Author's note: You guys are spoiling me. I'm so happy with the response to this story. Every time someone comments on or follows or favourites one of my stories, it makes me incredibly happy. And with this one... Thank you. Just thank you.

I don't own anything.

Neither John nor Sherlock were able to answer Mycroft's question immediately. They didn't know how. Mycroft had just asked where Jim Moriarty was – furthermore, he had called Moriarty Sherlock's best friend.

John swallowed, even though he had to admit that it made sense. Sherlock and Moriarty had always been polar opposites, but simply because they were on different sides, because Sherlock fought for justice, because Sherlock was (despite what he may think) a hero. Had they met when both had been – whatever Mycroft believed – scientists, philosophers, it didn't matter really, it would have been far more logical for someone like Moriarty to be Sherlock's best friend. He was brilliant; John Watson was simply... helpful.

He didn't doubt Sherlock's friendship for him, he never had (well, maybe once, briefly, when he had come back from the dead); but still – Moriarty and Sherlock being best friends made sense, in a way. If Moriarty had chosen the right path. If he hadn't become the world's only consulting criminal. If he had met Sherlock at a crucial point in his life...

Sherlock wanted to tell Mycroft the truth about Moriarty; but, even though he tried, no sound would come out of his mouth. Moriarty had cost him and John – and several other people – so much that the simple mention of him by his brother was enough to shock him into silence –

No, no, that wasn't the reason. The reason was that Mycroft had just called Moriarty his "best friend". And he seemed to be concerned about him.

Sherlock had no idea, not yet, what kind of electric shock Mycroft had received, but it must have been a strong one. The thought of Moriarty being his best friend – while logical in a strange way, they had, after all, had a lot in common – was utterly absurd. He would never have been able to befriend someone like Moriarty.

But, looking at Mycroft's reaction –

He obviously thought Moriarty was Sherlock's friend, therefore he must think that Moriarty was, as the consulting criminal would have said, "on the side of the angels".

While Sherlock was aware that he had to tell Mycroft the truth, he wasn't looking forward to it. He couldn't predict what the knowledge would do to his obviously confused brother.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked from Sherlock to John and back to his brother again, concerned. "What..."

Sherlock saw the thought in his eyes before he voiced it, but hearing it was still difficult.

"Did – did anything happen to Jim? Is he alright?"

Mycroft was worried about Moriarty. Sherlock could hear John's drawing in a deep breath and glanced at the doctor – he was pale. Sherlock, thankfully, had by this point regained his composure and was ready to answer his brother. He had to hear what had happened. He had to realize that he was delusional.

"Moriarty is dead". He felt no need to elaborate. That he was dead was enough.

Mycroft seemed to think the same, because he paled and gripped the table, steadying himself. "I – dead? When?" Then he suddenly grasped Sherlock's hand, and the consulting detective was to surprised to shake it off.

"Sherlock. I'm so sorry". Mycroft's eyes told him that he was being earnest, and for a moment, he had the completely unreasonable desire to scream. He finally took his hand away – Mycroft looked hurt, but understanding, which made him feel even more uncomfortable – and finally replied, in a neutral voice, "He shot himself. Almost four years ago".

Mycroft's eyes widened and he moved as if he wanted to grab Sherlock's hand again, but this time the consulting detective was too quick him. He frowned and then said, "Sherlock – I don't know what to say – I know what he meant to you".

"Meant to him?"

Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked at John, who didn't look confused anymore; instead, he looked angry. Sherlock should have known. John hadn't forgiven Mycroft yet, would perhaps never forgive him, and this grief about Moriarty's death could hardly –

"I'll tell you what – " John hissed, but then he caught Sherlock's eyes, thank God. He shook his head, and John took a deep breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his right hand.

He stood up. "I – I need fresh air".

With these words, he left the room. Sherlock knew him well enough to realize he would be back soon enough; he would undoubtedly regret leaving Sherlock behind with his disoriented brother within the next ten minutes.

"'Locky? What's going on? Why would your friend react that way?"

Mycroft's gaze bored into Sherlock's, and he sighed. "Mycroft, I have to tell you something. Please, don't interrupt me".

Normally, he wouldn't have asked his brother something like this, but Mycroft wouldn't have acquiesced to his wish either, as he did now, so the normal rules obviously didn't apply. Sherlock tool a deep breath and started to explain.

"Mycroft – Moriarty was a psychopathic criminal mastermind who tried to make me commit suicide and shot himself when he thought I would".

It was bluntly put, and he was certain John – if he had been there and if he had got over Mycroft's reaction to Moriarty's death – would have told him that it was a "bit not good". But he and his brother had never been in the habit of talking around the subject they actually wanted to discuss, and he wasn't about to start know. Not even when Mycroft was... out of sorts. Maybe the shock would help him remember.

It didn't. Mycroft needed a few moments to process what he'd said, but still less time than a normal human being. During these few moments, the door opened and John slid in quietly. He had come back even quicker than Sherlock had predicted. He must be concerned – even more so than usually.

He didn't ask what was going on; a look into Sherlock's and Mycroft's faces was more than enough.

He was proven right when Mycroft answered, "I'm sorry, I do not understand. Jim Moriarty is a psychiatrist – he teaches at the university – you met when you were both twelve years old..."

