Author's note: I'm so happy about the response to this story. Thank you.

I don't own anything.

They decided to go back to the mansion and formulate their plan there, careful to take all the evidence in the lab with them.

Sherlock was silent during the cab ride – again – but he had given the skull to Mycroft with a disgusted look. It now set on his lap, and he stared at it, wondering what kind of a boy Carl powers had been. It wasn't a pleasant thought, bit it made him even more determined to bring down Moriarty once and for all.

When they arrived, Sherlock went straight into the dining room and, uncharacteristically, filled himself a glass of brandy. He looked at Mycroft, who nodded and gave him a glass too before walking into the living room.

Mycroft carefully placed the skull and the evidence on the table before sitting down on the sofa.

Sherlock sat down next to him, which he took as a good sign. At least he didn't appear to be angry with him.

Sherlock drank half of his brandy before saying, staring at the skull, "You may have noticed I didn't react as... badly as one would have supposed".

"Yes, I did" Mycroft answered. Sherlock had taken the news rather well, all things considered – he didn't think a normal person would have been so calm. But then, Sherlock was not and would never be, a normal person in any universe.

"I suppose" Sherlock continued, still staring at the skull, "I always suspected something. Sometimes there was – there was a sort of emptiness, just behind his eyes. Or his laughter didn't sound quite right. And now and then, he'd be too callous, too cold, and I would think "that isn't like Jim". Of course, I didn't realize that, on the contrary, it was. That it was the real Jim, and the other one, the friend I knew, was the invention..."

He stopped and sighed. Mycroft wasn't surprised that Sherlock had felt something was wrong. Not even someone like Moriarty could hide whop he was at all times; and they had known each other for a long time. Naturally, Sherlock had pushed his doubts away, had probably not even acknowledged them; but now he had to remember all those little moments when the truth had suggested itself to him.

Mycroft sat still and waited for Sherlock to finish; he was sure his brother had something else to say.

He did. "And you are sure he killed the boy".

"I am."

"Because you remember it".

"Yes".

Sherlock fixed him with the deducing gaze he remembered so well.

"What else did he do?"

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, although he knew what Sherlock meant.

His brother rolled his eyes. "Please, Mycroft, I know you. Your face when you talk about him... You hate him. I am not saying killing a young boy isn't worth your hate, but it's clear he must have done something worse – done something to someone you care about – " he trailed off and took a deep breath before asking, "Am I dead?"

It was certainly the strangest question Mycroft had ever heard from his brother's lips but considering the circumstances it was understandable. He shook his head.

"What then?" Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft admitted to himself that it had been foolish not to tell him about Moriarty's last great game and his three lost years. He had yielded to the temptation of pretending he had never told Jim his brother's life story because her, in this reality, he hadn't, and it had been easy, too easy to lie, or at least not tell the whole truth. He had to, now. Sherlock had to know what they were up against.

So he told him, told him how he had let the consulting criminal go and about his faked death and how he'd finally contacted Mycroft.

Sherlock listened to him without interrupting him even once. At the end, he said quietly, "So you think he is a "consulting criminal" here too?"

"It's the logical assumption" Mycroft replied. Sherlock said nothing, and Mycroft, rather stupidly, asked, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "Depends on your definition of "alright"". He looked at the skull, then back at Mycroft. "You and me... in this... in your – universe, did we ever make up our differences?"

It was a difficult question, even though this Sherlock obviously thought Mycroft had to know the answer. But they had never talked about it, really. He suspected that his brother was thankful for the information he had given him while he had been tracking down Moriarty's network and that he didn't bear him a grudge, and they could at least talk to each other for five minutes without Sherlock insulting his weight. But as to "make up", as to being brothers in the way this Sherlock and the other Mycroft (if this was another universe, and the other Mycroft had existed) were –

Mycroft leaving had driven the first wedge between them. Mycroft not reacting properly to Sherlock's addiction had driven them further apart. And then he had forced Sherlock to stay with him. And, in the end, he had betrayed him to Moriarty.

The truth was that Mycroft didn't think "making up" was possible anymore. Sherlock would probably laugh in his face if he attempted an apology.

Somehow Sherlock seemed top guess what he was thinking.

"It's never too late" he argued.

Mycroft shook his head. "You might find that – "

"Between brothers it isn't" he argued, and Mycroft decided not to tell him that his Sherlock would undoubtedly prefer to be an only child.

"Maybe you could talk to each other, that's always supposed to help" Sherlock added sarcastically when Mycroft didn't answer, and he simply nodded.

Sherlock seemed to give up – for now, at least – and said, "So, back to Moriarty – if he is as good as you say, we will have problems finding evidence against him".

