The whole thing seems to come out of an episode of Doctor Who. Mycroft sighs to himself and knows Sherlock would mock him for his choice of reference. To Mycroft's good fortune, his brother is off in Europe tearing down Moriarty's criminal webs.

But Mycroft can't think of another metaphor to describe the current situation.

The thought of his brother makes the ice of Mycroft's heart melt a layer. Sherlock had recently come back to life after his supposed suicide. Mycroft had opened the door to his flat one day and found him, looking like he'd cut out his own heart and eaten it. With the guilt for his brother's fall and relief at Sherlock's survival, he couldn't have turned him away. Together, they used their brilliant minds to pin down Moriarty's remaining organizations. Sherlock had taken their information and headed out, taking his fight across Europe. While Mycroft knows Sherlock can take care of himself, he can't help but worry.

It has been four months since he's last seen his brother and he is still worrying. Daily.

Though someone has interrupted his worrying. An unwelcome visitor standing in the middle of his office. He is an unkempt looking fellow with a scruffy appearance. Mycroft can see that he has been traveling for a while and his eyes have dark rings that show exhaustion. The general impression makes Mycroft think the man might be mad.

To add to the strangeness, the man reminds him of his little brother. It could be the sharp eyes that scan their surroundings. Or it could be the unruffled, though irritated appearance. Despite the unceremonious way the man has come through a hole in Mycroft's wall. To be specific, a worm hole where there had not been one before. A method of travel that transcends physical and scientific possibilities.

Yet, this impossibility doesn't faze Mycroft Holmes. Where a lesser man would gape, Mycroft gives the disheveled figure a lazy once over. To give the impression that interstellar worm holes are an everyday occurrence.

"English. Victorian Era to be specific, judging from the fashion. Age thirty-five to thirty-six. Insomniac from the rings under your eyes. A violinist by the line markings on your hands. Possible drug addiction from the white powder of cocoa leaves on your fingertips."

That gets the stranger's attention; dark brown eyes come around to lock onto his. He raises one eyebrow and gives a casual cross of his legs as if making small talk over afternoon tea. Though the intensity of the other man's gaze unnerves Mycroft.

The low, hoarse voice that replies makes Mycroft wonder how long it has been since it was last used.

"High class born from the expensive material of your clothes and the easy comfort you wear them with. Government official by the official British seal of the documents on your desk. Obvious brilliance, but lazy from lack of physical reaction. Even when I came flying out of your wall, you were reluctant to leave your chair despite the possible threat. You have an obsession with umbrellas from the bin of them beside your desk and the design of your tie."

The man's stare is as searching as his own, if little smugger. He seems satisfied at finally gaining back some of his bearings.

Mycroft smirks. He mentally reconfigures the original assumption of insanity. This haggard looking beggar dressed as if from the Industrial Era is smarter than he assumed.

Most interesting indeed.

He has no doubt that if his brother were present he would want to pick the man's brain himself. Unlike his brother, yet, Mycroft is not one to get distracted from the matter at hand.

"What is your name?"

The man's face closes into a calculating expression. He seems to have remembered the vulnerability of his present predicament.

"Sigerson."

Mycroft pauses. Strange, that is the same alias that his spies have told him Sherlock is currently working under. What a coincidence.

Mycroft does not believe in coincidence.

"Your real name, if you please, or I will have to call in reinforcements."

The stranger frowns but comes to a decision.

His answer makes Mycroft's blood freeze.

"Sherlock Holmes."

His mind races in several different directions before coming to a screeching halt. He gives the intruder a look so sharp, the man backs up, confused at the sudden hostility. Mycroft comes up with theories, possible evidence for those theories, to prove that the man is not who he says he is. Yet no matter how many times he runs through the available facts; there is nothing to say that the man is lying.

The few who know Sherlock is alive are Mycroft, Molly Hooper, and Sherlock himself. The world thinks his brother is dead. Sherlock saw to that and Mycroft made the necessary arrangements to assure it. John Watson and others have their suspicions but there is no evidence to prove otherwise. To everyone else, Sherlock is as dead as the dead can be.

So why is there a man, who looks nothing like Sherlock, proclaiming himself to be someone said to be in his grave?

A worm hole appearing on his wall is crazy enough, but this?

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

This is a lesson that he has drilled into Sherlock's head from the age of eight. He never thought he'd find such compelling proof of its validity.

