It was no good. No good at all. Moriarty taken and kept in the torture chambers of Mycroft's service for more than a week now served to nothing as the prisoner seemed to have no intention to speak. Various methods of cracking the hard nut have been used for now but nothing really worked as it should be. Moriarty only laughed soundlessly or laid immovable on the floor unable to react on the verge of passing out but unbroken nevertheless. At any attempt of negotiation James just stared at the ceiling smiling vaguely, his black oil eyes gleaming with feverish glow of insanity.

Today after being beaten up for good Moriarty opened his split mouth only to say one phrase in a distant low voice.

- Bring Mycroft, - a repressed laughter. – Bring Mycroft.

When informed Mycroft made a wry face. He had no intention to get his hands dirty. He had a team of strong guys for this purpose. But the time was running out and Mycroft was not the type eager to go on for ages with no actual result. So he lifted his glass with the remaining of amber whisky in it staring at the light captured inside for a second to down it the next moment and then rising from his very comfortable armchair. The call of duty could not be ignored.

The sound of his steps echoed in the grey corridor. His luxurious leather brogues were so out of place bumping against this cement floor. He made a light gesture entering the room with a tight gridded window and everybody inside left it immediately without asking questions.

Moriarty was sitting on a chair with his back turned to the door but he did not need to see Mycroft opening the door to understand he was here and that he was here to do something to him. At this thought a dreamy smile passed across his lips and he tilted his head back making it go a half circle stretching his neck.

Mycroft put the bag he brought on the table next to the chair and took some slow steps towards Moriarty placing himself in front of him to see him better.

Two days of deprivation of sleep with flashing light passing constantly across his ward made his face even spikier. His jaw outlined with shadows and dark circles under his ever-gleaming eyes. His hair was a mess, his dry lips cracked, his delicious collarbones pushing out so invitingly Mycroft could hardly avoid staring at them. The morning they got Moriarty he had been out of bed for just a while still wearing his tshirt and blue silk pajama pants and no shoes. Days after he was still had the same clothes on, dirty and ripped for now. His hair was a mad mess and his scruff made his thin face look even more drawn. He was clearly exhausted but still handsome and reluctant to quit his bad habit of smirking in Mycroft's face. His hands were handcuffed behind his back and Mycroft felt a traitorous stirring in his stomach at the thought of unchaining him and bringing him to his mansion only to keep him away from the people's eye, to have all of him without anyone but Mycroft being allowed to touch him.

He really hated this type of guys, these self-satisfied pretty boys he tried to pick up at clubs at his earlier days. And that was why he was reluctant to come here: it was not only a political issue, it had become a personal one a long time ago and Mycroft did not like the effect Moriarty produced on him. And that was why he had brought necessary equipment today to make him speak and put an end to it. He cast a quick glance at his bag feeling a little worried as he knew there was a risk that he could not contain himself and push the boundaries to much even for such a lad as Moriarty.

Mycroft lazily took his gloves out of his pocket and put them on readjusting and stretching the fingers inside with pleasure. He lifted Moriarty's chin turning his face from one to another and back to study better the interrogation marks. Yellow and blue bruises, occasional scratches and broken skin. And these lips… Mycroft saw himself biting them hastily while pressing Moriarty against the wall. Control, stay in control.

The clicking of the handcuffs closing around the braces mounted to the table and the sight of Moriarty with his arms spread against the cold metal furniture, motionless, staring at Mycroft with… what? curiosity? made Mycroft sigh almost regretfully. Stupid, how very stupid of James. He leaned in to control the grip finding himself to stay too close to Moriarty who followed his movements with his eyes, his shoulder shifting a bit rubbing against Mycroft's shoulder.

- No way to go. – Mycroft's lips almost brushed Moriarty's ear.

He took a step back to look at his interrogatee in his ripped clothes only to get himself spending a little too much time studying his traces, his calling for action mouth, his tender neck. Mycroft's glance was sliding down Moriarty's body, down his tshirt, down, down…

- Last chance to talk. – Mycroft stood tall and extremely cool in front of Moriarty who suddenly threw his head back laughing frantically.

A hot wave of rage sprang in Mycroft's chest and his hands gripped the plastic bag he'd brought with a precise, expert movement only to pull it down that insolent face. Mycroft body crushed against Moriarty's body making him fall on the table and squeezing him against the hard surface, squeezing him harder making him agonize against the table as the air could not reach his lungs and his feet parted with the floor. Mycroft felt the quiver of Moriarty's body, that sleek, smooth body, under his chest and legs, its useless attempt to free itself. The quiver sending waves of arousal long Mycroft's stomach reaching his cock rubbing against his enemy in the desperate fight, making him hard and hot. The horrendous whistling sound – the mouth trying to gulp in the oxygen remaining inside the plastic bag, two black spots at the place of Moriarty's eyes, the plastic bag going up and down, clinging to his face, making his brain send emergency signals all over his helpless limbs.

