Time flew this week and I hadn't realized how much had passed since my last chapter. Here's the conclusion, though. Thanks for all the reviews and everything else. I enjoy them all.

I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 9: Back to the World

Mycroft was furious. First, the realization that his brother had been tampering with something as dangerous as a tear in the barrier between two separate dimensions had sent the older Holmes into a big-brother lecture worthy of any he'd given to Sherlock before, including those delivered during Sherlock's drug abuse days. Then, when Mycroft discovered Sherlock had actually brought someone over from the other dimension he very nearly lost his temper.

Personally, Sherlock felt Mycroft's reaction was just one more reason why John should stay.

Mycroft arrived that night, not half an hour after John and Sherlock returned to 221B. "What have you done?" Mycroft asked without preamble. He sent a calculating glare over a John before returning his attention to Sherlock.

"I'm not sure what you mean, brother," Sherlock said, deliberately calm as he scooped up his violin bow and ran rosin over the hair.

"Um… should I leave?" John asked. He stood by one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles before Mycroft swept into the room.

"No," Sherlock said even as Mycroft answered with a hissing "Yes."

John looked between the two, eyebrows raised. "I'll just pop down and introduce myself to the landlady you mentioned, Mrs. Hudson, if she's still awake." John let his gaze rest of Sherlock a moment. "She'd probably appreciate knowing who's staying under her roof."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "If you must, but I told you she wouldn't mind."

"All the same," John said, "If she's not available, I'll be up in the second room, upstairs. Besides, best not to get in the middle of sibling squabbles," and he was out the door, closing it behind him before either Holmes brother could bat an eye.

Glaring at the door then back to Sherlock, Mycroft dropped a series of CCTV photographs in Sherlock's lap. They were black and white stills of Sherlock and John as they went about their business during the evening. After an early dinner, Sherlock took John to St. Bart's to see the latest experiments he was conducting then there were other errands he had to run, getting milk, collecting samples, speaking with his homeless network. All and all, by the time they returned to 221B it would be nearly an hour after the rift between the two worlds opened and closed, meaning John would simply have to stay the night. Sherlock was quite sure the doctor knew what he was up to, but John never said a word and showed no sign of being bothered about not returning to his home world, so Sherlock didn't bother about it, either.

Sherlock shrugged. Really, playing this game with his brother never got old, not since they were children. "You wanted me to get out of the apartment, have sent Lestrade multiple times to do precisely that. I don't see why you're so upset now that I finally take your advice."

"That is John Watson," Mycroft seethed. "A man whom, according to his file, should be missing in action in the Afghanistan desert yet now is most likely entertaining tea with your landlady."

"So rewrite his file to say he was found," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, "Your connections must be good for something." He picked up his violin and ran through a few scales. It was too late for violin playing according to Mrs. Hudson's constant nagging, but she was distracted with John at the moment. John certainly wouldn't mind. The man had been listening to Sherlock play his violin at all hours of the night for the past several months. A few songs wouldn't bother him.

Mycroft stepped close, towering over where Sherlock sat in his chair. When he spoke his voice was tight and controlled. Sherlock hadn't managed to provoke his older brother to yell since they were eight years old, but that didn't mean he'd stopped trying. "You cannot simply play with the laws of reality this way." Myrcoft thrust a file under Sherlock's nose, forcing him to stop playing if only to take the manila folder and put it aside. "You have no way of knowing the ramifications of pulling someone out of another dimension into our own. Put. Him. Back."

Curiosity getting the better of Sherlock as he lifted the front side of the folder and peeked at its contents. It appeared to be a series of scientific measurements concerning 221B, most likely from the latest event. "Unfortunately," Sherlock said, eyes sweeping over the top sheet. "We missed the latest window of opportunity. According my calculations the next chance will be tomorrow morning some time. He'll have to stay the night. It's only logical, we have been flat mates for the past several months."

