— i. sentiment.

Nausea lingered in his stomach like a lump of raw dough as his sweaty hands clasped onto the plastic armrests of his office chair. His gaze drifted out of the window, thoroughly inspecting the boisterous waves surrounding the lonely island.

He hated that place. On that day, he had even more reasons to hate being there.

And as the small clock on his desk displayed 11am, Mycroft arose from the chair that felt like a fakir's board full of rusty nails. With a straight posture, he towered over his workspace, tired eyes shutting out everything on that desk except for a pair of black leather gloves—it was foolish to go into battle without armor.

A battle against the one that got away.

Her eyes were deadly bullets, as blue as his own but adorned with creamy chocolate melting around her pupils. Cheekiness was sprinkled across her face in the form of mere freckles, freckles that were long gone the last time Mycroft saw her.

He had a few seconds to slip the gloves over his hands before Anthea appeared in front of the glass door. Slowly, the brunette opened it halfway and peaked her head through the gap she just created.

"The helicopter just landed. Your guest is ready now," she said, waiting for instructions.

Mycroft just nodded while Anthea's head turned to the hallway, the corners of her mouth quickly twitching upwards—a signal. A staccato beat of high heels vaguely echoed off of the dark stone floor, creeping nearer and nearer. Five-inch heels, Mycroft deduced, waiting in anticipation.

The moment her figure appeared behind the glass facade, he gasped lightly, resulting in him holding his breath. She looked different, provokingly different. Dark earth had turned into honey, dripping down her slim shoulders in soft, thin curls. The lack of brown roots indicated that she only recently died her hair.

After she stepped into the office, Anthea closed the door and left again, leaving her boss alone with one of his worst nightmares.

"Hello," Mycroft said as confident as possible. He hesitated before reaching his hand out to her.

Starting at his wrist, her fingers gently glided over the dark leather. For a mere moment, she stopped at his fingertips, then finally returned his gesture and slowly shook his hand. "Are you cold?"

Mycroft clenched his jaw in tension, ignoring her question. Her round eyes glistened curiously as they scanned his face.

"Enlighten me, my dear," she smiled.

"Excuse me?"

"You're asking yourself why I dyed my hair. Tell me, why?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to tell her. "You don't want to look like her—no, us."

"13.21 seconds. You used to be more impressive than that."

"Kha—"

"I see that you are dumbfounded, let's continue this conversation another time. I'm here for this." She just couldn't let him say her name. Hearing him say it would tear her carefully crafted facade down and she would break into tears in mere seconds. Out of the pocket of her camel-colored pants, the woman grabbed her sleek phone and held it straight into his face.

Anonymous

Help me.

Mycroft looked rather confused as he looked at the message. "How do you know it was her?"

"Sherlock can't stand the sight of my face, he wouldn't ask me for help even if his life depended on it. And you would call," she figured, shifting her weight from one nude high heel to the other.

"She is locked in a high-security facility without any contact to society, why would you think she just texts you out of nowhere? It could have been anyone."

Blankly she stared at him, trying to read his mind. "But I'm alone."

"The women in our family were always more sinister, I don't want to imagine what the two of you could do together," he quickly changed the subject.

"Then why do you let me talk to her?"

The gears in his head were turning rapidly. "Because not letting you would break you."

Her eyes were fixated on his. She was smaller than him but still, she slightly tilted her head down, and it made her look perilous. "Sentiment?"

"I haven't seen you for more than six years, a little sentiment won't damage our reputation."

"I'll take it back," she smiled. "You're still impressive, brother mine."

A/N

Quite short, but it works as a kind of prologue. I've reworked parts of the story quite a bit. The main plot will still revolve around Jim Moriarty, but the subplot stays hidden in the shadows for now. I want it to be a mystery that my beloved readers can solve along the way ;) I really wonder how quickly you will get it, or if anyone ever gets it.

I really hope you'll still like the story, even after some changes!

And for new readers: This story will dive into the mind of Jim Moriarty and will try to explain why he killed himself on that fateful day with Sherlock Holmes. So be warned, depression and suicide will be a constant theme.