"Sherlock Holmes" drags Mycroft from his shocked reverie. "It is only polite that when someone introduces themselves, to then introduce yourself."

Mycroft debates, though he never hesitates. Because Mycroft Holmes does not hesitate no matter how off balance he is in this whole situation. Then replies in his usual, aloof drawl he uses when dealing with his younger brother.

"Mycroft Holmes."

Holmes (he can't bring himself to call the man by his brother's first name) takes in a sharp breath, eyes wide as saucers. "Mikey?"

"Mycroft will do." He cuts in, not used to having a nickname and puzzled at the lack of hostility in this version of his brother's tone.

His other brother greets him with the same deducing scrutiny, but twice fold. Once Holmes has given him a thorough scan, he seems less suspicious. Yet the detective still maintains a look of perplexity that the man in front of him is the true Mycroft Holmes.

Then, Holmes asks, "Career?"

Mycroft recognizes it as the game he used to play with Sherlock. A series of questions only each of them would be able to answer. Sherlock created it while Mycroft was at uni, to make sure the man who returned was his true older brother. As well as for Mycroft to make sure that the man he returned to was the boy he'd left behind.

"'A minor position in the British Government'. Initial choice of profession?"

"Piracy. Mother's designated title?"

"Mummy. Smoke?"

"Tobacco pipe."

That stops them both. Mycroft knows Sherlock has had problems over the years. Yet, Watson assured him that Sherlock went cold turkey, restricted to nicotine patches. Even when he was smoking, he never used a pipe (it reminded him too much of Father). He much preferred cheap cigarettes wherever he could find them.

Holmes seems to come to the same answer.

"I am in another world," Holmes says in conclusion. "One like mine, but different. The reaction to my name, your differences to my older brother, and changes in our histories. The fact that I cannot see any signs of deception says that you are of the genuine belief that you are who you say you are. Delusion is possible, but you don't seem the type to use hallucinogens and look to be in your correct state of mind. Then there is the strange method of travel that I took to get here." He glances at the wall behind him. "The only possible solution is that this is a different world. In the year 2012, according to the calendar behind you. As well as the various strange devices that occupy this room."

He analyzes a small phone that Mycroft realizes is missing from his right front pocket.

Mycroft snatches the phone out of Holmes' hand. "The term you are looking for is a parallel universe, but, yes, it seems to have a logical ring to it."

"Interesting." Holmes takes on the familiar, frightening expression of his brother conducting an experiment. "Tell me, what is your brother like?"

Mycroft's response is immediate. "Consulting detective. Brilliant but insufferable, thinner, and much more arrogant."

"Watson would find that hard to believe as he has stated that my ego would encompass Europe and beyond." Holmes gave a light chuckle. His laugh is different from Sherlock's deep baritone; higher in pitch but smooth.

Mycroft can't help a small smile. "John would say much the same of Sherlock. What of your brother?"

"He is more rotund in form but as brilliant if not more so than myself." This shocks Mycroft speechless because it is something his Sherlock wouldn't ever admit. "Though, he is a tad more eccentric when compared to you."

More eccentric than Sherlock? Impossible. "How so?"

Holmes coughs, nervous eyes flicking to something fascinating stuck on the ceiling. "He has a, ah, rather odd habit of walking around his home in the nude."

"You mean-"

A nod.

"In only his-"

Another nod.

"Well," Mycroft feels his face go a bit red of his own volition, "Parallel universe, indeed."

Holmes' face alights with sudden fascination. "This is brilliant!"

A nostalgic pang of sentiment clenches at Mycroft. He has not heard that statement since his brother's supposed suicide. Sherlock has never been quite the same since he faked his death. Even more bitter and withdrawn. Most likely due to the lack of Dr. Watson.

So it is a pleasure, seeing the familiar curiosity burning in this man, a man who is so like his brother but not. "You are my brother but not my brother and I am your brother but not your brother. Different versions with unique characteristics but in essence the same person. Only different circumstances."

"It would seem so."

They both go silent, taking in the repercussions this situation brings.

At last, Mycroft rises from his chair and makes his way around his desk toward Holmes. Holmes looks surprised, considering his assumption of Mycroft disliking physical effort.

"Tell me something, detective."

Holmes is silent, looking at him with interest.

"What is your relationship with your brother?"

"Relationship? We are on good terms, a bit competitive at times if that is what you mean. Why do you-" Holmes makes a knowing and very Sherlock expression. Mycroft can see the man's clear resemblance to his younger brother now. "Ah. I see."