"Stop being a child, Sherlock," Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground, glare warring with the customary bland expression he usually wore. He turned and swept toward the door. "You can't keep him. I expect him to be in his own world by tomorrow morning.

That first encounter set the tone for all others to follow. Sherlock and Mycroft had several discussions concerning John Watson and why after almost a week he was still sleeping in the upstairs room at 221B. Generally, all conversations revolved around more eloquent versions of Mycroft insisting "He's not yours, you can't keep him," and Sherlock replying, "Yes I can, and yes I will."

No matter how strongly Mycroft insisted, though, Sherlock and John always managed to be away from 221B when the phenomenon was supposed to occur. One evening they didn't manage to avoid it, the heavy disorienting sense that something was wrong hitting both of them as they sat down to some take away from Angelo's. However, Sherlock was delighted to note that the incident was weaker than it had been for weeks.

"Do you think it's passing?" John asked, placing some alfredo chicken onto Sherlock's plate without asking him. "That was definitely weaker than it's been in a while. Maybe it hit its high point and now it'll fade away."

"That is a very good possibility," Sherlock said, eyes studying John and ignoring the pasta. After a long moment he asked, "Would that bother you? If it disappeared and you were trapped here?"

John tilted his head, thinking as he slowly chewed his food. "No," he said finally, after swallowing his mouthful. "The only problem that I could see would be if the me from this world was actually alive. Not that I want myself dead but I wouldn't want to steal my own life away from myself." He frowned, thinking about that sentence, then shook his head with a rueful shrug. "You know what I mean."

Despite the confusing personal pronoun situation, Sherlock did know exactly what John meant. "That's highly unlikely," Sherlock said again, shaking his head.

Another few moments of silence stretched out as John ate his food and Sherlock took a bite or two at John's prompting. John's frown lingered in his expression though and his eyes were turned away into the space between the windows. "What exactly happened to him? You said he was shot in the shoulder."

Sherlock nodded, eyeing John as he spoke. "He went out on patrol with a group, acting as their medic since there wasn't one available at the time. They were ambushed. He as well as several others were cut off during the ensuing battle. The last anyone saw him, he was working on a fellow soldier, giving him treatment when he was shot in the shoulder or chest region."

John's eyes remained fixed on the far distance, far away from their London flat and closer to the sands of the Middle East. "That sounds exactly like what happened to me, except when I was shot one of the men ran out and dragged me back. It was pure luck that he made it, but it did save my life. If he hadn't done that I would have bled out in minutes."

"No one was able to get to this world's John Watson that quickly," Sherlock shook his head. It was disturbing, thinking of John disappearing into the desert, and never coming out, never meeting Sherlock. "What happened to me?" Sherlock finally asked, he wasn't entirely sure he cared to know, but there was some curiosity over what would have happened to him if things had been different.

John grimaced, putting down his fork and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin from the bag. "Drug overdose, you died."

Sherlock nodded, not surprised, really. His last overdose had also been his last time shooting up. If Lestrade had been just a few minutes late checking on him, he very well could have died. It had been enough to put him in rehab again, and stay clean.

Shaking his head, Sherlock banished the thought. Instead, he turned his mind to the necessary process of resurrecting John Watson on paper. "If the trend continues as it is with the rift then it should be almost nonexistent in a few weeks, perhaps a few months. You might not have a choice, but if you're really going to stay…" Here Sherlock glanced sidelong at John, searching out a confirmation.

John just smiled and ducked his head in a single nod. "I have nothing for me back there, not even my sister."

"Then we will need to bring you back from the dead. Don't worry, my overly nosey brother can help us as soon as he comes to realization that there's no sending you back." Looking over to John, Sherlock held up his glass of water John had insisted he take in addition to his food. "Welcome back to the world, Dr. John Watson."

John grinned, clinking his own mug against Sherlock's glass. "It's good to be back."

The End

This story owes its existence to the single scene of Mycroft telling Sherlock to put John back where he'd found him. From picturing that scene, the rest of the story eventually followed. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review on the way out.