Author's note: I am proud to announce that this story has now more reviews than any of my other fics. That said, I'm begging for more, because this could be my first story ever to get two hundred reviews and I'm more excited about the prospect than I should be.

I don't own anything.

Sherlock came home about an hour after Mycroft and Greg, looking angry,

"This imbeciles – really, you would think they would understand a simple instruction like "don't let the experiment get too hot" – mind you, I had written down exactly at which temperature it would get critical –and yet they somehow managed to..." Sherlock trailed off when he walked into the living room and found Lestrade sitting there. Mycroft decided he had to do something quickly, or his brother and the DI would spend the whole case distrusting each other.

"Sherlock, Greg has decided to help us".

Lestrade shot him a glance that clearly said, "Greg it is then? Didn't know we were on a first name basis" but apparently decided it didn't matter and gave Sherlock a somewhat polite smile. "Doctor Holmes".

"Sherlock" he corrected automatically, apparently deciding that if his brother was on a first name basis with someone, so he should be.

"So, what are you working on at the moment?" Greg asked.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked at Mycroft; he immediately understood that this meant whatever he was working on in this particular lab was work he was doing for the government, therefore classified – at least for the time being. And even if it wasn't classified, he was most likely not allowed to talk about it – his employer would have made sure he wasn't. Mycroft suspected every project Sherlock worked on was classified in a sense – no country, or independent lab, for that matter, would want to have the work of such a scientist be talked about before it was finished. Curious, he nodded anyway to tell him it was alright to talk about it.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then began, "It's about intelligent medicine."

""Intelligent medicine?" Greg asked, confused, and Sherlock elaborated.

"Medicine that only attacks the sickness itself, without any adverse effects".

Greg looked at him sceptically.

"You mean without any allergic reactions or problems with other medicines the patient might be taking?"

"Exactly" Sherlock replied, pride in his voice.

Greg shook his head. "Alright. Not that I'm not impressed – I am – but those are the people I am going to fight a criminal mastermind with. A proper genius who spends most of his life in the lab and a –" he looked at Mycroft and frowned, then decided to continues, "a rather unusual part of the British Government".

And just like this, it downed upon Mycroft that in this world he would be the strange one, the "freak". He hadn't thought about it before because he hadn't considered it even a remote possibility; and yet it made sense.

In this world, he had never had any surveillance on Sherlock (and why should he have); he had never "kidnapped" (how John Watson would have put it, if he hadn't been – but he didn't want to think about that) Sherlock's friends; he had never made contracts with a consulting criminal; he had been more polite and nice than he had ever been, all thanks to his little brother. Therefore, he would have been considered normal – if more intelligent than most.

Sherlock, of course, would hardly have been labelled a "freak", even if he loved science and spent most of his time in labs. He had been raised by the other Mycroft, had learned what it meant to be polite and diplomatic.

They had been two nice brothers, a bit unusual but hardly freaks.

And now he had stumbled into their world, rambling about crimes and consulting criminals and drug addicts and ex-army doctors addicted to adrenaline.

Yes, he was definitely a freak in this world.

He had never been considered a freak before – at least he wasn't aware of it, and no one would ever have dared to tell him, should he have been – and he decided that he didn't like the feeling much. Was this really how Sherlock had felt all these years – when people had looked at him before completing a sentence, even doubted his sanity? He had known, of course, what it meant; he hadn't known how it felt.

And he had wondered why his brother had never managed to be more polite.

How he wished he was home, with his Sherlock quietly resenting him, John ignoring him (but at least accepting his presence, if he had to), the DI there for him, despite everything.

But he wasn't home, and he couldn't return until they had brought down Moriarty; he could hardly tell Sherlock his friend was a dangerous psychopath and then ask him to send him back. He had to make sure this Sherlock was safe first. He may not be his real brother, but that didn't make Mycroft's instinct to keep him safe any less strong.

Sherlock seemed rather unhappy with Greg's choice of words, but thankfully let it go.

"What are we going to do?" Greg finally began. "We have to bring down Moriarty with no evidence to speak of".

"I wouldn't say that" Mycroft answered. Both Sherlock and Greg looked at him.

"I mean" he said, his mind racing, "Moriarty wouldn't have given us this challenge if there wasn't something – anything – to prove he was guilty. A game is no fun if there's no risk involved".