Mycroft leans back on his desk, arms folded, pinching the bridge of his nose as if the thought of it gives him pains. "We are not, as you would say, "on good terms.""

Holmes looks him up and down. "Something happened between you. Something that hurt him." When he sees Mycroft's brief flash of pain, he gets his answer. "Correction, you did something to hurt him."

Mycroft gives a tight smile, desperate not to let the bitterness show. "You are my brother's counterpart. You both have no tact."

Holmes raises a mere eyebrow, not falling for his act in the least.

Mycroft sighs. "I assume that you have a James Moriarty in your universe as well?"

Mycroft regales Holmes with his brothers' and John's misadventures with Jim Moriarty. From The Study in Pink to the Pool incident where his brother and his flat mate only escaped with their lives. The detective describes Lord Blackwood, a resurrected magician who almost killed Parliament. He tells Mycroft of how he met his own version of Moriarty in the form of a professor with an inventive handgun.

John has a wife in this other universe it would seem. If Holmes is as possessive as his brother, the temper tantrums must have been horrendous. He's amazed Watson got him to attend the wedding at all. Though it turns out that Holmes was the one who dragged Watson, with a hang over no less, instead.

When they get to the subject of Irene Adler, Mycroft scrunches his nose in distaste. He speaks of the dominatrix who cornered Sherlock. Holmes comments to the similarities to his husband snaring, money snatching version.

"You even have your own Miss Adler. Why am I not surprised? Did she twist you around her little finger as well?"

Holmes doesn't deign to answer, but the grief on his face makes Mycroft regret his phrasing.

"How?"

Holmes eyes the thread of the carpet. "A rare form of tuberculosis. She died in seconds."

So, in his universe, with no Sherlock there to save her, she perished after all. Mycroft has only been

recently privy to the secret of his Irene Adler's survival. One of the first things Sherlock had told him

upon his surprising arrival at Mycroft's flat was the survival of the Woman and his rescue of her. Mycroft wasn't thrilled, but he twisted the situation to his advantage. He ensured that Adler repaid the favor she owed his brother. It had been invaluable in the death of Moriarty's 2nd, Sebastian Moran, thanks to her contacts in America.

The pieces are starting to come together.

Mycroft can see it all in his mind. Holmes' odd tone at Moriarty's name, wince at Adler's, wistfulness at Watson's, and his air of general loss. Moriarty has taken everything from Holmes, as Jim has taken everything from Sherlock. Sherlock's and Holmes' stories overlap much more than he realized.

So if his theory is correct…

"You faked your own death."

He doesn't need to ask how. They both know.

Holmes smooths his face into polished stone, blank of any expression. Mycroft recognizes the reaction as Sherlock's attempt at shutting out his emotions.

"He would have killed them."

Dr. Watson and Mrs. Watson, of course. Sentimentality is his brother's weakness no matter what universe. Every Moriarty will take advantage, Irish criminal mastermind or British mathematics professor.

Then they come to the subject of the fall. Sherlock and Holmes' fall. Mycroft describes three gunmen, three targets, and Sherlock's sacrifice. Holmes describes the chess match, Moriarty's defeat, his own defeat, and his own sacrifice.

Holmes makes no facial reaction, but Mycroft can see his white knuckles and hard eyes. The loss of his doctor during his cross country travels has had its toll on this version as well.

He trudges on, the familiar protective instinct rearing its stubborn head. Holmes needs to hear what he has to say and Mycroft will say it because he'll never be able to hear the words himself.

"He'll forgive you."

Holmes' gaze snaps up in surprise and Mycroft chuckles to himself. The way Holmes' mouth opens and closes without a sound.

"But I-"

"You were smarter. You beat Moriarty at his own game," Mycroft stresses the conviction in his voice, meaning every word of it. Irritation that his brother would even think of blaming himself seeps through.

"Thanks to you, the good doctor still has his life as well as his wife. You sacrificed your life, your reputation, and your career for him. Do you think that is not price enough? Do you have so little faith in your dear Dr. Watson that you think he would disregard it?"

Holmes still looks prepared to argue. Childish stubbornness, it seems, is universal if you are Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, this irks Mycroft. No matter what version of Sherlock he tries to reason with, it never gets through any of their thick heads. He pictured this conversation a hundred times, trying to convey to Sherlock how sorry he is. How, with all his power, he wishes he could turn back time and make it so this whole thing never happened. He never expects to have to convince Sherlock of his own guiltlessness.

