Author's note: Thank you for all the reviews .

I don't own anything.

„But I tell you, the Hickmann Gallery is one of the safest art galleries in London... Plus additionally security had been organized, especially for the Turner painting – how is he going to pull it off?"

Greg was following Mycroft and Sherlock down the stairs, trying to prove to them how illogical their theory was, and the elder Holmes supposed it was indeed difficult to imagine for someone who had never met Moriarty or worked with Sherlock Holmes. By the time Moriarty had surfaced in his world, the DI had known Sherlock for five years and hadn't doubted a word he'd said. Here, he was still learning to trust them, and it looked like he was more inclined to believe Mycroft than Sherlock, which made a distorted kind of sense, since he, he reminded himself, was "the freak" here.

"Moriarty always finds ways" he answered. "He has people everywhere".

"Everywhere? You mean he – infiltrates everything? Museums? I don't know – The Bank of England? The Tower of London? The Pentonville prison? Are you telling me he could open the doors of all of them?"

Mycroft wished Greg hadn't used these examples, but simply nodded.

"Great. Why were you friends with him again?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft could see Sherlock bite his lip and turn around to glare at Greg. Not good. Definitely a bit very not good.

"I was twelve. He was twelve. I wanted a friend; he searched for someone to manipulate. And just for the record, Mycroft was nineteen and could hardly be expected to realize that the boy his brother played with was a psychopath".

Mycroft had stopped walking down the stairs and looked up at Greg and Sherlock, who were standing several steps above him. He saw Greg's eyes widen at Sherlock's ferocity and realized he had been foolish to believe that Sherlock would simply get over his best friend being a psychopath within two days, or that he wouldn't blame himself for never having suspected anything in the first place anymore.

He hadn't told Greg much, except that they had been friends, but he was a good police officer, and Mycroft could see that he was quickly putting the right picture together in his mind, because suddenly, he didn't look at Sherlock with suspicion anymore; instead, he could read understanding and pity in his eyes.

For some reason, Mycroft felt this to be worse. Even when his brother had been "the freak" to everyone except him and Mrs. Hudson and the DI, Greg had never looked upon Sherlock with pity.

Annoyance, yes.

Exasperation, yes.

Fondness (while trying not to show it), yes.

Pity, never.

And the fact that Sherlock seemed not only to accept, but prefer the pity to having to prove himself to Lestrade was disconcerting in his own right.

If there was one thing he had never wanted to see, it was pity directed towards him.

Mycroft pushed the thoughts aside when he saw the other two recommence their descent and did likewise. When they reached the street, he said, "We should go to the Gallery though, to have a look at the security arrangements. I'm sure a scary Inspector of Scotland Yard will be able to persuade them to let us in".

"The exhibition opens tomorrow" Lestrade mumbled while searching for his phone that had started to ring a moment ago, "So I must just be able to "persuade" them, as you put it".

He found his phone and answered. "Hello? Donavan?" He walked a few metres away from Mycroft and Sherlock to talk in private – something the DI he knew would never have done – and he certainly felt his younger brother's hand on his arm.

"You don't need to be concerned, you know".

He looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know what you mean".

Sherlock huffed annoyed.

"Yes you do. I'm not made of glass, Mycroft. I had a more sheltered life than your Sherlock, I'll admit that. I might never have taken drugs or solved crimes or lived with an ex-army doctor or faced a consulting criminal, or spent three years alone..." his voice trailed off as he imagined what this would be like, but then he shook his head and continued.

"I am not a good shot; well, I never really learned to shoot, to be honest; I don't know how to defend myself properly; but I am far from stupid, and I am a fast learner, so stop worrying about "corrupting" me, or whatever you might think".

