Author's note: The case is going forward... although I have no idea how long this is going to be. Anyway, Mycroft and Sherlock trying to bring down Moriarty who is Sherlock's best friend – what have I written? Oh, well. I'm crazy.

I don't own anything, please review.

Sherlock was already impatiently waving down a cab when Mycroft stepped out of the house. He was obviously thrilled by the chase, although Mycroft couldn't say whether he was really aware of the threat Moriarty posed. He knew Jim wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who dared stand in his path and had told Sherlock so; the question was whether his brother truly understood what this meant. He was not stupid, but he was emotional, and the last time Mycroft had Sherlock seen truly emotional about anything to do with Moriarty had ended with him faking his death.

"We need to get the list before Moriarty, or rather his henchman, does" Sherlock stated while they drove to the crime scene, once again proving that he certainly possesses the ability to state the obvious in every reality. Mycroft would have told him so, but then he remembered John – loyal, brave John – and what he would have done and simply nodded. Maybe Sherlock needed someone he could explain everything to.

"Do you think he might – " Sherlock hesitated, and Mycroft knew what he was asking.

"He might very well try it tonight" he answered. "If Moriarty knows about the list. The hit man he hired probably didn't look into Carey's diary, but he might have, or Jim might know about the house through some other channel – he is good at what he does – and simply want to make sure he didn't overlook anything. So, yes, someone besides us might try to break into this house tonight."

When Sherlock didn't say anything, he quietly continued, "If you don't want to put yourself in danger, I understand. You could get out and – "

"No" Sherlock replied determinedly. "I said I was going to help you, and I will. It's just – I'm not used to danger, being a scientist".

He smiled. "I can't deny it's fun though, this consulting detective business. And..." he grew serious again "Jim killed a young boy. Even if we can't prove it – there has to be some form of justice". He turned around and looked out the window, and Mycroft left him alone. He, after all, was the one who would return home and not have to live with the fact that his best friend was a murderer, that his whole world had been turned upside down in a day; Sherlock would still need some time to come to terms with all of this.

They were silent until they arrived near the house. As before, they walked the last block.

"No one knows about the house" Mycroft said, "so there should be no guard. Better be careful, though".

Sherlock nodded. When they arrived, they saw that indeed there was no guard and Sherlock quickly opened the door losing his tools. Even though they had closed the door, they only used their flashlights; a neighbour might get suspicious if he saw the lights on so late at night.

"We are searching for a hand-written list..." he mumbled, his eyes scanning the living room.

"He could have hidden it anywhere" Mycroft sighed, once more reminded why he didn't like legwork. They could be stuck here for hours looking for the list.

Sherlock apparently didn't feel the same – he was looking through the living room, almost bouncing around, checking every place it could be hidden. Mycroft decided to go upstairs; it was unlikely that Sherlock would miss something in the living room.

After fifteen minutes, he was sure Carey hadn't hidden anything in his bedroom. He was equally sure that the man had been used to living alone and that he preferred the same dark furniture Mycroft had in his real house. It wasn't exactly pleasant to realize that, without Sherlock and his friends, his life would be just as empty as the captain's had been.

He quickly went through the other rooms, but found nothing. He returned downstairs to find Sherlock looking behind the pictures on the wall. Finally, he sat down and sighed.

"Any luck?" Mycroft shook his head. "Let's look at it from a different angle" he suggested. "What do we know about Peter Carey?"

Sherlock looked at him. "He was a loner, he liked to read, he didn't like technology, his favourite author was – " Suddenly he sprung up and dashed in a corner. "His favourite author was Melville!"

He took a little porcelain figure in his hands and showed it to Mycroft. "Who do you think is that?"

Mycroft frowned, looking at the small wooden leg. "Captain Ahab, I suppose – " he looked at Sherlock. "You think?"

"Only one way to find out". Sherlock flung the figure on the floor, his pieces scattering around the room. But, where it had first touched the ground, the largest piece, the one with the small wooden leg, remained, and something stuck out of it –

A piece of paper.

Sherlock took it, his eyes sparkling. "Stupid of me, I really could have thought of it before..." he muttered, his eyes already looking over the list. "If we are right and the one who asked Moriarty to deal with Carey was one of his clients, he's on the list. We'll have to go through all of them".

Mycroft nodded and was about to say something when –

Someone broke the kitchen window. The brothers looked at each other and quickly hid on either side of the door, communicating without words what they had to do.

They heard the man's steps slowly come closer and Mycroft's hand tightened on his umbrella. Either this was one of Moriarty's minions or the hit man himself. Either way, he wasn't about to let anything happen to Sherlock.

His little brother probably couldn't even fight in this reality. Or defend himself. And they couldn't use the gun – aside from the fact that they neither wanted to hurt nor kill the intruder, a neighbour might hear. They would have to subdue him with their bare hands – and their flashlights.

