Alright, I do have permission from shadowkitsune-sama to write this. Don't believe me? Ask her yourself.

Now, on to ch.1 of White Doctor!

While John entered the kitchen to put on the tea, Sherlock stepped carefully around the things on the floor of the flat, headed for the door. He peered through the spyhole in the door and saw Mycroft standing there leaning on his umbrella with a somewhat depressed and irritated look on his face. Sherlock smirked. Oh, this was so going to be fun. He turned the door handle and hid behind the door as he pulled it open.

"What the-" Mycroft muttered before shaking his head and entering 221B.

John called out from the kitchen and said, "Hello, Mycroft. Care for some tea?"

"Sure..." Mycroft replied, making his way into the flat, not bothering to look behind the door. As soon as he was in, Sherlock crumpled to the ground in a near-perfect imitation of a dead body and slammed the door hard, startling Mycroft.

John entered the living area of 221B and handed Mycroft a cup with warm tea. "I offered some to Sherlock, but he didn't want any," he said, gesturing to the now-limp consulting detective. Mycroft looked over, and saw Sherlock, dead on the floor next to the door. Or at least, that's what he thought he saw.

"Of course he didn't, John. He's dead," Mycroft said, turning away from his supposedly deceased brother and accepting the profferred teacup. It was then that Sherlock decided to get up. Mycroft looked back just as Sherlock was starting to stand, and dropped the teacup and saucer. They fell to the ground, shattering upon impact. His mouth formed words for a minute, but no sound came out. "You- You- You were dead, Sherlock! Everyone saw you die! How is this possible?" he finally exclaimed, his eyes wide and his thoughts reeling.

"Maybe I'm just a figment of your imagination, Mycroft. Considering all your inventive ways to talk to someone, e.g. kidnapping them and such, it's not entirely impossible. But I'm real. As real as that umbrella you carry everywhere," Sherlock smirked as his brother stood there, at a loss for words for once in his life. Something clicked in that brilliant brain of Sherlock's, and he dragged John off to talk. Mycroft strained to hear them, but the only words he could make out were his, Sherlock's and John's names, and the words "trust", "secret", and "fine".

"Alright, John, Sherlock. What's going on? All the evidence found at the pool said that there was no possible way you could have survived!" Mycroft shouted, confused greatly.

"Well, Myc, love can make anything possible," Sherlock said, looking at John and smiling mysteriously.

"So you mean to tell me that love brought you back? Love? Of all the things I've ever heard, that is by far the most ridiculous," Mycroft scoffed. "I'd be more likely to believe that it was magic."

Sherlock and John looked at each other. "Um, actually, Mycroft," Sherlock began.

"It was," John finished, searching Mycroft's face.