Author's note: First warning: This chapter is going to be shorter again. Second warning: There may be very little plot and a lot of philosophy, because I love to ramble.
I don't own anything, please review.
Mycroft slept badly that night; just the thought that Moriarty was out there, doing what he had always done, was enough to keep him from rest.
And Sherlock being more or less unprepared for the wrath the consulting criminal might unleash on him – Mycroft would eventually leave, hopefully. Would his alter ego be able to look after his little brother? Would he even believe the story Sherlock would tell?
Suddenly, he wasn't sure anymore whether leaving or staying was the right thing to do. He didn't even know where the Mycroft of this reality had gone, maybe he had taken his place and Sherlock would end up alone in a world where his best friend was a dangerous criminal...
And where Moran was at large and probably able to identify him. Moran was a trained soldier, after all; maybe he had picked up something, the way Sherlock moved, the way he and Mycroft worked together –
And Sherlock was defenceless. He hadn't even learned a single move of self-defence, most likely, and he would be lost without –
And then Mycroft realized what he was thinking and hated himself for it.
He was ready to stay here, to condemn this reality's Mycroft to death, perhaps, because this world was easier for him. Because it would be nice to wake up in a world where Sherlock trusted him, believed in him. Because it was pleasant, had always been pleasant, to imagine a world where Sherlock might be able to look him in the eyes without remembering what he had done.
But what about Mrs. Hudson? True, he might be able to organize protection for her – in fact, he would be able to do that, in just a few minutes – but she would always look over her shoulder, wondering whether her husband would come back to finish what he had started.
What about DI Lestrade? He was lost, he didn't care about anything, and the only man who could have saved him from that fate, the Sherlock of Mycroft's world, didn't exist, would never exist, couldn't exist. Maybe he would eventually be "let go" because he couldn't keep his mouth shut around witnesses or suspects, and what then? He would live a life at the side of a wife who didn't loved and whom he didn't love, spending the rest of his years wondering what he could have done better or different, never knowing what had passed him by.
What about John Watson? He had died because nobody had needed him; because no one had made him feel alive. He had killed himself because he had seen no other option, because all he had done was staring at the wall, wondering why nothing ever happened to him. He had died because Sherlock wasn't the Sherlock Mycroft knew.
Mycroft wasn't ready to live with that knowledge. No, he had to return to the reality he knew; he had to return to Sherlock and Sherlock's friends who had somehow become his friends over time too. He had to live with what he had done. He had to live with leaving Sherlock behind. He deserved it, and he slowly realized that he actually preferred his world. This world's Sherlock was happy, it was true, but he had never looked as alive as he had when he had been investigating the case with Mycroft. He wanted Sherlock to feel alive, even if he hated him for it.
Just as he wanted his friends to be happy and alive.
And it gave him a stab in the heart to know that he would be able to escape it, would wake up in a world where John Watson lived and had found a purpose in his little brother and DI Lestrade was good at his job and happily divorced and where Mrs. Hudson was safe and busy making tea or looking after her tenants; this world's Sherlock didn't have that privilege. He would always remember what they could have been, would always know what Moriarty had done. Maybe he would have grown old and never realized what his best friend was really like; there was every chance Moriarty would never have touched him, he was, after all, his human alibi. But Mycroft had made this impossible. He would always know, always remember; Mycroft had destroyed his happy ignorance.
Perhaps he was destined to be the destroyer of Sherlock's happiness, no matter in which world he happened to be.
These thoughts and others kept running around, going under, resurfacing in his head, while he was lying in his bed, or rather his alter ego's bed, half-asleep, half-awake, unable to get some real rest when someone knocked on his door.
He answered "Enter" more feebly than he would have liked and it was the Sherlock he didn't know who opened the door.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and Sherlock gently asked, "Trouble sleeping too, then?"
He came over and sat on Mycroft's bed – another thing the Sherlock he knew would never have done – and Mycroft swallowed and nodded.
"What were you thinking about?" Sherlock inquired, and Mycroft found that, looking into this open, trusting eyes, that he simply couldn't lie.
"I was thinking that I better never have come".
