Author's note: Reviews and followers? You are spoiling me. That doesn't, however, mean that you should stop. I was merely pointing it out. Oh, and you are awesome. That goes without saying.

I don't own anything.

Despite the distance, despite the rain, he decided to walk home… or rather, to the home this Sherlock had shared with his alter ego. Normally, he would have shield himself from the rain with his umbrella; not this time.

He had always had an umbrella, to shield himself in more ways than one; really, no one who knew him had believed it to be just an umbrella, and they would have been right. Sherlock had been the one to go out in the rain unprotected, to feel the drops on his skin, to live with the consequences, and somehow it seemed right to let his umbrella hand loosely at his side for the time being. Especially if this was nothing but a reality Mycroft's mind had made up because of the electric shock; he would hardly catch a cold from imagined raindrops, although they certainly felt real.

People on the street shot him strange looks, but he didn't care. There was too much to think about.

In a way, this reality had given him everything he had ever wanted without admitting it; Sherlock was a scientist, happy, carefree, devoted to him. And yet –

John, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade... they had all suffered because Sherlock had never entered their lives. Hadn't been there to save John, to ensure Mr. Hudson's execution, to help DI Lestrade. And why should he have been; he had been safely home with Mycroft, the thought of going to Florida or solving crimes or befriending an ex-army doctor had never really crossed his mind.

John had killed himself, had put a gun in his mouth and ended it all, because there had been no one who cared about him, no one who needed him. He had been depressed before he'd met Mycroft's brother – his therapist might not have put it down in her files, but it had been obvious – and his psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in his left hand had certainly not got better while living an utterly normal and, as his Sherlock would have put it, dull life. In the end, the gun had been his only way out.

Mrs. Hudson might live at Baker Street – and her last few years might have been somewhat happy – but she was living in fear of her husband now, her door locked at all times, barely daring to look out the window. Naturally, Mycroft knew that an execution was nothing to rejoice over, but in the case of Mr. Hudson, he was prepared to make an exception.

DI Lestrade had had too many unsolved cases, too many that ended unsatisfactorily, to allow him to be the Inspector Mycroft remembered. Plus he had never met his best two friends and had therefore been completely alone all this years – if one didn't count his cheating wife, and Mycroft didn't.

Before he had landed wherever he was now (in a coma? Still on the machine? He didn't have enough data) he would have been ready to swear that everything would have turned out better if he had taken Sherlock with him.

In a way, it had. Sherlock was a scientist and seemed to be completely happy – not only that, but he loved him like only a brother could, he lived with him, he had made friends in his childhood and during his years at university, he no doubt had achieved considerable success in his work – if Percy Trevelyan spoke with him about his experiments, he must be good.

His personality was different though, how could it not be. He smiled more, he laughed more, he was at ease with himself and his surroundings. He was –

Mycroft couldn't help but think that, in a way, he was far more normal than the brother he had to deal with in his reality. Far more socially acceptable; Mycroft was sure nobody called him a "freak" here, despite his intelligence. And yet –

This normality had come with a price too, albeit one most people would have neglected. Sherlock was less intense. Still enthusiastic about his work, still attached to his friends, but Mycroft was certain that the work didn't mean so much to him as his work as a consulting detective had, and his bonds with his friends weren't as strong as the ones he had with John and DI Lestrade. But wasn't this intensity a fair price to pay, considering he had never tried drugs, never been homeless, never hated Mycroft –

And wouldn't Mycroft be able to sacrifice everyone else if it meant that Sherlock was happy? Sherlock didn't know what had passed him by, didn't know about his passion for crimes, or his friendship with an ex-army doctor. He was content. If Mycroft had had the chance to change the reality he knew so that it would become the one he was currently living – would he have done it? Would he have been ready to kill a brave ex-soldier, make an old lady's life a living hell, destroy a man's belief in what he did, as long as it meant his little brother was everything he had sometimes wished him to be?

Mycroft Holmes didn't know the answer to this question, and that didn't happen often.

It was raining harder now, but he still didn't open his umbrella. Surprisingly the rain helped him think. Maybe it was part of this strange reality –

That thought opened a whole other world of possibilities.

He didn't know how long he would stay in this scenario – he only knew something had gone wrong with the machine. He didn't know how long he would caught in here, but he knew that he had always been able to easily assimilate himself to his surroundings, unlike Sherlock. What if he did it too well? What if he began to believe that this was his reality, this Sherlock his brother, that he had never met John or Mrs. Hudson or DI Lestrade? It would be all too easy and, in some ways, he had to admit, tempting.