The DI was unconvinced, but Sherlock's eyes sparkled, and Mycroft realized he had given him what probably no Sherlock Holmes in any world had ever been able to resist. A real challenge. His mind against another mind. His intellect against another.

Sherlock stood up, starting to pace up and down once again. Greg looked like he wanted to ask why, but apparently thought the better of it.

"Jim can only mean this case – we have no evidence to tie him to any other – at least apart from or testimony..." Sherlock mumbled. "So he must mean..."

He stopped and looked at Greg and Mycroft.

"He has to mean Cairns' shooting. Maybe he did it himself; maybe he instructed the sniper to leave evidence behind because he wanted to play. Either way, we have to see the place where Cairns was shot from".

Both looked at Greg. He shrugged. " building on the other side of the street – but, really, the crime scene techs have already searched every centimetre. There's nothing there".

"Let us be the judges of that" Sherlock replied swiftly, and he smirked. "Not that I don't trust Anderson to make a thorough analysis of the evidence – we still have to make sure".

Mycroft reminded himself to tell his Sherlock what this version had just said. His face would be hilarious.

If – when he got home. He had definitely thought "when", not "if", he told himself.

They drove to the building and this time, thankfully, didn't have to sneak in; Greg simply told the PC to go. From the confused look he gave the DI, Mycroft decided that their friend had hardly, if ever, shown up on crime scenes as of late. And Mycroft couldn't help but admit that it was somehow comforting to see Lestrade call in Sherlock on a case once again –

Even if he seemed to think that Mycroft was the one who had started it all, and in a way, he was right. Sherlock certainly would never have had the idea to investigate his friend to begin with. They made their way to the roof from which Cairns had been shot.

"What exactly are we looking for?"Greg asked, standing at the place the sniper must have stood and squinting down at the door of Cairns' house.

"Good shot" he commented. "He killed him without harming you."

"Apparently Moriarty wanted us to live" Mycroft mumbled, looking over the roof himself, Sherlock on the other side, bouncing up and down, clearly enjoying himself.

Greg shot the younger Holmes a look and mumbled something to himself that sounded like "well, someone's eager all of a sudden", but Mycroft ignored this to answer his question.

"Something nobody else would have perceived as a clue, because it is either important or seems to belong here. Something like – "

"A discarded ad for an exhibition?" Sherlock's excited voice floated over to them, and they turned around to find him carefully take a piece of paper out of the corner.

Greg was quicker than Mycroft and took the ad out of Sherlock's hands before he could read it. Mycroft saw his brother's face darken and asked, and, what is it?"

"An ad for an exhibition..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Very helpful, Inspector. Now, please, which exhibition?"

Strangely enough, the way he demanded the information was almost conforming, because Mycroft had heard this tone from his brother many times. True, usually when he spoke to people like Anderson, but still...

His relief was short-lived when the DI snapped at his brother.

"Not everyone is a bloody genius, sunshine." He stared at the paper and squinted. So this version of Lestrade was obviously too proud to get glasses as well. He reminded himself to the Greg he remembered that he really should not be.

"A painting... Turner's Reichenbach Falls" Greg finally announced and Mycroft stiffened.

The Reichenbach Falls. Of all the paintings in all of London... This world certainly had a gift for irony.

Was fate trying to tell him something, as strange and ridiculous as the thought was? Sherlock was no consulting detective, he couldn't even really defend himself. What if he – what if he –

"My?" Sherlock was by his side in an instant, and he shook his head and waved him off.

"I'm fine." He ignored the hurt expression on Sherlock's face, and Lestrade tactfully looked the other way.

"So, what does this tell us?" he finally demanded. "I mean, not that I'm not thankful" he added, looking at Sherlock, obviously trying to be nicer (he must have seen his expression when Mycroft shook him of after all) "but what are we to do with this information?"

"Easy enough" Sherlock answered before Mycroft could, "Moriarty is going to steal the painting."

"Why?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Any reason, really. Maybe he just wants to see if he can".

"And he had his sniper leave this here so – "

"So that if someone, like us" Mycroft interrupted, indicating the group with his hand, "finds out, or has a suspicion, what's going on, can try and prevent it. He must be bored out of his wits without a worthy adversary".

"Well, he won't have that problem anymore" Sherlock said determinedly, and Mycroft thought the same.

His problem was that he didn't know which price they would have to pay for it.

Author's note: Shorter chapter because I had to write quickly.

I hope you liked it, though.