Author's note: On with the plot. And I can promise more Moriarty.
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As it turned out, Sherlock may have all the patience in the world when it came to his experiments; concerning cases, however, he was not that different from Mycroft's real brother after all. He couldn't sit still, he barely ate, and Mycroft was certain that he hadn't slept the night before.
Not that he had got any sleep either. He hadn't even bothered to go to bed, in fact.
There was too much to think about.
He and Sherlock would have to defeat Moriarty on their own. It was clear that Greg wouldn't help them – that he thought them insane, Mycroft for explaining that he came from a parallel universe and Sherlock for believing him – and, even though he was only one man, and no genius like them or Moriarty, Mycroft would have felt much better with him still at their side.
Sherlock hadn't seemed to take Greg's leaving quite as seriously; in fact, Mycroft was prepared to swear that he had secretly been relieved not to have to put up with him any longer. Mycroft had not mentioned this; he didn't want to see the guilty look in Sherlock's eyes, especially when he once again had nothing to feel guilty about.
They had had to take a cab back to My – their mansion, Lestrade long gone.
Sherlock had been the one to break the silence.
"You think Moriarty has someone in the Gallery".
"Yes" Mycroft answered. "It's the way he usually... arranges things like these".
"You mean like the Pentonville Prison or the Tower of London?" Sherlock hadn't forgotten a word of his story, apparently, and Mycroft told himself that he definitely should be happier about this fact. Instead, he was – as strange as it sounded – angry at Moriarty for forcing him to tell this Sherlock, this innocent, trusting Sherlock the truth. Apparently he would never be able to escape his past, not even in a parallel universe where this past had been altered.
However, looking at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and a Moriarty very much alive –
He was startled by the thought that now, for the first time in months, years, the feeling of guilt over his decisions, the one he had always felt while telling himself he didn't, was slowly draining out of him.
He was starting to believe that Moriarty's defeat was a fair price to pay – he had a feeling that even Sherlock, his Sherlock, would see it this way.
In the end, he simply nodded, and Sherlock continued, "Shouldn't we check out all of the Gallery's personal, then? To make sure?"
Mycroft had explained, as patiently as he could, that checking the employees of the Gallery would be useless; Moriarty wouldn't pay them in any detectable way, and they certainly wouldn't admit that they were in any way linked to a criminal mastermind.
Sherlock had fallen silent after that, and Mycroft hadn't tried to make him talk. He had felt instinctively that this Sherlock would want to gather his thoughts before speaking; and he had been right.
Sherlock hadn't spoken again until they had arrived at the house.
He had looked at Mycroft with a worried look, then he had said, "At least we are in this together".
Mycroft hadn't known how to answer.
He had tried to tell Sherlock what to expect, but the younger Holmes had refused to listen, probably because he still refused to believe that his best friend was a killer; or more likely because he was still worried that Mycroft would drive to the lab without him and disappear.
He hadn't let him out of his sight since they arrived at the house, except when they had both retired to bed, or rather pretended to do so, and since Sherlock obviously hadn't slept, he had most likely spent the night listening to every noise in the house. Mycroft couldn't blame him.
He had told him he wouldn't disappear; but he wasn't his brother, the brother he trusted. And after everything he'd told him, he couldn't expect that same level of trust.
He had left his Sherlock behind; he had, albeit unintentionally, helped Moriarty; he hadn't "made up" (as this Sherlock would undoubtedly call it) with him afterwards.
He had simply lived his life, even after Sherlock had made known to him that he was alive, never apologized, continued to thrust cases at him; and furthermore, would still do so if the machine hadn't malfunctioned. If he hadn't seen what could have been.
It was ironic, really, that a Moriarty in a parallel world had managed to do what the Moriarty in his world had never been able to: convince him to take manners in his own hands.
Still, the waiting was rather tedious, especially since Sherlock had taken his violin downstairs in the morning and obviously discovered that one could make screeching noises on the instrument; Mycroft idly wondered what his counterpart would say, if – when they returned to their proper places. He was used to the noise Sherlock loved to make in his presence. He didn't think the other Mycroft was.
Somewhere between one screeching concert and the next, he announced, "I said I'm not leaving and I won't. You should know that my word is worth something."
Sherlock glared at him with a ferocity he hadn't seen in this version of his brother until now.
"Do I?" he spat, and Mycroft knew what he was talking about and swallowed.
Sherlock, of course, tried to apologize immediately (when had it come to this, that he used the words "Sherlock" "apologize" and "of course" in the same sentence?), but Mycroft waved him of. Petty feuds would simply minimize their chance of catching Moriarty.
After another twenty minutes of torturing his violin Sherlock admitted quietly, "I don't know if – I don't know if he'll come back. You might be the only brother I've left".
Suddenly, there was a lump in Mycroft's throat, proving again that Moriarty hadn't really known him all that well when he'd called him "The Ice Man".
"I can't stay here" he answered, almost petulantly, and Sherlock sighed.
"I know. Your brother needs you; asking you to stay here would just be selfish".
Mycroft doubted his real brother would agree with the statement, but said nothing.
After what seemed to be a long time – certainly longer than a day – they got ready and left for the exhibition. This time, a limousine was waiting for them; Sherlock had texted Anthea to tell her that he was taking his brother to the exhibition so that she wouldn't worry (apparently in this world she had the right to) and made her send a car which they decided to send away as soon as they arrived at the Gallery.
The driver seemed relieved to find Mycroft well, and he found himself politely answering the man's questions.
He really had to get home soon, he realized. He was changing, becoming the Mycroft people expected him to be, rather than the Mycroft he was. He couldn't allow that.
