Author's note: So, on with Moriarty in the picture.

I don't own anything, please review.

Mycroft stared at the consulting criminal before him, for once in his life speechless. The smile of the other man dropped, and he was in front of Mycroft within seconds, looking him in the eyes. "Mycroft? Mycroft? Is everything alright?" He put a hand on his shoulder and made him sit down. In this moment Sherlock came into the room and immediately rushed over.

"What happened? Mycroft?" Finding his brother still unable to answer, he turned to his friend. "Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know. I greeted him and he stared at me like I had grown two heads".

By this time, Mycroft had sufficiently recovered to speak. If Jim Moriarty was the Professor, he was Sherlock's best friend. They had known each other since they were twelve, if he remembered correctly.

The scariest thing about it was that it made sense. Sherlock and Moriarty had been enemies because they had been on different sites, but it was easy to see that they could have become friends if they had met under different circumstances. Both highly intelligent, both very enthusiastic about their work. And, apparently, in this world, they had met when they were young and now they were best friends – even without Sherlock's explanation, Mycroft would have known. Their body language when standing next to each other was that of persons who had known each other a long time and were comfortable in each other's presence.

And right now they were both looking at him with concern.

"You said on the phone he didn't have any physical injuries?" Jim asked. Sherlock shook his head. "I would have noticed. And he should have had symptoms before now. But he did run around in the rain and he hasn't eaten all day".

Jim nodded and looked at Mycroft once again.

"Why don't you make him a sandwich, Sherlock? Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him".

Sherlock turned around immediately – another indicator for how much he trusted Moriarty – and Mycroft looked at the consulting criminal who was obviously a psychiatrist in this world. He told himself not to worry; this Jim Moriarty was Sherlock's friend, and Sherlock was in the kitchen. He was safe.

Even though it was hard not to flinch when Mroiarty sat down next to him on the sofa. He had seen the man's corpse, and more, he had even been happy to do so. He had made sure to have it removed from the roof – any police investigation would, without a doubt, simply have proved that he was Richard Brook and he didn't want that. So he had had Moriarty's body removed and buried where no one would ever find him. And now this man was sitting next to him, looking at him, even smiling at him.

"Sherlock told me you had an accident in a lab".

Mycroft decided it would be best to just play along and nodded. "Yes. I did".

"And, ever since then, you believed you left Sherlock behind when you went to university?". Moriarty was polite, earnest. That in itself was enough to make anyone unsettled.

"I don't believe. I know" Mycroft replied. There was no need to start arguing with his mind; he could just state the facts. Why should he try to convince Moriarty, of all people?

"And who was I in your... new world?" Jim asked, and Mycroft was taken aback. Jim waved a hand in the air.

"I am a psychiatrist. I know how to read body language. You obviously recognized me, but it wasn't as your brother's best friend. So, who was I?"

"A criminal" Mycroft answered.

Jim nodded. "Mycroft, you must see that this can't be true. I treat people; I teach at university. I have known Sherlock and you since you were twelve and nineteen years old".

"How did we meet?" Mycroft asked, genuinely curious. Moriarty was silent and he rolled his eyes. "We both know I'm too intelligent to fall for the usual therapy techniques, and we also know Sherlock his taking his time with the sandwich so we can talk. So, please, tell me how we met".

Jim hesitated for a second, then began. "You had taken Sherlock to Brighton for a weeks during summer – you wanted him to run around, swim, make a few friends. I was the strange kid wandering around, feeling lonely". He smiled. "Sherlock picked up on it immediately and asked me if I wanted to play. We have been friends ever since".

Mycroft stayed calm, despite the shiver that ran down his spine when he heard Moriarty talk about him and Sherlock "playing". "I see".

The other man nodded. "It was good I had a friend. I wasn't as fortunate as Sherlock. I didn't have a big brother to save me".

Was Mycroft imagining it, or was there a strange –or rather very familiar – glimmer in Moriarty's eyes? It was difficult to say, just like everything in this strange reality was difficult to comprehend.

"God knows what would have become of me otherwise" Jim added and did Mycroft really see the sly look he shot him or did he imagine it? Was he seeing what was there or what he was expecting to see?

"I imagine" He answered, and Jim smiled. "So, now that we got that out of the way – why don't you tell me how you woke up here?"

Mycroft told him because he could see no harm in it. There was nothing Moriarty could do with this information – especially since this world wasn't real, he reminded himself. Although the idea of the consulting criminal being loose in his mind wasn't pleasant.

Moriarty listened to him, nodded at the right times – then again, he was a psychiatrist – and let Mycroft finish without interrupting him.

When he was done, Jim said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "Mycroft, you woke up here. Your brother is here. Surely there is no reason for you to think that you are in a different dimension?"

"Yes, there is. I remember the real world" Mycroft replied, already knowing that he wouldn't get Moriarty to believe him. He didn't even want him to – no matter in which reality, he couldn't trust him – so he didn't really care.

"But Sherlock told me the machine malfunctioned" Jim argued. "Not even the scientist who built it knows exactly what it does, apparently. So how do you know that what you remember is the truth?"

