Author's note: Followers! Reviews! Wow! Really, I didn't expect so much when I started this story since it might just be (I'm using "might" because – when you look at my other stories) my strangest story to date.

I wish I could say this will be less angsty, but it won't.

I don't own anything.

Sherlock was silent during the cab ride to the lab – one Mycroft had not visited, since it was private and didn't receive founds, but was well-known nonetheless – cradling the skull in his lap and looking into the empty eye sockets as if he would find there the answers he needed.

Mycroft didn't say anything and let him sort out his thoughts – Sherlock had to come to his own conclusions. Maybe he had always suspected something; maybe he had always seen a certain emptiness in Moriarty's eyes, felt his friendship to be insincere, known him to be different, different in a dangerous, inhuman way, and hadn't wanted to believe it. Perhaps he had always known something was amiss, and Mycroft, this Mycroft who had no business being here, didn't deserve to be here, even, had opened his eyes.

Maybe.

Or...

Or he didn't believe Mycroft, didn't think it possible that his best friend was a murderer, believed in Jim, wondered how long it would take to prove that his brother had become insane...

Mycroft reminded himself that he shouldn't theorize without data, as his Sherlock would say. Maybe he was simply thinking about the tests that were to come...

Mycroft took out his phone and started to search – or rather demand, thank God he could still get any information he wanted – anything there was to know about Carl Powers.

He had been in London for a swimming tournament too, it would seem, and had drowned here; it was unsettling to learn, though, that there was no report about his skull or head going missing during or after the autopsy, which meant that Moriarty must have added grave robbery to murder – and that at the age of fifteen. Otherwise he couldn't have given the skull to Sherlock.

Thankfully there were dental records of Carl available. If this was his skull – and Mycroft didn't doubt it – they could prove it. True, this wouldn't be of any use against Moriarty – they could show he had given his skull to Sherlock, not that he had killed him – but it could convince Sherlock that he wasn't suffering from delusions. And his brother was a scientist in this world, so he might just be able to help him to return, whatever that entailed.

He looked out the window, pretending he didn't know Sherlock was looking at the skull, questioning his life, him, Jim, everything. There was nothing he could say or do to make it easier.

He couldn't make it easier, that was. Maybe the older brother this Sherlock remembered, the one he looked up to, trusted, would be able to help him with a word, a look, a smile. But Mycroft couldn't. Even though he and Sherlock had grown closer together since his brother had returned, in many respects they were still strangers who had never relearned to talk to each other properly.

He swore to himself, right there in the cab, next to a strange and yet so familiar man that he would change that once he returned home. He would talk to Sherlock, would try to gain his trust again.

Once he returned. When he returned. If he returned.

No, he couldn't think like that. Mycroft Holmes had never encountered an obstacle he couldn't overcome, and he wasn't about to start now. He would return because he had to. There was simply no other option.

Not even –

Not even the thought of Sherlock being so fond of him could shake his determination.

Because, yes, he had always wished without admitting it to himself that he and Sherlock could be close again. But he wasn't the older brother this Sherlock had grown up with, and this Sherlock wasn't the little brother he loved. He was just as intelligent, he was friendly, he was open – but he wasn't Sherlock. Mycroft wanted the Sherlock he remembered to trust him like this one did.

All in all, it was rather very complicated, even by his standards of international politics.

Sherlock decided to speak. "Do you really believe what you told me?"

"Yes" Mycroft answered, wishing he could make the blow less severe, "Yes, I do."

"I see" Sherlock replied, and then he lapsed back into silence. In a way, Mycroft was used to uncomfortable silences with his brother; just not to the fact that he had just tried to convince him that his best friend was a murderer. Or that he could actually remember this best friend committing suicide.

He could imagine how his Sherlock would react to the news and, predictably enough, he didn't think he would act much differently. Silent sulking. How often had he had to deal with it over the years...

Had this other Mycroft Holmes had the same problem, he wondered? Or had a simple "snap out of it" been enough to made Sherlock smile again? He would never know, and he wasn't about to ask. The situation was difficult enough without what-ifs running through his head.

He realized that his thoughts were running in a circle. This hadn't happened often – only twice or thrice in the course of the years – but it had almost led to a national crisis every time, so he decided to snap out of it and concentrate and proving that the skull was that of Carl Powers'.

When they arrived at the lab, Sherlock got out without a word and left Mycroft to pay the fare. He frowned and followed after his brother. At least Sherlock was waiting for him in front of the entrance.

The young security officer smiled and nodded at Sherlock when they entered the building.

"Hi, Sherlock. Want to do something unspeakable in the night when no one can see you?" he asked, looking at the skull in his hands.

Then he saw Mycroft and nodded, standing up straight. "Mr. Holmes".

Mycroft nodded too, pretending to know the man who now looked at Sherlock, taking in his expression.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Raz" Sherlock replied absently, walking down a corridor. Mycroft smiled at the young man in a hopefully reassuring manner and followed his brother.

They soon came to a lab Sherlock had to love, definitely; the equipment was expensive, there was enough light, and, since it was almost ten pm, no one was around to disturb them. He saw Sherlock relax and knew it had been right to let him choose where to go. He felt at ease here in his familiar surroundings.