Despite having seen the exhibition before with Lestrade, Mycroft had to admit that it was interesting; there were several corridors, all of which led to Turner's masterpiece. He could see why Moriarty had decided to steal it. Looking at it, he could almost hear the tones of water rushing into the abyss, feel the drops on his skin, imagine the wild and dangerous beauty of the place...
Sherlock laid a hand on his arm and he shook himself out of his admiration.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Is it..."
Sherlock shook his head and made a head movement to the right.
Mycroft looked in the indicated direction and saw Greg Lestrade, standing in a corner, surveying the room.
Their eyes met and the DI nodded, somewhat annoyed and made his way over to them.
"Just making sure" he said before Mycroft had even had the chance to open his mouth. "This doesn't mean I believe. But it's my job to protect the city."
Sherlock mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh, you remembered?" but thankfully Greg ignored it. He gave another court nod and disappeared into the crowd.
Sherlock concentrated on the painting again, frowning.
"How do you think – "
At this moment, the lights went out. Mycroft should have known; cutting the power was the easiest way to ensure the alarm wouldn't ring out. Thank God he had decided to take a small flashlight with him just in case.
As was to be expected, a slight panic broke out, until Greg spoke loudly enough for all to hear him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please, stay calm. My name is DI Greg Lestrade; I work for Scotland Yard. I'm sure the power will come back any moment".
Mycroft was thankful when the commotion stopped. A panic would have been highly inconvenient.
He managed to grab Sherlock's elbow and hissed, "The painting".
He felt Sherlock nod and took out the small flashlight. They immediately went to the place where the painting hung –
Had hung.
It was empty.
The painting was gone.
Mycroft wasn't prone to cursing, but he almost did when the distant sound of a door closing reached his eyes. He knew Sherlock had heard it too, and the younger Holmes didn't need any prompting.
They turned around and started pushing people out of the way, only guided by the weak beam of the flashlight, trying to get close to the place the noise had come from.
Soon enough, they found a door marked "staff only" and entered without hesitation.
It was then that someone gave Mycroft a punch in the stomach. He dropped his flashlight and staggered back as he heard someone snarl, "This is for the night in prison."
Sebastian Moran, just as he had predicted. That he'd been right didn't give him any comfort, however, when he heard Sherlock struggle next to him, the muffled sounds he made indicating that he had already been gagged.
He wanted to take a swing at Moran – or the place he thought Moran most likely to be, anyhow – but he suddenly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and everything went black.
When he woke up, the world was spinning around him and he could feel blood trickling down his head. Whoever had knocked him out must have used all his strength.
He was in a dark room; the only source of light was a small lamp standing on a table. Mycroft was sitting on a chair in front of the table, bound and gagged. Another empty chair was standing on the other side of the table.
Despite still feeling dizzy, he turned his head around, ignoring the pain, and looked for Sherlock.
He was in a corner, also bound and gagged to a chair, and he had been knocked out too, judging by the wound on the side of his head; he was awake, however, and looking at Mycroft with worry and fear in his eyes. It was a look he had never seen, nor was likely to see, on his Sherlock's face, and Mycroft wished he could talk, to reassure him that everything –
"Look who's awake!" A voice sang out in the darkness the light of the lamp, and Mycroft forced himself not to tense. He would always recognize this voice.
Jim Moriarty strolled into the light, smiling, clad in a Westwood suit.
"So, Big Brother" he said, freeing Mycroft of the gag, "time to talk".
"What about?" he asked calmly, and Moriarty smirked.
"Now, that's not a very good beginning for a conversation, is it? Especially since you are hardly in a position to make demands".
Mycroft was silent because Moriarty was right. The consulting criminal sat down opposite him and continued, "I have to admit, this has been fun. I've never had someone properly investigating me before. And playing the good guy got old after a while."
His eyes twinkled mischievously and Mycroft uncharacteristically wished his hands were free so he could strangle the man.
"Now, that's not polite, wishing your host dead, is it?" Moriarty said, shaking a finger at Mycroft. Then he grew serious, or as serious as he had ever seen Jim Moriarty.
"Anyway, here is what I want. Tell me about the Choice Portal".
Mycroft hadn't expected that, and his surprise showed on his face despite his efforts. Moriarty laughed.
"I have people everywhere – among the security personal in the Gallery too. You really should have kept your voice down when you told your Inspector friend about how you came from a parallel universe".
Mycroft clamped his mouth shut, and Jim added, "At first, I thought it ridiculous – I figured you'd gone insane because of the shock. But then I thought – the real Mycroft would never have suspected me. He trusted me. I was his little brother's best friend, after all. And I could see how you looked at me, that evening when I came because Sherlock was worried about you. Without any reason."
Mycroft was silent. "Oh, come on!" Moriarty whined. "At least tell me something about me in this universe. I'm soooo curious".
"You're dead to begin with" Mycroft hissed and regretted it in the next moment when he saw a new light in Moriarty's eyes.
The consulting criminal clapped his hands. "That's what I wanted to hear!"
He looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, who were both trying to hide their confusion. He sighed.
"Come on, you are supposed to be intelligent! Think about it!"
Mycroft suddenly suspected what he was going to say next and a shiver ran down his spine. Moriarty grinned.
"Ah, the penny dropped, mmh? Yes, Big Brother – I figure I've done all I can do in this universe. Time to wreak havoc in the next".
Author's note: It's been a while since the last cliffhanger, hasn't it? I would say I'm sorry, but let's face it – you all probably know I just love cliffhangers.
I hope you liked it, please tell me what you think.