Author's note: There's an announcement at the end of the chapter that you should read, even if you skip my usual ramblings (not that I can blame you for that).

Because of this announcement, and because it's the twentieth chapter, this one will be slightly different – and hopefully answer some questions.

I don't own anything.

If there was one thing that annoyed Sherlock Holmes more than Mycroft's insistence to keep him under constant surveillance to guarantee his "safety", it was the fact that he refused to let Sherlock accompany him to the secret labs he had to check on once a year.

Really, it was ridiculous that Mycroft still thought he couldn't be trusted – he had solved the Baskerville case without even looking at the experiments undertaken in the cellar, hadn't he? And he had hidden three years, dismantling Moriarty's web so his friends could be safe. That was hardly a sign that he was not to be trusted.

He almost drew the bow over the violin in his hands out of frustration, then remembered that John had had a night shift at the clinic and was currently resting and sat it down, sighing. He didn't like to think about those three years, and if that made him more human than he had ever wanted, so be it.

He was back and his – his friends had forgiven him and that was all that mattered.

Mrs. Hudson had simply accepted him back into her life and her flat – true, after she had admonished him for half an hour, but still.

Lestrade had been shocked, but glad that he was alive; it didn't take Sherlock's science of deduction to realize that he had been blaming himself for his suicide. He had started calling him in on cases again as soon as his name had been cleared and he had come back to life officially.

John – John had needed more time. He had been ready to settle down, had been living with his fiancée, had let Sherlock go, and Sherlock would have accepted that fact, no matter what he would have preferred, just as he had accepted the punch the doctor had thrown his way. He had caught Moran with John's help, because his blogger had insisted he do so, but he hadn't called him for almost two weeks afterwards. He had felt that he owed him nor only time to come to terms with him being alive, but also the normal life with Mary he craved.

And then John had shown up at the flat one evening, demanding to hear everything about the three years; what he'd done, where he'd gone... From that point on, he had come more and more frequently. A month later he had started to assist him again. Three months after that, Mary had told him gently but firmly that she wanted a husband who didn't run around London after a madman at all times, and they had decided to split up. John had returned to Baker Street the next day, and, judging from his since then dateless existence, was ready to stay here, where he belonged.

Mycroft –

Their relationship had changed after he had come back, and for the better. They weren't anywhere near as close as John thought siblings should be, but looking at his relationship with Harry, he was hardly the one to give advice.

Sherlock had texted him at the end of the first year, simply because he had been unable to find enough information to figure out where the boss of a particular gang was hiding, not because he had missed home or another sentimental reason like that, or at least that was what he liked to tell himself.

He and Mycroft had – in the words of John Watson – not really "got on" ever since his older brother had left for university. Sherlock wasn't idiotic enough to believe that everything would be different if he had taken him with him – he was a high-functioning sociopath (albeit with some exceptions) but maybe they would have got along better. Sometimes, even though he was loath to admit it, he would like to ask Mycroft for advice; Sherlock might be better at legwork, but Mycroft was the (slightly) more intelligent one of the two of them.

Maybe it was pride that held them both back, in the end; Sherlock wasn't ready to admit he had made a mistake by taking drugs, Mycroft wasn't ready to admit he had made a mistake leaving him behind. Then again, there was no reason they should try to be friends. They shared the same genes; that was hardly a reason to try and repair a relationship that had been ruined more than twenty years ago.

Contrary to what anyone (possibly even Mycroft) might think, Sherlock wasn't angry his brother had told Moriarty his life story. He had had no other options; he had done what he had considered best for the country, best for his position. He didn't have to apologize – even though he had. Or, to be more specific, he had told Sherlock that "he wished he hadn't given Moriarty the information he needed" which was as close to an apology as Sherlock was likely to get or cared for.

"I appreciate that you're trying to be quiet, but to be honest, it's freaking me out. I woke up because there was no noise in the flat" John softly said and Sherlock turned around to find the doctor, looking rested but still a bit sleepy. He smiled.