The door opened, and he could feel Sherlock tense despite standing on the other side. When the man walked into the living room, he slowly raised his flashlight, prepared to struck –

But Sherlock beat him to it. With a few swift movements, he had hit the man on the back of his head. The intruder staggered forward, and Sherlock lunched at him, knocking him on the floor. Mycroft turned on his flash-light –

Only to be confronted by Sherlock and Colonel Sebastian Moran fighting on the carpet.

Of course. Moran.

Mycroft felt disgusted just looking at the man Moriarty had described as his "pet" on more than one occasion. He should have known the ex-soldier was still working for Jim; maybe he had thought he wouldn't be because John was gone and it seemed strangely unfair (if one could say that, talking about Moriarty) that the consulting criminal should have his ex-soldier while the consulting detective had not.

But he would worry about it later; he needed to help Sherlock subdue him first.

Suddenly, Sherlock rolled away from Moran, breathing heavily, rolled almost into a ball; the sniper must have punched him in the stomach.

Then he sprung at Mycroft, but thankfully he hadn't forgotten all his years of self-defence training – there were some things you had to know when you were the "British Government" – and managed to keep him in the room long enough for Sherlock to recover and beat him with his flashlight again and again until Moran collapsed, which wasn't easy because Mycroft had had to drop his flashlight and Sherlock was obviously worried of hitting his brother.

"Do you know him?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

Mycroft answered, leaning against the wall, "Yes, I do. He's Moriarty's best man. A sniper. Moran".

He had mentioned the ex-soldier during his explanation about Moriarty's web, and Sherlock nodded. "Do you think he recognized us?"

"Unlikely. He might know you are – " he saw Sherlock flinch and quickly changed his sentence to "acquainted with Jim, but there wasn't enough light for him to recognize us".

"What now?" Sherlock asked, looking at the sniper's prone body. "We can't just leave him here".

"What choice do we have? We can call an ambulance from the next phone box we see" Mycroft replied, and Sherlock nodded, while still looking at Moran uneasily. He was obviously not used to seeing people hurt, much less to hurting people himself.

"Sherlock – we broke in here, just like he did – "

"I know" Sherlock interrupted and suddenly swept past him. Mycroft had trouble keeping up with him.

They left through the front door – Sherlock locking it behind them – and walked to the nearest phone booth. Once, Mycroft asked "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine" was all Sherlock said, staring straight ahead. The thought occurred to Mycroft that he might have liked to be a consulting detective, but that he had only just now realized how dangerous it could be, despite Mycroft's warnings.

He made the call while Sherlock stood in front of the phone, fidgeting, looking at the pavement. As they made their way away from the house, Sherlock walked behind Mycroft on purpose, instead of beside him, and he was starting to fear that he never should have put his brother in this position, when he suddenly walked up to him and quietly apologized.

"What for?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gave him a weak smile. "I wasn't exactly useful as soon as it got dangerous, was I?"

"You knocked out one of the best snipers the British army has ever had – you were definitely useful" Mycroft answered.

Sherlock smirked. "I only could subdue him because you – what were you doing, exactly?"

"It's called baritsu" Mycroft replied. "It has been useful to me on a number of occasions".

"I can imagine" Sherlock mumbled.

They arrived at the house without incident, and immediately started going through the list, Sherlock reading out the names and Mycroft looking what he could find.

Eventually they found what they were looking for.

It was the seventh name on the list.

"Patrick Cairns" Mycroft said, "Lost a lot of money... eventually his house. He must have been rather angry".

"Angry enough to have him harpooned?" Sherlock inquired.

"He was convicted of GBH ten years ago and has been implicated in several cases of petty crime since then..."

"Connected to Moriarty, perhaps?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Impossible to tell, I am afraid. But he might know where to find him should the need arise".

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft could see that he was tired. He had forgotten that this Sherlock seemed to eat and sleep regularly; aside from his experiments and his work, he was obviously not used to long hours.

"Why don't you get some rest" he suggested as Sherlock stifled a yawn.

"Only if you do, too" Sherlock argued. Mycroft wanted to protest but could see that his brother would be stubborn and eventually pass out on the sofa if he didn't comply, so he went upstairs with his brother.

Sherlock opened the door to his room, then turned around and looked at him.

"My?" He hesitated

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, wondering what Sherlock could possible ask.

"If – I mean, of course we are going to try and get you back in your world, and then my brother will hopefully resurface – but if not – if it doesn't work – and you are stuck here and he is – will you – leave?"

"London, you mean? The country, perhaps?" Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft understood. He had a history of leaving Sherlock behind, the Mycroft in this world hadn't. Sherlock was worried he would leave and he would be alone – without any brother.

"No, Sherlock" he said, quietly, "I already left once, I won't do it again".

Sherlock smiled and wished him good night before retreating to his room. Mycroft looked at the closed door and sighed. This Sherlock believed him –

But his brother wouldn't, should he tell him the same one day.

He had no reason to.

Author's note: Moran! And a suspect! And angst! And bonding! I really shouldn't be so happy about my own work. I apologize.

I hope you liked it, please review.