He sat the skull on a table, looked at it for a moment, then turned his gaze to Mycroft. "So you think the victim was..."

"Carl Powers" Mycroft finished the sentence. He had checked the dates in the file quickly when he had downloaded them and knew the details of his murder were the same he remembered. "Twelve years old at the time of his death".

"I see" Sherlock mumbled, leaning over the skull, getting lost in the science. After a few minutes, he stood up.

"Well, it does look like the skull of a Caucasian male between ten and fifteen..." he said. "I'm not exactly an expert, however; I'm more into genetic research."

"Do you know anyone to help us out?" Mycroft asked hopefully. Sherlock shook his head.

"I doubt Molly would help us".

"Molly Hooper? Why not?"

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes but stopped himself. He didn't ask how Mycroft knew about Molly, though, and that concerned him.

"I can hardly call her and say, "Hey, Molly, we are trying to find out whether your boyfriend is a killer", can I?"

"No, I suppose not" Mycroft answered, his heart sinking. Of course, if Moriarty was living a normal life – or as normal as it could be while being the youngest professor at university and the best friend of one of the most brilliant scientists England had ever seen – he would eventually think it necessary to have a girlfriend, and Molly Hooper had been his choice once before. He would probably have preferred Sherlock, but thankfully this version seemed to be just as asexual as Mycroft's real brother.

He was sorry for Miss Hooper, though. As far as he remembered, she and DI Lestrade had grown quite close over the last few months; he should probably check on them when he returned, just to make sure.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock.

"We need to identify him. Do you – "

"I have his dental records" Mycroft answered, perhaps a little bit too eagerly. "All we have to do is..."

"I'll x-ray him" Sherlock said, taking the skull and vanishing in another room. Mycroft sat down, staring at the table, wondering what Sherlock was thinking at the moment. He thought about his Sherlock, who would rather have had Mycroft declared insane than admit that John was a murderer. But then – this version trusted his brother. This version wouldn't think his theories insignificant simply because he didn't want to believe them.

Thankfully Sherlock came back before his thoughts could turn into a circle again.

"The dental records?"

"I sent them to your e-mail" Mycroft said, knowing it would be better to see them on a big screen.

Sherlock still didn't talk as he logged into the computer, and Mycroft walked up and down the lab, missing his umbrella. He hadn't taken it with him when he'd left because he had seen Sherlock's gaze when he'd walked to his umbrella stand automatically, seen that he only connected Mycroft's umbrella with official business and hadn't wanted to believe his brother's accusations yet.

So, instead of tapping his umbrella against his leg, he walked up and down for the next few minutes until he heard a sharp intake of breath and knew what had happened.

Sherlock had confirmed that the skull belonged to Carl Powers'.

His brother slumped forward, his head in his hands, and Mycroft was at his side in seconds.

"Sherlock..." He put a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock shook it off. He glared at the older Holmes.

"Don't say anything". Then he started pacing up and down. Mycroft simply sat down and watched him, knowing he would have to come to terms with what happened. Sherlock had undoubtedly checked the identification at least twice before accepting what it entailed and now had to live with the fact that the friend he had known for over twenty years was a cold-blooded killer; worse, had given the proof that he was to him as a present, enjoying the knowledge that Sherlock had the skull of a murdered boy in his room. It must be almost too much to bear.

After a few minutes, though, Sherlock sat down next to him. Looking at the table, he stated, "You were right".

Mycroft nodded even though his brother couldn't see him. There was no need to answer.

"Jim killed a young boy" Sherlock said, still with a tone of disbelief in his voice. "When he was fifteen."

"Actually" Mycroft replied, softly, knowing that he couldn't soften the blow, "He was fourteen".

Sherlock swallowed, then nodded. He looked up, finally meeting Mycroft's eyes. "You knew" he said, "You knew as soon as you saw Jim".

"Yes".

"Because you recognized him". Sherlock was still looking at him, his gaze boring into Mycroft's eyes. "From your – your other life".

"Yes" Mycroft replied.

Sherlock blinked, slowly. Then he said, "There are certain theories – "

"Yes?" Mycroft prompted.

"That every choice we make creates a parallel universe – where we make a different choice".

"I see" Mycroft answered. "And if the portal really acted like a portal..."

"Then you were brought in the parallel universe where you had taken me with you" Sherlock finished.

"Do you think you could find a way to send me back?" Mycroft asked hopefully. Sherlock thought about it for a while, then said, "Probably. I'll have to talk to Percy."

It was the best answer he could get, so Mycroft said nothing.

"However" Sherlock added.

"However?"

Sherlock's eyes were ablaze. "Help me bring down Jim first".

"Of course" Mycroft replied. He would always be glad to bring Moriarty down, no matter in which universe.

Sherlock smiled grimly, and Mycroft recognized the light in his eyes.

The game was on.

Author's note: A reviewer asked about Molly, and I realized I could put her in so easily... really, I could have thought about it before.

And yes, the security guard is supposed to be Raz from "The Blind Banker". I'd never used him before so I figured why not?

I hope you liked it, please review.