"I thought you would appreciate the gesture. However, I think you should be used to me being silent – my mind palace, remember?"

John smiled. "you talk while you are in your mind palace, whether I am around or not" he announced, "and, furthermore, the only time you are this quiet is when you are thinking of Mycroft or – " he stopped and frowned, and Sherlock knew his blogger was remembering the three years he'd been gone.

He stood up and walked over, ready to apologize one more time, but John shook his head and smiled. "It's alright. You're here now and that's what matters".

He went to the kitchen to make tea and said, "And just for the record, if I were in Mycroft's position, I would give you access to the labs".

Sherlock snorted. "You live with me, John, therefore you are biased. Plus, I don't think many would agree with you".

"It's my opinion anyway" John answered while he was putting the kettle on.

Sherlock's text alert rang out and he decided to look for his phone himself.

"Next to the skull" John called from the kitchen and Sherlock grabbed it. He read the message and frowned, trying to rationalize the strange feeling in his chest.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John came into the living room, apparently sensing that something must be wrong. Sherlock wordlessly handed him the phone.

John read the message.

There has been an accident in the lab. Your brother is currently being checked in the hospital and asking for you.
A

She had sent the address of the (naturally) top secret and private hospital too, and John looked at Sherlock. He knew his friend would not say it himself; he knew Sherlock wouldn't admit that he was worried; so he simply said, "I'll put the kettle off, then" and went back into the kitchen. By the time he came out, Sherlock was already wearing his coat and he hid a smile.

Sherlock didn't say anything as they left the flat and caught a cab, and it was John who gave Mrs. Hudson a sign to stay calm and not to worry, although he was rather worried himself. Sherlock cared for his brother; he knew it, but he would not get the consulting detective to admit it, he was sure of that.

So he simply sat next to his friend, his best friend, in the cab, offering silent support while Sherlock looked out of the window and pretended (although John was sure no one but his friends would have noticed he was pretending) not to be worried.

Sherlock was worried a little – he would admit that, despite being rather pointless; if Mycroft had had serious injuries, Anthea would have told him so he would have known to come quickly. He was, however, more confused. Why was Mycroft asking for him? Yes, he was in hospital, but he was merely being "checked", so why would he want to see him? They hardly saw each other without his brother pressuring to take a case or being "caring". True, the "Caring" visits had become more frequent since he had returned – normally they took place when John was at work, he still found it difficult to see Mycroft – but even then, they didn't really talk. And if Mycroft had to tell him something, he could always call or text. So what was going on?

"I have heard that talking can help" John commented, and Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. John gave him a look that told him he shouldn't act like he didn't know what he meant. He sighed.

"I don't see why Mycroft should desire to see me... And, before you ask, yes, I am a little what ordinary people would probably consider "worried". Happy?"

"Shocked, really" John replied sarcastically, but with a fond smile, and Sherlock smirked back.

They remained in a comfortable silence for the remainder of the journey and arrived at the hospital soon enough. Anthea was waiting for them in the entrance hall, and her face told Sherlock that there was more than she had sent. She had never looked so worried before.

"Anthea? What's going on?" he asked, for once not bothering to pretend. He had known Anthea ever since Mycroft had put her in charge of his surveillance, when he had still been addicted to drugs.

"It's – difficult to explain" she answered. "It's best if you – just come with me". And she turned around and walked away, Sherlock and John (who shot his best friend a worried glance) following her.

During the short walk, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what had happened to Mycroft and his ideas got more and more gruesome. He was shaken out of his thoughts when John gave his shoulder a light squeeze. He shot him a weak smile and continued walking.

Anthea chose to stay outside and the two of them entered only to find Mycroft sitting on an examination table, with no injuries whatsoever apparent. Sherlock could have sworn he heard John sigh with relief and it might have been that he did the same.

The relief was short-lived, however. Mycroft looked at them and his eyes lit when he saw Sherlock, something that hadn't happened since they were both children. Sherlock, surprised, didn't know what to say, for once (something John would probably have appreciated, if he hadn't worn a similar expression of surprise on his face).

