A Universe of Possibilities - Teenlock/Johnlock/Mystrade

Chapter 11- The Roof

10:25 pm

Mycroft had been on the roof for nearly an hour. The rain he had anticipated earlier that evening was pouring down by now, forming a thick white sheet that reduced his visibility by half. The boy was drenched and freezing, but still he held his closed umbrella tightly in front of him where he stood.

He's keeping me waiting on purpose, Mycroft concluded, as he finished counting the leaves on the nearest tree for the dozenth time. Each time he started again the number of leaves decreased, as the storm's fierce winds shook them to the muddy ground. This kept the activity just interesting enough to keep his mind from obsessing over Moriarty's whereabouts, panicking about whether Sherlock was alright or not, or recalling the memory of Greg's lips firm and warm against his own...

Swearing, Mycroft began counting the leaves again, this time in Russian. Just passing the time.

His legs shook from standing, but he didn't sit for the same reason he didn't open his umbrella to shield himself from the storm: He was going to die tonight anyway, and he deserved every ounce of pain and misery he experienced up until that point.

Suddenly, there was a creak and Mycroft snapped to attention. The door to the roof opened slowly, and from the darkened stairwell emerged the slim form of Jim Moriarty.

"Well hello," said Moriarty, his tone disturbingly cheerful and his shark grin as wide as ever. "Thought I might find you up here." His attitude was smug. He had already won this round, and he knew it. Everything that happened after this was just tedious transition to the next level.

Mycroft didn't respond, his teeth clenched as they had been for the past hour while he tensed up against the cold. But he didn't realize how tense his entire body had been until he tried to move towards his foe, and his locked leg muscles prevented him, sending him tumbling to his hands and knees at Moriarty's feet instead.

Moriarty let out a loud, manic cackle. "Oh, how appropriate." he jeered. "The great and clever Mycroft Holmes, literally brought to his knees."

Shaking from both pain and rage, Mycroft stood up to face his adversary.

"So how are you tonight Mycroft?" Jim asked casually. "Feeling a bit stressed out, I assume. Maybe a tiny bit angry as well? Did you like the little murder scene I set up for you in your brother's room?"

"Very amusing, yes." Mycroft growled.

"Oh, I thought it would be!" Moriarty responded happily. "Of course, I knew it would only fool you for a few seconds, but it was worth the effort all the same. I just wish I could've seen the look on your stupid face!" He giggled, gleeful at the thought.

Mycroft took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. The palms of his hands were scraped and bleeding, he was freezing and soaked to the bone, and he knew that his chances of surviving the night were slim. But he refused to go down without a fight. He slipped his hand inside his soaked-through suit jacket, closing his fingers around his gun.

"Oh, Mycroft," said Moriarty, his jovial tone dropping and sounding suddenly like he was speaking to a very naughty child. "You do know what will happen if you so much as point that gun of yours at me, don't you? You know how we'll punish you."

Mycroft did not even hesitate. A sudden wave of defiance rose up inside him as he pulled out his weapon and pointed it directly at his enemy's face. No. This wasn't the end. It couldn't be. Mycroft Holmes did not lose.

"You're not going to kill him," said Mycroft, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. He was terrified. "Not only would you lose leverage over me, but you still need Sherlock. This isn't the end of your little plan, I know it isn't." Of course, Mycroft had always known. Moriarty wanted Mycroft out of the way specifically so he could continue whatever plan he had laid out, so using Sherlock's life as manipulation didn't make any sense.