"I will only speak to Mycroft Holmes."
Jim sat on the hard chair in the middle of the room, hands bound behind his back.
He was stubborn; stern; resolute. He would say nothing beyond those seven words.
There was nothing that anyone could do that would convince him to share any of his methods; his contacts; his secrets.
Many had tried.
Secret service; military men; hard men, well-trained with many years experience, but nobody had succeeded in getting the 'consulting criminal' to tell them anything.
"I will only speak to Mycroft Holmes."
There were threats, beatings and deprivation.
There were bloody noses, black eyes and broken ribs.
There was even a punctured lung and a concussion before Mycroft had pulled the men out.
Still nothing.
"I will only speak to Mycroft Holmes."
Mycroft Holmes stared through the one-way glass and sighed. He was running out of options. He chewed apprehensively on his bottom lip. There had only ever been one other person who made him feel this way: this heightened level of anxiety and disquiet; a feeling of helplessness.
He had hoped it wouldn't come to this: to what he would have to do next.
"Sir?" Anthea stepped into the room, deliberately keeping her gaze away from the window. "Sir, your brother is here."
"Thank you, Anthea."
Mycroft took a long breath and forced himself back to his usual composure, giving his umbrella an experimental flick with his wrist.
"Please inform my brother that I shall be with him in five minutes."