Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.
Authors Note: This chapter was really difficult to write in the end (Chapter 2, you are my nemesis!), but I am eventually happy with it. Enjoy!
Security
Mycroft sighed, resting his chin on his fingers. Sherlock’s mannerism, he thought subconsciously. It was funny what could be picked up. He had found himself copying more and more of Sherlock’s mannerisms. Greg once complained that he couldn’t cope with Sherlock seemingly haunting him from the grave through Mycroft. Mycroft had spent the night in his office.
Mycroft slightly turned his head when he heard the slight noise of someone entering his office.
“Yes, Anthea?” Was it even Anthea today? Maybe it was Georgina. Or Caroline.
“I’m afraid that Anthea is unavoidably detained.” A sing-song voice sounded, cutting through the silence. Mycroft stiffened. He slowly raised his head, and found himself seeing into the dark eyes of James Moriarty. Moriarty’s face lit up.
“Surprised?” There was a hint of dark amusement in his voice, his eyes dancing.
“How did you get in here?” Mycroft questioned, his voice hoarse.
“Now now, that’d be telling.” Moriarty walked his way round the desk, until he was standing right behind Mycroft. “And I never share secrets. You know that.” Moriarty breathed into Mycroft’s ear, sending shivers down Mycroft’s spine.
Mycroft stood up sharply. “You died. You shot yourself in the head and you died, Jim. How can you just walk in here like nothing’s changed?” He was face to face with Moriarty, nose to nose. Kissing distance. Mycroft mentally shook his head. He’s not your lover anymore. He lost that right when he blew his brains out.
Moriarty’s lips quirked upwards, like he could read Mycroft’s mind. Just like he could before. He could always read him like an open book.
“How did you survive?” A quirk of the lips. A pause, the silence was deafening.
“Do you honestly think I would shoot myself? For anyone? For Sherlock?” A giggle. “Oh, you’re jealous. How sweet.” His voice climbed higher.
“You didn’t answer my question. How did you survive?” A sudden anger gripped hold of Mycroft, taking a step towards the man.
“It was an empty gun. I wore a wig, underneath was a blood bag. Triggered at a certain frequency. The frequency triggered by the unloaded gun. Too simple, yet no-one knew. No-one guessed!” An insane chuckle, bouncing around the room. No-one had bother to check Moriarty’s body. Richard Brook’s body. The only people who would have bothered to properly check his body were preoccupied with another. John, too calm, too pale. Mycroft, dealing with grieving parents. Lestrade, wrapped in his guilt. No wonder Moriarty’s deception slipped through their fingers. The world was too busy being shocked at the suicide of the world’s only Consulting Dective. “The Fall of a Genius.” That was how the newspapers had portrayed it. No cover of the other body of the dangerous game Moriarty and Sherlock had played.
“What do you want?” Mycroft asked, tired of Moriarty’s games. Moriarty smirked.
“Are you that bored of me so soon Mycroft? I thought I might be refreshing after that nice DI.” Moriarty’s smile turned sinister, a flick of the switch.
Mycroft suppressed a shudder, stopped an outburst at Moriarty’s scorn of Greg.
“What do you want?” Mycroft repeated, stepping away from Moriarty. Moriarty gave a small shrug of his shoulders.
“I want your brother to disappear.” His voice was bland, showing no emotion. Mycroft stopped, not daring to breathe.
“Pardon?” Mycroft breathed. Moriarty’s sinister smile was back, etched into his face.
“You didn’t know?” He sounded positively gleeful. “Your brother is alive.”
Mycroft slowly shook his head. “You’re lying.”
A short burst of laughter erupted, Moriarty shaking his head. Back, forth, back, forth. A ghost of a breath on his lips, a sliver of sound.
A pause. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Moriarty slowly licked his lips, tasting sweet anticipation. Mycroft followed the journey, a shiver shocking through him. He knew exactly how sweet those lips tasted.
Sherlock. Sherlock falling. John’s screams echoing in his ears. Blood on the pavement, spreading, oozing. He had watched the CCTV, rewatched, again, again. He heard John’s screams in his sleep, echoed by his own, Greg trying to calm him. Sherlock, his eyes glassy, his pale, pale skin. Too pale. Their parents, it was too much for his mother seeing the body, she had fallen to the floor, silent sobs shaking her, her hand in Sherlock’s. Their father couldn’t look at the body, just at Mycroft, sorrow etched in his eyes.
Had that all been for nothing?
Moriarty’s eyes were dancing, a predator, something lurking. Cold, calculating. “I want your brother to run away. He’s been causing me some headaches. I want him dealt with.”Moriarty sneered.
“How?” Mycroft whispered. Moriarty looked confused.
“Pardon? Could you speak up? I didn’t quite hear you there.” Moriarty put his hand behind his ear, leaning slightly closer.
“How did he survive?” A croaked, a shadow of his voice.
“Oh, that was what you said. I don’t know. Ask him yourself.” He shrugged, his face impassive. “All I know is that he is causing me some problems. But you see, I can’t do much without bringing the spotlight back onto myself. And as much as I like the star of the show, my empire, my business, runs in the shadows. And as much as I love these games, these dances that Sherlock and I have, trying to destroy him for a third time, however lucky it may be, it will not be beneficial for me.” Moriarty drew closer, just a few breaths away, his hand resting on Mycroft’s chest. He stroked his hand down, Mycroft drew in a shaky breath.
“I wouldn’t know where to find him. I wouldn’t know where to look.” Moriarty shook his head.
“No, no, no, wrong answer.” He leaned in ever closer. “I think you can find him if you really try.” Moriarty breathed the last words, his lips ghosting over Mycroft’s ear.
Sherlock’s alive. My brother is alive. Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t fall. He didn’t jump. He’s still alive.
“He’s in London.” It wasn’t a question. Moriarty leered, shark-like.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” Mycroft frowned.
“I thought you wanted me to help you. And you’re playing the same games that you played with Sherlock. The same games that sent him to his apparent death.” Moriarty smirked.
“Games? These aren’t games. This is business.” Moriarty’s voice had taken on a dangerous tone, his dark eyes flashing.
Sherlock left. Sherlock didn’t leave just me, he left his family. He left John. If he truly cared, he wouldn’t have left. Not without someone knowing.
“I’ll find him.” There was certainty, a hollow, dead tone to Mycroft’s voice. Moriarty backed off, gentle, insane laughter.
“Good boy.” The gentle whisper was flung back into the room, dragging the silence with it.