Sherlock frowned. "Well" he finally answered, "While I can honestly say I would have preferred my brother not to disappear, I certainly am rather content with knowing what Jim was up to the whole time".
Mycroft smiled warily. "You might say that, but –"
Sherlock shook his head. "I'm a scientist, no "buts". I'm on the side of the truth."
Mycroft was silent, and Sherlock hesitantly squeezed his hand. "It's alright. I prefer knowing to not knowing".
Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock smiled. "I'm sure your brother does, too. And I'm sure he isn't angry with you".
"Don't get me wrong, but you are hardly in a position to judge my brother's opinion" Mycroft replied automatically, and Sherlock laughed.
"Maybe not, but I am reasonably sure I could never blame you for something you saw as necessary".
It wasn't much, but it was enough to make Mycroft relax, and say, "I am reasonably sure your brother is proud of you".
Sherlock smiled again. "If you say so". He stood up. "I think – I think I can sleep now. Good night, Mycroft" and with these words, he closed the door.
Mycroft closed his eyes and slept.
When he woke up it was almost seven am. He quickly stood up, had a shower and dressed – in a suit again, because he couldn't imagine wearing anything different – and went downstairs were Sherlock was already preparing breakfast. For a moment, the considered declining again; then he decided to eat a piece of toast at least. Sherlock smiled but said nothing.
"Do you think Moran knew what hit him?" he asked after a while, and Mycroft shook his head. "He might be aware of your existence – he is Moriarty's right-hand man – but he wouldn't have seen. Not if all he had to go on were two silhouettes in a flashlight beating him up." Sherlock smirked. Then he looked at Mycroft, his eyes curious. "What do we do now?"
Mycroft would have thought it obvious, and almost said so, but then again, Sherlock was a new consulting detective. So he took a deep breath and said, "I think it's time we pay Peter Cairns a visit".
Sherlock beamed. "So we scare our suspect?"
"Yes" Mycroft confirmed, "That is exactly what we'll do".
It was a distinct possibility that Cairns would call Moriarty as soon as they showed up – but maybe they would be able to convince him to provide evidence against him. They simply had to try.
Before they left, Mycroft checked what had become of Moran and announced, "He is in custody. You didn't harm him, so he was arrested as a burglar after the check-up".
"At least one problem out of the way" Sherlock commented, and Mycroft chose not to tell him that Moriarty had more than enough snipers at hand, should the need arise.
They found a cab and drove to Cairns' address. When he opened the door, he seemed to know what was awaiting him; at least he looked afraid. Maybe, Mycroft thought, he had known that telling someone to get rid of Carey wasn't exactly the best way to deal with his problem.
"Mr. Cairns, I presume?" he asked, and the man's eyes widened. He had obviously decided to take a path he couldn't follow through; he was shaking before Mycroft and Sherlock had even told him who they were.
"Are you the police?" he squeaked, and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes before replying, "No, Mr. Cairns, not at all. But we know what you did".
He was getting better at this, Mycroft realized. Or at least he could make people uncomfortable just as quickly as his Sherlock.
Cairns grew pale and started to stammer. "I – I didn't – I just told him that I wanted to – "
"Relax, Mr. Cairns" Mycroft said, realizing that the man wouldn't be able to finish the sentence. "What did you want?"
"To have Carey out of the way" he answered, quietly.
"And who did you tell to make him go away?" Sherlock inquired before Mycroft had the chance to say anything.
Cairns had to hold on to the door to keep standing up. "Mor – "
A shot rang out and Cairns dropped down to the floor, a bullet between his eyes. Mycroft jumped on top of Sherlock, holding him down, but now further shots were fired, and after a minute, he deemed it safe to stand up and walk over to their witness. Their now useless witness.
He looked at Sherlock who was slowly getting up on his feet. Their eyes met and they knew they were thinking the same thing.
Not only did Moriarty have other snipers than Moran and one of them had kept an eye on Cairns, probably because the consulting criminal had known he was a risk –
But Moriarty knew, or would soon know, that they were on to him.
Author's note: There was a plot right at the very end. Just saying. I do love to be dramatic.
I hope you liked it, please review.