Author's note: Glad you liked the twist in the last chapter. Then again, it could just be Mycroft's imagination... sorry. I'm evil.

I don't own anything, please review.

Mycroft managed to stay calm, even after his discovery; years and years dealing with politicians were finally paying off. There might have been some trace of suspicion in the look Jim shot his way – but he could have imagined it. It was difficult to say.

Did he think that Moriarty was a murderer because he had been in his reality, or because he really was what Mycroft thought he was?

He decided that enough was enough – no matter how many memorandums threw his way, he would never be convinced that this was the real world – and asked, "Anybody else hungry? I'm starving".

Sherlock shot him a relieved look – apparently he had said what his alter ego would have said – and nodded. "I'm hungry too. Jim?"

"When did I ever say no when you offered me food?" the psychiatrist answered and Mycroft managed to smile. He would have preferred to get Moriarty out of the way to –

To what? To tell Sherlock that his best friend was likely a murderer? He had never thought anything could be more complicated than the relationship he shared with his brother, but this world certainly had its own challenges.

He insisted on cooking – he had never allowed any staff in his mansion, so he had learned to cook, and he wanted to be alone – and Sherlock happily acquiesced, once more proving that his brother obviously thought he was slowly remembering their life together.

He found some ingredients in the kitchen and started making dinner, all the while listening to Sherlock's and Moriarty's conversation in the dining room.

What if he was right? What if a psychopath had somehow befriended his brother? Psychopathic personalities developed during childhood – if he had met Sherlock when he was twelve, it might have been too late. He might have simply decided to have a friend to prove that he was human, to have someone to use as an alibi, someone to believe in his innocence if he was ever suspected of something.

But then, Mycroft might simply suspect him because he was Moriarty; because he had met him already under different circumstances, because he had made Sherlock's life a living hell.

And yet – the few strange glances he had seen, the skull named "Carl" – it was too much to be a coincidence. Mycroft Holmes didn't believe in coincidences. He had seen too much to believe in coincidences.

Moriarty was still a psychopath, and Sherlock was completely unaware of it.

That he should have been unaware was simply logical; psychopaths were masters of deception, and he had known Jim since he was twelve. Plus he wasn't interested in crime – he was a scientist, after all. So he hadn't watched the crimes committed in this city, like his Sherlock had, had never thought Carl Powers' death suspicious...

And now Moriarty was using him, using him as the proof that he was human, using Sherlock.

And this was something Mycroft simply couldn't allow.

No one used his brother.

Sherlock wouldn't believe him, though; even less if the Mycroft in this reality hadn't see anything suspicious in Jim, and why would he. He had simply seen someone befriend Sherlock, had been happy about it. He wouldn't have had to worry about Sherlock's friend then – not even Mycroft Holmes suspected a twelve-year-old of being a psychopath – and once had had been old enough...

Mycroft would have trusted him by then. The thought of him trusting Moriarty, of Sherlock trusting Moriarty, made the bile rise in his throat. Jim had made Sherlock trust him, and he would be crushed if –

No, not crushed. Another, eerily familiar sentence flattered through Mycroft's mind. "I'll burn the heart out of you".

Moriarty would finally succeed, although not in the way the Moriarty Mycroft remembered would have thought. He would burn Sherlock's heart out by his betrayal.

Mycroft couldn't let that happen. And there was only one way to prevent it.

He had to tell Sherlock himself. He had to make his brother – this version of his brother, anyway – see that his best friend was a psychopath who had killed the young boy whose skull Sherlock treasured...

He concentrated on making the food before he broke something. Letting his motions rule his judgement had always been dangerous; he couldn't let his anger rule his actions, otherwise Moriarty might notice and prejudice Sherlock against him. There was no reason Sherlock shouldn't believe his best friend if he told him his brother suffered from a delusion and therefore couldn't be believed, no matter what he said...

Mycroft forced himself to let go of the spoon he was holding and went to fetch some plates. He turned the temperature of the oven down when the food was down and carried the plates to the dining room, where Sherlock and Jim were laughing together. Mycroft acted like he had before his realization – at least he hoped so, Jim shot him a rather suspicious look – and returned to the kitchen to get the food after having declined Sherlock's help.

The image of Sherlock and Moriarty laughing together wouldn't leave him alone. They were sitting at the dining room table right now, Sherlock leaning toward Jim, talking to him, trusting him... It was almost too much to bear. But he couldn't simply order Jim out of the house; Sherlock wouldn't understand and probably take Jim's side...

For a moment a thought crossed his mind. What if Sherlock knew what Jim had done? What if Sherlock had been – what if –

What if Sherlock was Jim's accomplice? They were friends, after all, and in his world, Sherlock Holmes had been the only human being Jim Moriarty had admired...