"I just do" Mycroft replied coldly; he wished he would wake up. He didn't want to be lectured by the man who had caused his little brother to disappear for one year (or three, depending on how you looked at it).

Moriarty looked down and then up again. "Just answer me one question: Do you trust your brother?"

This one was difficult to answer, no matter that he was somehow stranded in his mind. Did Mycroft trust Sherlock? He knew that he would have trusted him indefinitely if he had grown up to be what he was here; he remembered that he had thought it a pity that he couldn't trust Sherlock enough to send him to the labs instead of him.

But –

Yes, the Sherlock he had encountered here was far more trustworthy. Generally speaking. And yet, when he thought about sacrifice, friendship, selflessness...

His real brother won. He was the one who had given up everything for his friends, who had spent three years hiding and destroying Moriarty's web so they would be safe.

Mycroft Holmes trusted his brother, and it had taken an electric shock and him being lost wherever he was now to see it.

"Yes, I do" he answered, but it was clear he had waited too long. Jim fixed him with a glare and asked, quietly, so that Sherlock, who was undoubtedly trying to eavesdrop from the kitchen despite giving them time to talk, wouldn't hear, "Don't you think it hurts him?"

Mycroft knew when he was being manipulated, and he'd had enough. "I'm not doing it on purpose" he declared. "And I would welcome it if you could stop analyzing me".

Moriarty said nothing. Apparently Mycroft had been a little too loud, for Sherlock appeared in the door a moment later, carrying a plate with a sandwich. He looked at Jim.

Mycroft wasn't prepared for the unspoken question he saw in his brother's eyes; or rather, he wasn't prepare to see this trust in his brother's eyes while looking at the man who had made his life a living hell. It was unsettling, and he had to look away, so that he didn't see how Jim answered. Apparently not favourable, judging by the way Sherlock let himself fall on the sofa and gave him the plate.

"Thank you".

"No worries" Sherlock mumbled.

There followed an uncomfortable silence during which Mycroft ate his sandwich and watch Moriarty look at Sherlock as if he was concerned about him. It was the strangest situation he had ever been in – and he had once had to settle the dispute of two diplomats over the last bacon roll at a buffet.

It was Jim who broke the silence. Mycroft was sure he wouldn't get used to the man's voice talking so casually to his brother; a shiver ran down his spine every time he heard it. His threats, his cockiness, he didn't mind. He had heard those often enough. But this concern and friendship in his voice...

"Let's show him" Moriarty suggested, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I know it is not the usual therapy in cases of disorientation, I'm the expert, remember?"

"As far as psychiatry goes, Professor, yes. But this is my brother we are talking about – I think we can safely consider him a special case".

"Depends on how you define "special"". Moriarty smirked, Sherlock did the same.

Good God. They were bickering. Of course they were. They were best friends. John and Sherlock had done it too.

"Mycroft? You look pale again".

"I'm fine" he answered automatically. "Go ahead, show me whatever it is you want to show me". Thank God he was used to appear calm in strange situations.

"Your room or his, 'Locky?" Jim asked, shooting his brother a suggestive look, at which Sherlock shook his head in exasperation, and Mycroft realized that Moriarty hadn't changed as much as he had thought. It was a disquieting thought.

He said nothing and followed them into Sherlock's room. Admittedly, he hadn't had enough time to search it thoroughly, and he had been curious about what might be hidden in these drawers, but after he had met this version of his brother, it hadn't felt right to look into his room again.

Now Sherlock, almost frantically (he was starting to get scared as well as concerned, Mycroft could tell, and he didn't blame him – to him it must look like he was losing his brother) opened them and showed him everything Mycroft had given him for his birthday, Christmas, simply because he had felt like it –

Books, notes, science equipment (he seemed to be especially fond of his "first real microscope"). And the pictures. Apparently Sherlock had kept every picture ever taken of the two of them, and Mycroft would gladly have looked at them if he hadn't been so distracted by Moriarty looking into drawers and searching for things to show him too and Sherlock not saying a thing because Jim was obviously allowed to do so...

After a few minutes, Jim exclaimed, "You kept Carl?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I kept him. What else was I supposed to do, Jimmy? Throw him away?"

"Who's Carl?" Mycroft asked.

Moriarty pulled a skull out of a drawer and Mycroft swallowed. Sherlock had had a skull since he was eighteen – he had stolen it from the university – but this skull seemed... smaller than the one he remembered. Almost as if belonging to a child...

"I gave it to 'Locky on his fifteenth birthday" Jim explained happily, holding the skull between his hands.

Mycroft looked from the skull to Jim and then to Sherlock. The skull was small; Moriarty had named it "Carl"; plus, if they had both been fifteen –

It fit.

If this was indeed Carl Powers' skull...

His brother was the best friend of a psychopath in the disguise of a psychiatrist.

Author's note: Bet you thought I couldn't make it more complicated. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I was an idiot who didn't see the possibility of the skull until a reviewer asked about it a few chapters back. That's how my mind works: throw me a word and see what happens.

I hope you liked it, please review.