"Definitely" Mycroft answered. "It will be quite the challenge, I fear".

Sherlock's eyes sparkled – apparently this version liked a challenge too, whether he realized it or not.

"What do you remember, then?" he asked. "What did he do, except from playing his so-called games with me? Since he called Carl powers here too, it is possible he committed other crimes you can recall as well."

Mycroft stood up and got his laptop. For a moment, he considered calling Anthea, but since Sherlock had already told her he wasn't feeling well, she would probably (despite doing what she was told, as always) think he had lost his mind and made his brother's best friend into the most dangerous criminal England had ever seen.

Because it became apparent as soon as he checked his files that they had never suspected Jim Moriarty in the slightest. Really, he should have known this; he should have thought about it sooner. But he had been so focused on Sherlock and Sherlock's friends, and he had been utterly convinced that Moriarty was dead. He simply hadn't thought (or wanted to think) it possible that the consulting criminal could still be alive, arranging crimes like he always had.

All he could find out about Moriarty was what Sherlock had told him; he was a respected professor, he had published quite a lot (even a book of children's stories) and, judging by the pictures of official functions he had been dating Molly for two years.

Mycroft frowned and searched at first for the cases Sherlock had been involved with.

The results were hardly encouraging, and he began to understand why Lestrade had given up.

Jeff Hope had never been caught, but judging from the particulars of the case – serial suicides and no trace of a motive – he must have killed seven people over the course of two years. The suicides had ceased then – a quick check proved that he had died of his aneurism and that his children had indeed received a large sum of (untraceable) money.

Thank God he didn't have to go through the official channels; being the "British government" had his upsides.

Sherlock set next to him and scanned the documents he opened with a quick glance.

"He's good" he commented, "but we already knew that". He sighed as yet another picture of Jim and Molly popped up and shook his head. "I guess when this is over I'll have to tell her she dated a psychopath – or is she..." He looked at Mycroft, who shook his head.

"No, she wasn't his accomplice. At least not in my reality".

"Some good news, at least" Sherlock replied. Then they focused on the cases again.

The Black Lotus was apparently still active, judging by how many Chinese art was sold anonymously at auctions.

Mycroft searched in vain for a reference to Irene Adler in his records; had Moriarty refused to help her?

"What did she do, exactly?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft told him.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then he said, "He wouldn't have needed her. He comes and goes at all hours, really; you know I don't sleep much. He wouldn't have needed a code or me to figure out what it meant to find out government secrets. It would have been easy for him to slip into your room at an unguarded moment..." he swallowed and Mycroft said, gently, "It's not your fault".

"I know" Sherlock answered absently and Mycroft didn't push it.

It became clear, however, as they went over the most famous criminal cases of the past fifteen years that Moriarty had indeed become a spider in this reality as well. The pattern didn't suggest itself immediately; but, once you knew what to look for, once you were searching for plots only a great mind could have planned, once you looked over the files of suspects and convicts and realized that there was no way they could have come up with this idea...

It became clear that there was indeed a consulting criminal active in London. For a moment, Mycroft wondered who he had to obsess over now, then he realized: Moriarty needed no one to play games with. He had his own game, playing the best friend of a well-known scientist, the happy boyfriend of a nice pathologist, the excellent psychiatrist of many thankful patients.

It was a truly great game he had played, Mycroft couldn't deny that; a game he had been winning for years now, a game he would without a doubt have continued to play until the very end, if Percy Trevelyan hadn't decided to build a Choice Portal...

Eventually, Sherlock asked the one question that had haunted both of them.

"What now? We know he did all of this, but we can't prove it. And I don't think we can kill him and hide his body – I mean, we could, but – "

"Sherlock" Mycroft said, then stopped himself when he realized he had just sued exactly the same tone he always did while chastising his brother. Sherlock was silent and he realized that he had simply tried to lighten the mood.

"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to – "

"Us getting on?" Sherlock looked into his eyes and Mycroft had to look away.

"I'm sure it will get better once you return" Sherlock said in a voice that brooked no argument and then suggested, "So – Moriarty likes to play games, right?"

"Yes" Mycroft answered. "Very much, in fact. What are you suggesting?"

"He's probably getting bored with his "normal life" anyhow..." Sherlock continued...

"And?" Mycroft asked, growing impatient.

Sherlock's eyes blazed. "Let's give him an archenemy to play with".

"You mean – "

"Of course". Sherlock smiled grimly. "I think this world would be better off with a consulting detective of its own, don't you agree?"

Author's note: Brotherly bonding over the chase for a psychopath. God, I love writing these two. I know I'm pathetic.

Just so you know, I have no idea how long this is going to be. As usual.

I hope you liked it, please review.