There was a moment in his life when he had considered holding the world to ransom. Not because he wanted money or power or recognition. Just because he was bored with everyone.
He'd looked out of the window of his Cambridge College Digs, looked at the leafy trees and the quad and then back down at his essay. It wasn't his best work. But it would get a first anyway. Even his worst was better than everyone else's best.
He'd looked at the picture on the desk, smiling at him from a frozen moment in time. He'd reached out his fingers to stroke the face hoping for warm flesh and felt nothing but cold glass. Laughter had filtered in from the quad as people went about their boring, pointless little lives, with their boring pointless, dull little brains. Oblivious to the heartbroken individual seated at his desk a few feet from them.
Oblivious to the fact he could make them all feel how he did. He could make everyone numb. Make everyone feel that overpowering coldness that reached from the tips of your fingers to the deepest recesses of your heart.
He'd put down his pen and pushed back his chair. In that moment he had made up his mind. He was going to burn the heart out of everyone in the world.
The evening sunshine, which danced on the heads of everyone else like a benediction from the heavens never touched him. It never made him feel warm and comfortable. It only ever made his fair skin itchy and red. He'd turned the corner, the idea now forming perfectly and fully in his head.
He'd been halfway to London, enjoying the deserted peace of first class when a large man in a perfectly tailored suit had sat down opposite him. The man, with his carefully groomed hair and silver-blue eyes smiled broadly, almost predatorily, before reaching into his inside pocket and bringing out a leather covered notebook.
"It would be a great pity to ruin what I am sure will be a long and illustrious career before it begins Mr. Holmes." The man had the clipped vowels of an aristocrat, but there was an undercurrent of danger about him.
"Who are you?"
"You tell me. Who do you think I am?"
"Secret service. No. Considerably more important. Closer contact with high ranking members of government., royalty. You don't do leg work. Until today. That suit is tailored by Lucifer's of Jermyn Street, you can tell by the sleeve buttons. But it's older. You thought you might be getting dirty. You thought I might be trouble. You've come prepared. Normally you have someone to do this for you. It's very flattering you think I'm worth the effort. That gold ring is for show. You're not married. But in your position it is advantageous for people to believe you are. The name you are about to give me is the one you are known by. But it isn't your real name. You don't work for the government. You are the government."
"Splendid. They did tell me you were quite exceptional." The big man licked his lips, looking as though he was contemplating a dessert menu.
"I could do it you know?"
"Hold the world to ransom? Yes I'm quite sure you could. Which is why we are having this little chat. Someone with your obvious talents is far less of a danger to us inside the tent, as it were. I can help you."
"No one can help."
"Andrew's death wasn't your fault. But I can put you in a position where you can find out whose fault it is. And take whatever revenge you see fit."
"You seem to be labouring under the impression I have feelings. I don't. I'm numb. Frozen."
"You can use that. Sadly in this line of work, caring is not an advantage. All lives end, all hearts are broken. But not all can be revenged."
"What about my family? What do I tell them?"
"Nothing. The first rule is you do not talk about what you do. In fact we don't talk about anything. As far as everyone is concerned you are civil servant. A Whitehall Desk Jockey, I believe the phrase is these days. But one day. Well one day you will run the world. Yes or no?"
"Yes." The answer was simple.
"My name is Joshua Reynolds. Welcome to the Diogenes Club, Mycroft."