile. "Yes, please".

He took the bags without a word and followed her to her front door. She unlocked it, entered the building and turned around, indicating that she wanted to carry the bags from here. He raised an eyebrow, and she gave him the tired smile again.

"I'm sorry if I seem impolite, but... someone just got out of prison and I have to be careful".

Mycroft, despite knowing exactly what she meant, acted appropriately confused, assured her it didn't matter, and walked away, his umbrella tapping on the pavement.

Sherlock hadn't been there to ensure Mr. Hudson's execution, therefore he had got out of prison recently, he realized. Mrs. Hudson was afraid that her abusive husband would come over her, and she was probably right.

Aside from the pity he felt, there was something else, something he hadn't considered yet: What had happened in all the cases Sherlock should have helped the police?

And – Mycroft had to swallow – more importantly: What was Moriarty doing in this reality, without a consulting detective to stop him?

Author's note: Poor Mrs. Hudson... She never seems to be happy in my AUs, I fear.

I hope you liked it, please review.