He trailed off when he saw Sherlock's expression. He might be confused, he might be afraid, but he was still the British Government, still better at deduction than his brother (if he wanted, that was) and he knew Sherlock. The consulting detective had to admit that he was glad when Mycroft stopped talking; he didn't think he could have managed to listen to him prattle on about his and Moriarty's friendship.

The uncomfortable silence that followed seemed to last forever. Mycroft obviously had questions, but didn't want to ask them, most likely because he was scared of the answers. Sherlock didn't know what to say that hadn't already been said, and John chose to be silent because he didn't know how to make Mycroft better. But neither Sherlock nor John could deny the trace of genuine grief on Mycroft's face, and the knowledge that his brother was grieving for the consulting criminal made Sherlock crave another cigarette. John looked slightly nauseous.

The silence was broken by the text alert of Sherlock's mobile phone. He took it out of his pocket and pretended he wasn't as relieved as John looked.

The text was from Anthea.

Doctor Trevelyan is waiting for you in the lab.
A

She didn't ask how Mycroft was, but Sherlock hadn't expected it; one of the reasons Anthea was the perfect PA for a Holmes was the fact that she could hide her feelings just as well as they could.

"Trevelyan is waiting for us" he announced, looking up, regretting his words a moment later when Mycroft stood up.

Of course. If he thought he and Sherlock were living together – were close – he would interpret Sherlock's words as "me and Mycroft" and not "me and John". Sherlock hadn't even considered this possibility; as far as he was concerned, "we" could only mean one thing.

John had stood up to and shot Sherlock a curious glance.

Sherlock made a slight, but still perceptible movement with his head to indicate that he didn't want his brother running around in his current state. Unfortunately, Mycroft saw it too. His shoulders slumped.

"I'll just go lay down for a bit then" he announced, not even trying to hide the disappointment in his voice, and had left the room before Sherlock could answer. He looked after him and swallowed. Should he follow him? This Mycroft – he was too vulnerable, which of course came from the trust and affection he held for Sherlock. Caring really wasn't an advantage, although Sherlock had decided, after three years alone, that it was a disadvantage he was more than ready to accept.

John's hand on his arm brought him out of his thoughts.

"Let him be" the doctor said, his voice soft. "He needs time. Just like we need to find out what happened in the lab".

Sherlock nodded and replied, "I'm going to text Anthea that she should put up surveillance, though. I'm not allowing him to leave this house without us knowing about it".

John nodded and they made their way out of the mansion, a limousine waiting for them.

"Any idea where the lab is?" the doctor inquired as he got into the car.

"I'm sure the driver knows where to go" Sherlock replied tersely.

John said nothing, well aware that his friend must be worried and didn't like to talk when he was thinking.

Ten minutes into the drive, Sherlock started to speak.

"This would be easier if Mycroft would just accept the evidence. The shock must have caused some sort of hallucination. He is intelligent enough to realize that".

"Maybe he doesn't want to" John supplied, and Sherlock shot him a confused glance.

John bit his lip.

"I mean" he clarified softly, "it doesn't like too bad a life. You are living together, you are a scientist, neither of you is lonely... You have to admit that it is a much more tempting reality". And he believed it. Sherlock being a scientist, happy, carefree – according to Mycroft, he had never taken drugs, never even smoked. True, they didn't know each other...

"No" Sherlock said suddenly, firmly, his gaze boring into John's. "No, it isn't".

John understood and couldn't help the small smile that broke through. Sherlock smirked back and turned to look out of the window.

"So what exactly have you heard about Trevelyan?" John asked, remembering the nod Sherlock gave him at his unspoken question.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not much. I know he is considered an expert in several subjects, and that he works for the Government. Mycroft refused to let me find out more."

They spent the rest of the way in a companionable silence.

John half-expected to find Anthea at the lab, waiting for them, but instead a man who he suspected was Trevelyan himself was standing in front of it, looking for the limousine.

He greeted them nervously and turned around immediately to lead the way to the lab. John couldn't blame him for being nervous; harming Mycroft Holmes might well be considered treason.

He didn't understand most of the things Trevelyan explained to Sherlock on the way to the "Choice Portal", even though he was rather sure he understood the concept. It was an intriguing one, he had to admit – there had been times when he had wondered what would have happened if he hadn't studied medicine or joined the military. Since both these scenarios involved not meeting Sherlock, however, he wouldn't really choose to watch them even if he could.

Sherlock was carefully looking over the portal and asking Trevelyan questions. For a good reason; the man, John suddenly realized, wasn't just nervous because Mycroft had got an electrical shock. He must know something, or at least have a theory of his own.

"Doctor Trevelyan" Sherlock finally growled, "I do have some influence with Scotland Yard, so either you tell me what you know or I will have you arrested".

John supposed the Secret Service could do far worse things to the scientist, but he seemed scared enough at the prospect.

"There is a possibility – that is to say, rather a theory – "

"Spit it out, man" Sherlock snapped, telling John just how much on edge he was.

Trevelyan nodded and swallowed. "There are theories about parallel universes that are created with every choice we make. If the portal did indeed function as such..."

Sherlock's eyes widened. John needed a moment longer to understand, but then he snorted.

"Are you honestly suggesting we have a Mycroft from a parallel universe here?"

He expected Sherlock to laugh, but he didn't, and John realized that the consulting detective seemed to think this indeed possible.

As if their day hadn't been complicated enough already.

Author's note: Drama. I love drama. And bromance.

I hope you liked it, please review.