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Mycroft looked at this Sherlock, this Sherlock he didn't know and recognized the light in his eyes, the determination in his voice and the way he sat. For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock Holmes had always been meant to become a consulting detective, whether he had interfered or not, whether he had taken him with him or not. Maybe, in the end, it didn't matter; maybe Sherlock Holmes should be a force for good in any world, while he –

He looked and Sherlock and realized it didn't matter. At least not now, at least not when they had to fight of Moriarty once and for all.

Although, looking at Sherlock, it would be difficult, even more difficult than before. Jim had been his friend – his best friend. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine his Sherlock deciding to destroy John and go through with it, no matter what the doctor might have done. And then –

This version of Sherlock – he simply – he seemed so –

Innocent.

He had never taken drugs, never been really alone; he had never caught criminals, never solved cases, perhaps he didn't even comprehend now what catching Moriarty entailed. Mycroft – or this version of him, anyway – had sheltered him, given him a good life, but made him defenceless against people like the consulting criminal. No matter how clever he was, he would need Mycroft's help to get the better of him, because the only man who could have helped him other than his older brother was dead. DI Lestrade – if he would even listen to them, which Mycroft doubted – couldn't do anything against a famous professor without losing his job; and while he didn't care about it, he certainly wouldn't care about two "amateurs" stumbling into his office, especially if one of these strangers had let him believe that he was there to investigate a complaint filed against him.

They couldn't get help from Anthea either, for reasons Mycroft had already listed enough times to himself to know them by heart. And they couldn't trust anyone else – if Moriarty's web was only nearly as big as the one Mycroft remembered, he would know instantly someone was investigating him if. The only reason Mycroft dared access the files on his computer (Jim would make the connection if he saw which files had been accessed) was because he had long ago made sure that his laptop could never be traced.

There was only one man Mycroft would have trusted, to help them, to keep his brother safe, not to betray them in the end, but this man didn't exist. Anymore.

It was John they needed, but John wasn't there.

And Mycroft wasn't used to do legwork. And Sherlock wasn't used to investigate a crime. And it was his best friend they were investigating.

"Don't look so worried" Sherlock interrupted his musings. "I'm sure we'll think of something".

Mycroft would have asked how he could have known what he thought about, but this was a Sherlock who had been living with him for over twenty years; he would know every single one of Mycroft's expressions.

So he nodded, even though the word "we" made him realize once again just how much this and his Sherlock differed for all their similarities.

"So" Sherlock announced, as if it was the only logical thing to do, "we need to solve a case Moriarty was involved in. He is sure to notice that".

"While I cannot disagree" Mycroft answered, "I am not sure how we will track down a crime that either hasn't even been recognized as such or not linked to anyone remotely connected with Moriarty and yet been committed by him".

Sherlock smiled –it was a cold, calculating smile, a smile that didn't make bode well for the consulting criminal, and Mycroft suddenly had the thought that, perhaps, his showing up in this world, this reality, and forcing Sherlock to grow up, to fight, wasn't really a good thing. He simply said "Go on", however, before his brother could realize what he was thinking.

"You know how he acts, how he arranges crimes. And, if this is indeed his living, he certainly organized at least one major crime in the last few weeks. And you have access to all police files". Sherlock was gesticulating wildly now, clearly caught up in the action of it all – Mycroft didn't think he had had many adrenaline rushes being a scientist.

He opened the files and searched. Surely, Sherlock was right – there must be something – an elaborate scheme, an ingenious plan, something that could only have been done by Moriarty...

He found it after almost ten minutes of searching, while Sherlock was mumbling to himself, his eyes glittering as if he had just found a whole new world, as Mycroft believed he had indeed – he just wasn't sure if his brother was aware this wasn't just a game, if he knew what they were dealing with.

But then he clicked on a file and all his worries fled from his mind. There was only one man who would suggest that an old captain who had decided to stock up his pension by posing as an investment banker and therefore rob many people of their money should be murdered by being nailed with a harpoon.

"That harpoon must have been a souvenir from one of his voyages, it's definitely from the nineteenth century" Sherlock commented as soon as he saw the pictures. Mycroft raised and eyebrow and he blushed. "You know I wanted to be a pirate when I was young, right?"