No. Mycroft refused to believe it. It might be irrational – but no. Sherlock would never join Moriarty. Sherlock would never become the consulting criminal's accomplice. Sherlock (as opposed to Mycroft, as he sometimes thought in his darkest moments) had a conscience. And he wouldn't have allowed Sherlock to become like this. He wouldn't have allowed his brother to turn into a murderer. To lose his humanity. It wasn't possible. Especially if they shared as close a bond as Sherlock had suggested. He would have noticed, even if he hadn't noticed what Moriarty was.

But maybe Moriarty was planning on using Sherlock for one of his schemes eventually? Maybe he had already started making him accept, little by little, his world view, was manipulating him...

Mycroft shook his head. He couldn't stand in the kitchen and theorize all evening.

He didn't even know if he was right, not yet; what if the skull wasn't Carl Powers' skull after all? But that should be easy enough to find out, with Sherlock being a scientist and he able to get every document he desired.

He would have to eat with Moriarty and then try and talk to Sherlock. Hopefully Jim wouldn't stay too long.

He brought the food into the dining room and was careful to appear just as calm and slightly confused as Moriarty must think he was. Sherlock kept trying to spark his memories during the dinner by reminding him of vacations, cases (apparently he meant helping Mycroft with certain problems in top secret science labs) and how they had met Jim.

"You had taken me swimming and Jim and I bumped together in the pool..."

No, thought Mycroft, no; he didn't bump into you. He set you up because he had figured it would look better if he had a friend. And he searched for the one lonely boy who didn't seem boring.

He saw Jim's look and knew that he knew what he was thinking. All of a sudden, he didn't care. Sherlock was his brother, Sherlock trusted him, and Jim was aware of that. He couldn't do anything, at least not now.

So Mycroft smiled and nodded and listened, all the while looking at his watch and wishing Jim would leave soon.

He announced he had to go right after dinner, despite Sherlock's urgent invitation to stay a little longer. Jim shot Mycroft a self-satisfied smirk and declined.

Afterwards Sherlock and Mycroft sat in the living room. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, a question in his eyes.

He shook his head and his brother's face fell.

"I'm sorry" he said, although he knew there was nothing to apologize for. He couldn't help it if he was the wrong brother. Or stuck in his head.

"Don't apologize" Sherlock replied softly, looking at the floor.

Then Mycroft did something he hadn't thought he would ever do again. He went to sit beside his little brother and squeezed his hand, trying to comfort him. Sherlock shot him a small smile and asked, "So, how did it go with Jim?"

"You tell me" Mycroft replied lightly. "Or should I suppose you didn't listen?"

Sherlock blushed but smiled. "Maybe I did. Just out of concern, though".

"Of course, brother mine".

Sherlock grinned and Mycroft realized he must be in the habit of calling him "brother mine" here too. He decided not to tell him that he was used to it – there was no reason to make Sherlock unhappy about something so trivial when he was about to inform him he thought his best friend a murderer.

"Sherlock..." he began, once more unsure how to proceed. "What do you know about the skull Jim gave you?"

"Carl? He gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday, told me he'd bought it but not where. The size suggests that it is that of someone between the ages of ten and fifteen..." Sherlock trailed off and stared at Mycroft. Of course he would realize what he meant. Scientist or consulting detective, he was still one of the most intelligent men on the planet.

"Mycroft, what are you implying? Is this because you think Jim is a criminal?"

"I don't think" he answered. "I remember".

"Oh, yes, of course. So, let me guess: He should be in jail".

"Not really."

"What then? Running around, leading his criminal empire?"

"Actually" Mycroft said, deciding to tell Sherlock the truth, "He should be dead. He shot himself... quite a while ago".

Sherlock stared at him. Then he sprung up and started pacing up and down.

"Sherlock" Mycroft tried, "Please, sit down, I can explain – "

"You want me to sit down and discuss things with you when you just told me my best friend committed suicide? Apart from the fact that he is a criminal. And now you suspect him of murder!"

"I'm not sure yet" Mycroft answered, although he was; but Sherlock wouldn't accept any theory without evidence. The irony of Sherlock mourning Moriarty's suicide and being hardly touched by John's didn't escape him and made him even more determined to make Sherlock see the truth.

Sherlock stopped pacing, looked at him and then let himself fall on the sofa, sighing. "Do you have an idea whose skull it could be? Do you "remember" something?"

"I have an idea, yes" Mycroft answered. "We need to go to a lab. Investigate the case."

Sherlock shrugged. "If you want – I do have a key for the lab I most currently work in. Let me fetch Carl".

He was almost out the door when Mycroft asked, "Sherlock – don't call Jim. Please? Promise?"

Sherlock stopped, then turned around and finally sighed. "Fine. But if you are wrong, I'm calling him".

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock went up to his room.

Despite everything, hope stirred within him. If he was right, he could convince Sherlock, and they could work on a way on getting him home.

Author's note: Somehow this story got more angsty and tense than I thought it would... no regrets.

I hope you liked it, please review.