Mycroft gazed into his eyes, finding nothing but honesty and realizing that he might have been the usual overprotective brother after all when it wasn't necessary. This Sherlock may not be used to a life of crime fighting, but he was still Sherlock – and therefore more than ready to take on anyone who threatened his life or the lives of those he cared about, which in this world might be a longer list than in Mycroft's reality. He was a scientist, he had several PhDs, he might have – through his work – influence with his colleagues; he was certainly well known for his work, at least for the non-classified one. He was still brave, albeit more cautious (which might not be a bad thing). He would perhaps get scared more easily and rely more on Mycroft than his Sherlock did; but he could hardly blame him for this, after he had spent years wishing his Sherlock could possess exactly this qualities.

And while he still preferred his brother to this one – he couldn't lie to himself, not about something like this, not when he felt that he was the wrong Mycroft for this Sherlock – he couldn't deny that the scientist could make a rather valuable ally.

Sherlock nodded, proving that he could indeed read his brother's thoughts quite well (which wasn't surprising since he had sent a lot of time with him). "See?"

Mycroft smiled, Sherlock smirked the self-satisfied smirk he knew so well; they were interrupted by Lestrade, who came back loudly complaining that of course the crime lab had found not even the smallest shred of evidence.

Mycroft and Sherlock said nothing, and soon enough, they were driving to the Gallery in Greg's car.

When they arrived, however, Greg started to frantically search his pockets.

"My id – I knew I had it with me when I left my hotel room this morning..."

Sherlock watch him calmly for a few moments before pulling it out of his own pocket.

"Is that the id you're searching for?"

Greg glared at him. "Next time you find it, hand it to me directly".

"I will" Sherlock promised, apparently sincere.

Greg grabbed his id and turned around to open the door. Mycroft whispered as they followed him, "Did you really "find it" after he dropped it?"

Sherlock smiled mischievously and answered, also in a whisper, "He was annoying. Pick pocketing him calmed me".

Mycroft suppressed a grin and they followed the DI, who had by this time convinced the security team that he and his "colleagues" needed to take a look around.

They had to admit, after an hour in the Gallery, that the painting was as safe as it could be; there were three guards in the immediate vicinity of the Reichenbach Falls alone, and an alarm would ring out the moment anyone came closer than one metre top Turner's masterpiece. Mycroft wasn't to be pacified this easy, though. Moriarty must have a man in the Gallery; someone who was no doubt paid a great sum, someone who would help Moran – they were talking about a priceless piece of art here, he could only sent Moran – to get in and steal in.

It wasn't a question of "if" but "when".

Although the "when" wasn't that hard to guess. Moriarty loved to be dramatic, and he would no doubt want to steal the painting at the moment where everyone's eyes were on it.

In other words, on the opening night.

Just as he was about to share his conviction with the others, Sherlock's phone rang. He looked at the caller id and frowned.

"It's Percy" he informed Mycroft before taking the call.

Greg looked at Mycroft quizzically and he absently answered his unspoken question.

"A friend and colleague of Sherlock's".

Several possibilities as to what this call could mean flittered through his mind; had Trevelyan found out something that would help get him home? Or had he – had he given up on repairing the portal? If so, Mycroft firmly told himself, Sherlock was more than capable of repairing it himself. He would not be denied his return by an overanxious scientist with a fascination for strange theories.

The conversation lasted for about a minute, and Sherlock was mostly speaking short phrases, so Mycroft couldn't tell what they were talking about.

"Yes", "I see", "Understood", "Really?", "Alright".

He hung up and looked at his elder brother, a curious mixture of emotions plainly visible on his face. Mycroft couldn't read him.

"Percy thinks he's fixed the machine" Sherlock informed him, curtly, and Mycroft's eyes widened. His gaze travelled from Sherlock to the pictures in the gallery and rested on the painting of the Reichenbach Falls as he understood within second all this could mean for him.

A minute ago, he had thought he might be stuck here for a long time, if not for good.