"Of course" Mycroft answered, and the memory of the little boy who ran around the garden proclaiming he would sail across the world one day flittered through his mind. "Anyway, former Captain Peter Carey, known as "Black Peter" – he seems to have had a quite severe reputation – was found dead two three days ago. The case is being investigated by – " he stopped, seeing a familiar name on the screen. Sherlock guessed what he was about to say.

"DI Lestrade, I presume?"

"Yes" Mycroft replied. "However, I hardly suppose he would welcome us in on his case".

"If he doesn't care about anything – "

"I dare say going after a famous professor might cost him his job, and even Lestrade would care about having no roof under his head".

"We could always offer him a room" Sherlock answered, lightly. "After all, he was one of my friends, wasn't he?"

Mycroft smirked at the thought, realizing Sherlock was trying to lighten the mood again. "It might take him a little while getting used to..." He grew serious. "But we – "

Sherlock interrupted him, suddenly looking very young, and Mycroft realized that this question must have been gnawing on him for a while, ever since he found out about Jim.

"Mycroft, this DI and – the doctor, they liked me for what I was?"

"Of course they did. Just like your friends here do" Mycroft replied automatically, but he already knew what Sherlock was thinking. The one friend he had trusted the most, the one friend he had been comfortable sharing his secrets with, had betrayed him, had lied to him all along.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "They aren't really close friends". He looked at the table and asked, "And this doctor – he saved my life after knowing me for twenty-four hours?"

"He did".

Sherlock looked up. "Is it possible to mourn something you never had?"

"Yes" Mycroft said, looking at this brother he could have had, and his eyes softened. "It definitely is".

Sherlock nodded, then looked at the pictures on the screen again. "We are going to need evidence. Obviously. And we are going to have to take a look at the crime scene so we can deduce".

For a moment, Mycroft wondered where Sherlock had got this word from, then he remembered he had taught him the basics of deduction when he was seven. He might not have used the technique for decades now, but he certainly remembered. And just like that, hope stirred in him. If Sherlock could deduce, he could prove Moriarty was guilty.

"The only question is" Sherlock continued "how are we going to get into the crime scene?"

He saw Mycroft's smile and shook his head. "Of course. Stupid of me".

"I'm afraid, brother mine, that it is going to be an unofficial visit".

"Oh, I know how to pick a lock" Sherlock replied, pleasantly.

"Why doesn't that surprise me. Just don't tell me I taught you that, too".

"You didn't – you simply locked away my chemicals when you thought I needed rest, and I had to get to them somehow". Sherlock smirked.

He stood up. "We should get going. The night isn't going to last forever". When they reached the hall, he began to make his way upstairs.

"Getting your equipment?" Mycroft asked while taking his umbrella out of the stand.

"Yes – and making sure I look the part" Sherlock replied enigmatically.

Mycroft knew what he meant when he came down ten minutes later, a bag in his hand and in a suit and the purple shirt he had worn so often in the reality the British Government came from. He hid a smile when he realized Sherlock had decided to change to make it easier for him.

"Shall we go?" Sherlock asked and opened the door.

They took another cab but made sure that it dropped them off a block away from the crime scene.

"There will be a guard, of course" Sherlock said.

"Yes" Mycroft answered. For a moment, he thought about shooting his gun in the air to attract the attention of the PC away from the crime scene, then he realized he hadn't brought his gun with him. He simply was not made for this kind of late-night excursions.

"I wish I had brought my – " Sherlock took the gun out of his coat pocket. "Don't mention it. All we need to do is make sure we are in the house by the time he returns – we just have to close the door after us".

Mycroft nodded and shot in the air. The hid in the shadows until they heard the PC running past them, then they swiftly made their way to the house and Mycroft held the flashlight for Sherlock while he was opening the door.

"Sherlock – " he hissed. "I can already hear him coming back".

"Relax" Sherlock murmured, "Almost – there".

They made it through the door just in time and peered out the window to see the PC return to the car, oblivious to their presence.

Sherlock winked at Mycroft and strolled of to find the living room where the murder occurred.

Author's note: A shorter chapter because I have no time to make it longer. But at least they are on the crime scene and investigating. The case is from "The Adventure of Black Peter", a story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

I hope you liked it, please review.