"Sherlock" Mycroft said cheerfully – cheerfully? Since when had Mycroft been anything near "cheerful" when talking to him? – "so sorry to pull you away from work, but I wanted to see you. Really, it was stupid of me; nothing's the matter. Yes, I got shocked, but I was only out for a couple of minutes. Hardly worth mentioning, really. I wouldn't let anyone near Percy's machine, though". He smiled and Sherlock tried to understand why he was acting that way. Mycroft hardly ver referred to his "work" as such. He knew Sherlock had solved their last case yesterday, so why should he apologize? And who was "Percy"?

John decided to interfere and stepped forward, asking the doctor who was busy looking at some x-rays, "What happened?"

The doctor looked up and, obviously having been told to tell Sherlock Holmes and his friend all they wanted to know, answered, "Doctor Trevelyan" John looked at Sherlock, who nodded to indicate that the name was familiar "was showing Mr. Holmes a machine he had constructed when something went wrong and he got an electric shock. He was unconscious for ten minutes".

John nodded and took a look at the x-rays himself. Everything seemed to be fine; Mycroft had been right, nothing was wrong – other than his behaviour, that was. But a slight disorientation was certainly understandable under the circumstances.

"And who are you?" Mycroft asked, and John at first believed he was talking to the other doctor – it would be understandable after the shock he had received. But then he heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat and raised his head to find Mycroft looking at him curiously. A shiver ran down his spine when he realized that Mycroft really didn't recognize him.

Sherlock replied, his voice calm. "Mycroft, this is Doctor John Watson. My flatmate".

Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, uncomprehending. "What do you mean, "flatmate"? Did you move out since yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" Sherlock repeated, and John could see he was just as confused as the doctor felt.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, 'Locky. Because yesterday, we lived together in our house, remember, and you certainly had no intention of moving out".

"Mycroft – we don't live together".

"Don't be ridiculous. We have ever since I took you with me when I left for university".

For a moment, John thought Sherlock would faint. He knew about Sherlock's wish to accompany his brother – Sherlock had told him about it, once, briefly – and he knew Mycroft's refusal had caused the first rift between them. If Mycroft believed he had taken Sherlock with him, the shock must have been worse than they had thought.

Sherlock said quietly, "You didn't take me with you, Mycroft. We haven't lived together anywhere since I was eleven". He decided not to mention his addiction. The enforced stay in Mycroft's house could hardly be classified as "living" anyway.

Mycroft frowned, suddenly stood up and walked over to his brother, putting a hand on his forehead. John's mouth felt open and Sherlock flinched.

"Are you alright, Sherlock? You aren't sick, are you?" He turned to John. "Are you a doctor of medicine? Are you looking after him? How long has he been confused?"

"Mycroft..." John said, slowly, "He isn't confused. You are the confused one".

Mycroft shook his head, then looked at Sherlock. "Alright... Well, usually you are convinced more easily when you have the proof laid out before you. Let's go home" he announced and almost left his umbrella behind while walking through the door until the strange doctor reminded him of it. He shook his head. "Can't remember taking it with me" he mumbled. "Anyway" he added, louder, "Come on, Sherlock; don't worry, I'm sure everything will be fine". He smiled, but there was badly concealed worry in his eyes. "You can come along too, John – I can call you John? – if you want".

And he left the room, Sherlock and John following him, both confused and worried.

Author's note: This is both an announcement and a confession. I am not abandoning this story – I could never do that – but I won't be able to upload anything in the next few days because I am going on a holiday – I have been looking forward to it for months, and when inspiration struck me a few weeks ago, I didn't think this fic would turn out quite so long (alright, I'll be honest: I didn't think about the length at all). But I am not abandoning it. Not at all. Just wanted to make this clear.

This chapter is longer, though, to make up for it. I finally found I couldn't resist showing where the other Mycroft was. Plus it's fun writing about Sherlock's and John's reaction.

I hope you liked it, please review.