Author's note: That was a cliffhanger once again, wasn't it? Oh. I sometimes really don't notice when I write those. They are fun to write, though.

Shorter chapter again, I fear. Life sometimes gets in the way.

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I don't own anything.

They called the police, already knowing they could do nothing. The sniper must be long gone by now, and they knew perfectly who was responsible – but they couldn't prove it. They couldn't even tell anyone Moriarty was the one who had ordered the hit on Carey. No one would believe them.

All they could do was stand around, looking at Cairns' body, waiting for the police to show up.

"He knows" Sherlock stated quietly. Mycroft nodded. Before he could say anything, Sherlock continued, "It's alright. I know it would be dangerous".

Only it wasn't alright. Sherlock would have been safe without him, and Mycroft tried to fight the temptation of adding "once again" to this thought.

Things, however, were about to become more complicated. He should have known, really; ever since he had entered this strange world everything had gone wrong, and so DI Lestrade got out of the police car that arrived a few minutes later.

His eyes widened when he saw Mycroft, but he didn't let on that he recognized him, either because he realized that there was something he didn't know about going on or because he simply didn't care.

It was the indifferent glance he bestowed on Sherlock that made Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tighten, though. Every thought in his head told him how wrong this was, how utterly impossible that Lestrade should look at Sherlock as if he wasn't really there at all, and Sherlock stare at Lestrade with only mild curiosity. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Nothing was.

"Who are you?" Lestrade asked abruptly, and Mycroft replied automatically, "Mycroft Holmes. This is my brother Sherlock".

The DI nodded and looked down at the body with indifferent eyes. "He was shot in front of you?"

"Yes. Twenty-two minutes ago".

"What were you doing here?" Lestrade's voice was cold, calm, uncaring, and Mycroft had thought he couldn't feel worse about this version of the DI, but he suddenly did.

"Paying a visit" Sherlock answered quickly. "A... mutual friend asked us to bring him a message".

Anyone who had a brain would instantly have realized this was simply ridiculous. People had phones. But Lestrade obviously didn't want to think about it and he knew just from the angle of the wound that Sherlock and Mycroft couldn't be the killers. So he took down their address and sent them on their way.

Mycroft couldn't resist saying, "By the way, your wife is cheating on you. In case you should care" as he turned around. He hated himself for it in the next moment, but at least he was rewarded with a surprised expression on the DI's face.

As they left the crime scene, Sherlock inquired, "Is this the DI I supposedly helped?"

"Yes" Mycroft replied bitterly.

Sherlock hummed. "I supposed he is more polite in your world?"

Mycroft had to hide a smile – they were walking away from a crime scene, they couldn't start giggling – and continued walking, wondering whether Lestrade would even bother to keep up the appearance of an investigation.

They walked in silence for some time until Sherlock said, "I suppose we'll have to wait for Jim's move now. He does love his games".

Mycroft ignore the shiver running down his spine when he heard his brother talk about Moriarty's "games" so casually and thought about it. It was true; this Moriarty wouldn't be so dumb them and have them killed. At least not yet. First of all, as far as the world knew, he and Sherlock were friends, so he would be a subject in the investigation, which he would clearly which to avoid; and then –

Sherlock was right. He enjoyed his games. And that he had kept up the appearance of Sherlock's best friend for years, decades even, and had given him the skull of his first murder victim certainly proved that he still liked to play. He would be curious, he would want to know more about how Sherlock found out, about how much Mycroft suspected. They were offering a distraction.

A distraction from a life that had perhaps become too dull already, without a consulting detective to makes things interesting. Now he had one.

And they had no doctor. And no DI, come to think of it.

He didn't know what Sherlock was thinking about, although he guessed his brother was pondering the same things he was. As it turned out, he was only partly right, because all of a sudden Sherlock asked, "This DI... he seemed rather..." he stopped, obviously looking for the right word, and Mycroft suggested, "Cold? Indifferent? Uncaring?"

"Something along those lines" Sherlock smirked, then shook his head. "It's just – I only just realized –"

He stopped, opened his mouth to continue, closed it again, apparently confused by his own thoughts. Mycroft could almost see them fly by behind his eyes, too quick for his brother to catch them.

Finally, Sherlock continued. "Before, it was just a story, you understand? And in a way it still is, because it is certainly difficult to believe. But on the other hand... I've seen him, now. And he's there; he isn't just a headstone".

Mycroft managed not to wince. Should he ever tell this story once he'd returned, he would make sure to leave John out of it.

"And – " Sherlock shook his head. "It's just a strange feeling to think I actually changed a life because I wasn't there. If that makes any sense at all".

"Trust me" Mycroft answered, thinking of his Sherlock and the drugs and the lost years, "It does".

"So you have any idea who shot Cairns?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

Mycroft shook his head. "Moran is in custody, but I'm sure he has more than enough other snipers. It's impossible to tell".

"I thought so" Sherlock commented. "Really how big is his web anyway?"

"If it's as large as I remember... taking it down might be a bit difficult. We are only two after all".

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "We are Holmes. You must realize that this means we can do more than most people".

Mycroft smiled and they finally caught a cab and went back to the mansion.

Waiting was tedious; Mycroft kept glancing out the window or at his phone, despite knowing that this was exactly what Moriarty wanted them to do. He made them wait so they would be nervous.

Sherlock wasn't doing too well. He was used to waiting for an experiment to finish, or for certain chemicals he needed to work; he wasn't used to have a psychopath play with his mind.

They sat in the living room for most of the day, not talking, wondering what to do if Moriarty showed up. If he openly declared war.

When the doorbell rang, both of them jumped, and Mycroft gave Sherlock a look to indicate that he should stay in the living room at all costs. Sherlock didn't seem to like the idea, but eventually gave in when he saw his brother would not be denied. He sat down again, something in his eyes telling Mycroft that he would come out as soon as he heard anything suspicious.

Mycroft went into the hall and opened the door –

Only to be confronted with someone he had not been expecting.

"DI Lestrade?" he asked, confused, and the detective nodded. "Mycroft Holmes".

Mycroft would be more impressed if the fact that the DI found out where he lived didn't send the warning bells ringing in his head.

"Yes. Why are you here, Inspector?"

Lestrade sighed. "May I come in?"

Mycroft stepped aside and Lestrade entered the hall, looking around –

Looking around with obvious interest.

Just when Mycroft had thought this world couldn't surprise him anymore.

Then again, DI Lestrade had always found ways to surprise Mycroft. He was the only one who had ever chastised him for letting his little brother take drugs and then proceeded to take the matter into his own hands. And he hadn't thrown Mycroft out of his office or called for backup when he had come to the conclusion that he was dealing with a mad man and not someone who was investigating a complaint against him.

"How do you know where I live?" he finally asked, because it was the foremost question in his mind, even though he should probably rather have demanded what the DI was doing here. But his address had always been protected - ever since he had moved into the mansion - and he had certainly not told Lestrade where to find him.

DI Lestrade gave a rather self-satisfied smile. "I figured there couldn't be that many posh suit-wearing umbrella-wielding articulate guys out there, and you'd been at the Yard, so I asked around. Turns out, Anderson of all people recognized your description. Apparently he'd been to a lecture on some science stuff your brother gave. I phoned various labs. One of them had your brother's address, and he's a witness. As you are".

Mycroft looked at him, taken aback, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "So, are you going to show me in a room where we can talk or not?" he asked, indicating the direction of the living room with his head.

Author's note: Thank God I managed an update today... I couldn't help Lestrade. He is too – good an Inspector.

I hope you liked it, please review.