There was no chance to stop that erection, growing fast and prominent against Moriarty's thigh, against his own erection caused by the lack of oxygen, gliding up and down rubbing against as his movements were getting slower, the plastic bag getting still as a mask upon his contorted face. The lack of oxygen, yes, Mycroft remembered himself, the autoerotic asphyxiation, the hangman's hard-on. Was it worth killing Moriarty only to make him hard?

The answer was pretty obvious however and Mycroft reluctantly shifted himself stepping back watching Moriarty laying immovable and breathless on the table. A sudden pang of panic pricked Mycroft's heart. He could not lose another prisoner during interrogation, not again, not now. Mycroft was breathing heavily through his nose trying to regain his control and make his aching erection down. The sight of Moriarty's body in the yellowish light of the hanging lamp with the plastic bag over his head, the bag with drops of perspiration on the inside stirred him. Mycroft gazed hungrily at his dirty rode up tshirt exposing his concave stomach and pointing hip bones with the stretched pajama pants under them outlining his prominent cock bulging under the thin posh fabric. Suddenly Mycroft found out it took him a special effort to swallow.

He took the bag off Moriarty's head with his shaky hand. He could see no signs of breath going in and out of Moriarty, his head rolled to the side, eyes closed. Please, Mycroft thought, not again! One time was enough for him.

He kicked tentatively Moriarty's leg with his custom-made shoe. No reaction followed. He kicked again, harder. The same. He then reached out and grabbed Moriarty's knee shaking it slightly. He felt disgusted with himself for the instant filthy images rising in front of his eyes as his palm lingered on the body in question. His mansion, dimmed light of his enormous bedroom, their bodies tangled pushing hard against each other, ecstatic breath, a number of scenarios Mycroft carefully pictured and addressed from time to time for his amusement.

The moment he was getting desperate, Moriarty moved slightly his lips in an attempt to say something but no noise came out. Mycroft could not hear and leaned in closer resting his palms upon the table for balance.

- What?

Moriarty repeated but no use, Mycroft still could not understand what he was saying.

So he leaned in even closer, with his ear almost pressed against Moriarty's mouth, his weak breath caressing Mycroft's skin.

Moriarty's broken lips parted again.

- Take me… Take me now… I know you want to…

Mycroft sprang back shaking staring in shock at Moriarty's face.

Moriarty's lids raised a little only to close again, light being too hard to bear yet. His hips thrust in the air invitingly, Mycroft sweating heavily at the sight, his cock standing upright in his very formal trousers. He wished he could free Moriarty right now, bring him out of the building, put him in his car, drove him to his house, hide him there, forever, so that no one ever knew where he was and he would be with Mycroft all that time. He bent over him, enchanted at his own daydreaming, almost ready to kiss that dry lips. Moriarty made a move to meet him halfway making Mycroft's heart race. This was it. Finally. The moment of truth. Longing, lust, lure flooding Mycroft's brain switching it off for a moment.

- You can do whatever you like with me…

Moriarty's breath on his lips, the almost taste of his mouth, Mycroft had to prop himself on his hand to stand still arching over Moriarty's body, rubbing against his. He took the last long glance at his object of desire preparing to surrender when he heard Moriarty's lulling voice again.

- ... But i still will tell you nothing...

A smirk.

Mycroft's body reacted before his brain even could awaken from the extreme arousal.

He smashed his fist across Moriarty's face with all the force he had, his palm going hot and aching inside the glove. Another hard kick, another one, one more. Breaking his grin, his unbearable grin.

- Oh, like that, babe, yes, just like that! Keep going!

And Mycroft did.

Leaving the room he could not help looking for the last at Moriarty still lying across the table, drops of blood all over his face, swollen and purple, his neck, his chest, his tshirt. Such an evil satisfaction to think the bastard could not be called handsome any longer.

Mycroft took off his gloves glossy with blood and threw them in the bag tossing it all in the corner. He wiped out the sweat from his forehead with his monogram handkerchief taking it angrily with two fingers out of his pocket. His shoulders and hands ached.

- Come back soon! – the voice sang full with maniac laughter bursting through the words.

Mycroft did not reply.