As of now, though, there was no danger of that happening anytime soon. He knew who he was; he knew who his brother was; he remembered everything clearly. He would just have to wait and see. He could wake up any minute, after all. No, he corrected himself; he couldn't wake up any minute, he would wake up any minute. This had lasted long enough, especially considering that this Sherlock was insistent on him talking to a psychiatrist.

Even though he couldn't deny that he was a little bit curious about Sherlock's best friend. He simply couldn't imagine someone else than John Watson in this role. But John Watson wasn't here. John Watson was dead and he had just visited his grave. The memory made his stomach clench.

He didn't know how long he walked in the rain; it could have been days, for all he remembered. Concentrating so hard that the outside world almost ceased to exist was a trait he and Sherlock shared, only Mycroft made normally sure not to do it – at least not when he was in public.

When the rain ceased, he looked at his watch and realized that it was after five o' clock. He should be going – to the place this Sherlock called home. He might not be his brother, his real brother, but, illogically, sentimentally, Mycroft didn't want to upset him.

He caught a cab – the driver looked suspiciously on his wet clothes and the closed umbrella in his hand, but said nothing – and returned to the mansion.

Sherlock hadn't come home yet, thankfully, so he didn't have to explain the state he was in and was able to go upstairs and take a shower. He chose to dress himself in another suit – this wasn't the real world, and pretending to be part of it would do no good – and went downstairs to wait. Sherlock would be home rather soon; he had been adamant about Mycroft seeing this Professor. He sat down, feeling rather tired. He wasn't used to legwork and he had been walking around for hours.

He was right; Sherlock came home about half an hour later, dripping wet. Despite this, he immediately looked at Mycroft, who had come into the hall to greet him and asked, "Why are you wearing a different suit?"

"The rain" Mycroft answered and left it at that. Sherlock seemed to wait for an explanation, but when none came, he sighed and went upstairs to change. When he came back, he and Mycroft went to the living room and he told his elder brother what he had found out.

"Percy should never have left you anywhere near this machine; the processes are so complicated that anything could happen. I tried to make sense of all this, but came up empty". He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair.

Mycroft would have liked to comfort him – real or not real, he had never liked to see his brother suffer – but, after so many years in which he hadn't been allowed to, he had no idea how. After a few minutes, he decided to interrupt his thoughts. "I went to see Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade".

Sherlock nodded. "I expected as much. And?"

Mycroft told him, about Mrs. Hudson being scared of her husband, about DI Lestrade being a mere shell of the man they had known. He decided not to talk about the graveyard; he didn't want to see his brother so indifferent about John's death again. Sherlock listened and then –

Then he tried to comfort him.

"I'm sure you can organize protection for Mrs. Hudson" he said. "You do have some influence". He smiled, but Mycroft couldn't return it. Sherlock hearing about Mrs. Hudson scared threatened, and his only response being that Mycroft could organize protection for her (he would, definitely; this might not be real, but that didn't mean he could allow his mind to do anything to Sherlock's landlady) – it was wrong. Plain and simple.

But when he talked about Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had been interested. Not much, but he had seen why it would affect Mycroft.

He didn't feel the same way about DI Lestrade.

He shrugged and asked, "And it's bad that he is still married?"

"He doesn't care for his wife. He doesn't care about anything".

Sherlock shrugged again. "There are worse ways of living."

Mycroft didn't answer because he realized he couldn't get Sherlock to care.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock asked, "Do you want to eat?"

"I'm not hungry" Mycroft replied absently.

Sherlock looked at him critically. "You should. You look pale."

"I'm fine" Mycroft hissed, harsher than intended, and Sherlock cringed, then stood up. "Fine. I'll be in my room. The Professor is going to be here soon – don't bother going to the door, I'll let him in".

He was out of the living room before Mycroft had a chance to apologize, and the older Holmes sighed and looked at the floor. Sherlock might be everything he had always hoped his younger brother to be, but he wasn't the older brother he needed.

After a few minutes, the music started, and he recognized the piece as one Sherlock usually played when he had to calm down. He listened to him, wondering how he could go back to his reality, when the door bell rang, the music stop and he heard Sherlock walk into the hall and open the door. There was a muffled conversation – most likely Sherlock telling the Professor that there had been no ages – and Mycroft thought that the second voice sounded strangely familiar. He didn't turn around, though, not even when he heard them coming to the living room, not until he heard a voice he now recognized say: "Good evening, Big Brother. What seems to be the problem?"

He sprung up and turned around. There, in the doorway, smiling politely at him the way one did at people one had known for a long time, stood Jim Moriarty.

Author's note: A lot of philosophy in this chapter – I couldn't resist.

I got the idea to elaborate on the fact that Mycroft didn't use his umbrella from a review. Thank you.

I hope you liked it, please review.