And now, he might have a way out. He could get into the portal and out of this strange world, back to the universe he knew –

No. He couldn't leave this Sherlock with a DI who didn't trust him and a brother who didn't know what was going on while Moriarty was at large. He had to see it through to the end; for once, he had to be the one to make things happen, instead of watching them from a distance.

When he looked back at Sherlock, his brother's face only showed one emotion: worry. He didn't want him to leave yet, either. He wanted to see Jim brought to justice first.

The decision was easy.

He hadn't been able to help his brother. He had allowed his brother to lose three years of his life. It was too late to change any of this.

He could, however, change this Sherlock's life for the better.

"Don't worry", he said softly, "I'm not leaving".

"Why should you be leaving?"

They both turned to look at Lestrade, having forgotten that the Inspector was even there.

When none of them answered, he repeated, "Why should you be leaving? You can't just show up, tell me all about a criminal mastermind loose in London and disappear again".

Mycroft would have liked to remind him that they had agreed not to talk about Moriarty where they could be potential witnesses – they seemed to be alone on the floor for the moment, but still – but the DI's face told him it wouldn't be a good idea. It also told him that he wouldn't back down until he had had an answer.

He finally replied "I had been planning to go home – "

"Home? You live in London. And why would your brother look like he'll never see you again once you leave?"

The DI had always been good at reading people, and Sherlock's emotions had been anything but well-hidden. Not that Mycroft felt he had done a better job at concealing what he was feeling. The stay in this universe, with this Sherlock, was starting to affect him in ways he couldn't have predicted.

Mycroft tried to answer in a way that would satisfy Greg, without telling him the truth. "We have a house in the country; there is no need to – "

"Then what does Sherlock's colleague repairing a machine have to do with it?"

He really shouldn't have told the DI that Trevelyan was a scientist. He wished he could deny that the machine had anything to do with it at all, but this was highly unlikely considering his and Sherlock's reaction to the news.

It was also equally implausible that a colleague of Sherlock's should repair a car or plane or bicycle.

Mycroft sighed and shot Sherlock a defeated look, to indicate that they had to tell Greg the truth. Sherlock looked crestfallen, but nodded. Greg's gaze wandered from him to Mycroft and he raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I know how this is going to sound, Greg, but please don't interrupt me until I am finished."

The DI nodded and Mycroft began.

He made his explanation as short as possible, and at the end Greg's mouth fell open. Then he took a deep breath.

"So, just to be sure – you are going back to a parallel universe as soon as Moriarty is safely behind bars".

"Yes" Mycroft answered.

Greg laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. "Of course". He rubbed a hand over his face. "I actually believed in a criminal mastermind controlling the city. Good God, I should probably be taken to the mental institution you will undoubtedly end up in soon as well".

"Greg – " Sherlock tried, but the DI waved a hand. "Come on! Do you really expect me to believe all this?"

Mycroft realized that he didn't, that he couldn't. That was why he hadn't told Greg in the first place.

"How do you even know the machine didn't just overwrite your memories? I'm sure your genius over there could explain to you that this is possible".

It was a theory – in fact, the theory that he was "delusional" was exactly what Greg was talking about – but Mycroft refused to believe it. He knew the truth. He felt the truth. And he didn't belong here.

The DI shook his head again. "Forget it. Let's just forget about all of this. I've just wasted time I would have wasted anyway – the lab didn't find anything, and we are nowhere near catching Carey or Cairns' killer. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes". He looked at Sherlock and added condescendingly, "Doctor Holmes" before turning around and leaving.

Mycroft saw Sherlock's eye flash with anger and grabbed his arm, shaking his head. They stared at one another in silence for a moment.

Then, Sherlock asked, "What now?"

"We go to the opening" Mycroft replied. "Moriarty will try to steal the painting then, I'm sure of it."

Sherlock nodded and they left the building under the curious stares of several security guards, who had no doubt seen Greg leave.

Author's note: The drama. It does have a purpose, however. And stuff is happening.

I hope you liked it, please review.