He goes on before Holmes can respond. "Not your fault he backed you into a corner. He was clever, clever enough to pull the rug out from under you and you couldn't help the decision you had to make. Even though you feel as if it is a decision you should have never had to make. For the greater good, you thought. One life over millions. The only logical choice, you tell yourself. And in the end, you throw your only brother away for a few lines of computer code that don't even exist!" He ends up shouting, careful, cut lines breaking free.

He isn't even talking about Holmes anymore, so lost is he in his own words. He never loses control, never. Not Mycroft Holmes, the most indispensable man in the British Government. Not the Ice Man.

He struggles to keep his mask from slipping off completely. He can't bring himself to meet Holmes' eyes. A thousand reactions flip through his mind. Anger, shock, sadness, pity, disgust.

Rejection.

What he doesn't expect is for Holmes to pull him into a firm embrace. It is a bit awkward because of height difference. Only now that he stands pressed against this man, does he realize that he has a good three inches on the detective. Two more than his six-foot brother.

"You told him." Holmes' voice is soft in the shell of his ear. No hidden accusations in his voice as Mycroft expects, only the statement of a simple fact.

Always calm. Always aloof. Always in control. Mind at the wheel. Heart under lock and key.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Except for Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

His brother had always been an excellent lock picker.

He wraps his arms around the man, clenching onto the other man's half beaten waist coat. He wants to beg for forgiveness. To spill his heart to this man who is his brother but not. But he can't seem to form the words. Can't seem to break through his own facade.

"I forgive you."

Mycroft's face twitches. He feels Holmes bury his face in the lapel of Mycroft's suit. Mycroft shakes like he's out in the cold without a jacket. A lone leaf blowing in the wind.

"He went to you first." The argument has as much conviction as Mycroft's did. "I did."

Mycroft still doesn't answer. Sherlock didn't know. He would have never spoken to Mycroft otherwise. He would never trust him again if he'd known the sin Mycroft had committed.

Holmes seems to feel the continued doubt in Mycroft's tense form. The fabric of the older man's suit muffles his voice as he says, "Do you know how I survived my fall at Reichenbach?"

Mycroft's hands clench a bit tighter to the waist coat.

Holmes presses on. "My brother's personal supply of oxygen. I stole it before I left to face Moriarty."

Holmes words strip away Mycroft's inhibitions. Mycroft can't help it. It's such a Sherlock thing to do that he finds himself laughing into the shorter man's hair. A guttural sound filled with self-pity and hatred, but somehow it feels relieving to let it all out.

His previous words echo in his ear. He can hear the smile in Holmes' voice.

"He'll forgive you."

And this time he believes him.

~ O ~

Anthea, or Natalya as she calls herself today, walks into her boss' office. She is balancing a tray of tea and biscuits in one hand and her signature blackberry in the other. Natalya has long refined the art of texting with one hand.

"Sir, your usual 3 pm afternoon tea is here."

Mr. Holmes is not seated at his desk in his usual, dignified poise but upright and near the window. He's looking out at the bleak, gray sky.

He does not look but acknowledges her when he speaks. "Natalya, what is the definition of a parallel universe?"

The secretary blinks because Mr. Holmes has never asked her to explain anything to him. The man seems to be omniscient all on his own.

Nonetheless, a few quick taps of the term into her phone and she recites her findings. "A parallel universe or alternative reality is a hypothetical self-contained separate reality coexisting with one's own."

He says nothing. She eyes the expanse of the room. Years of working for her boss have made her eyes keener and her mind sharper, so she knows when something is amiss. It seems off somehow. Different.

There is a scent of tobacco in the air, but Natalya knows Mr. Holmes doesn't smoke.

"Had company, sir?"

"Observant, Natalya." From Mr. Holmes, this is high praise. "He recently stepped out."

"Who was it, sir?"

His eyes seem to crinkle, a sign of amusement. "An old friend."

She wonders what kind of friend smokes in the office of Mycroft Holmes, but knows better than to question it. Instead, she sets the tray on his desk and turns to leave.

"Natalya."

She stops in the doorway and turns to face him. "Yes, sir?"

"Make a phone call."

She already has her list of contacts open. "To who, sir?"

There is determination and, to her surprise, nervousness on her employer's face. "My brother."