Throughout the text there are references to my previous story "Keeping my Promise" which I would recommend you read first.
The Diogenes Club in London has never been known for having a vibrant, bustling atmosphere. Instead it was a place prized for its tradition of complete silence which has been maintained since the club was first opened. Because of the rigid upholding of this tradition the early Monday morning patrons were rather surprised when a gun-shot shattered the peace and quiet, echoing through the enclosed space. Several of the men clutched at their chests and glanced round for the source of the noise.
It wasn't hard to work out where the shot had come from. You only had to look in the direction of the newcomer in the dove grey Westwood suit to work out the answer with the still smoking gun clutched in his right hand being a bit of a give away for even those who weren't gifted with the mental ability of Sherlock Holmes. The man grinned madly round at those present, making those who weren't checking their pulses flinch and suddenly find themselves fascinated in the furniture directly around them while the men charged with upholding the tradition of silence cowered against the wall trying to make themselves as small as possible. This was one noisemaker they didn't dare ask to leave.
The man however took notice of them and stood there examining the neat hole he'd made in the ceiling with a faintly bemused expression on his face. In his experience such outbursts of violence usually got him what he wanted. Surely they didn't care about their tradition of silence so much that they would die rather than break it? With a sigh the man turned from the hole and faced the patron, an old man with snowy white hair, nearest him.
Where is he?" demanded the man in a voice that weas dangerously soft and promised great pain to anyone who didn't provide an answer. "Where is Mycroft Holmes?"
The gentleman in the chair simply stared at him, his eyes widening with fear when the man in the suit levelled the gun at his chest. "In there." he whispered in a barely audible voice as he pointed at the same time towards a door cleverly disguised to look like it was a part of the wall.
The man in the suit lowered the gun and took a step forward. "Sorry." he said. "I didn't quite catch that."
The gentleman closed his eyes. "He's in there." He answered in a voice barely above a whisper, feeling only a little guilty for ratting out Mycroft.
The man gave a mocking bow. "Thank-you. That wasn't too hard was it?" He said as he walked towards the door, his feet hardly making a sound on the thick carpet. Just before he reached the door he glanced back over his shoulder. "By the way, feel free to call the police when you hear a gun-shot." He said, a smirk audible in his lilting voice. He didn't pause to savour the exclamations of shock or revel in the fact that he had managed what the sound of gun being fired hadn't; he had broken the silence of the exclusive Diogenes Club. The man entered the concealed door and allowed it to swing shut behind him, cutting him off from the white staring faces of the patrons.
The room beyond the door was plain with very little furniture but the person who usually frequented the room didn't mind, he rather enjoyed the simplicity and how it let him forget about the outside world for a while. The only sound in the room was the faint rustling of paper as Mycroft Holmes turned over another page of his newspaper, currently unaware of the danger he was in. He had heard the door open but assumed it was either his little brother or John Watson with some annoying problem they had stumbled across in their lastest case. The man cleared his throat and with an irritable sigh Mycroft land his paper to one side, folding it neatly, before looking up the room's other occupant. His eyes widened in suprise when he saw who was standing there.
"Moriarty." He said, inwardly cursing himself for being unable to keep the audible shake from his voice. "What are you doing here?"
Moriarty smirked. He could see that Mycroft was trying very hard not to look scared and licked his lips in anticipation. He was going to enjoy this. Slowly Moriarty advanced towards the armchair Mycroft was sitting in. "Long time no see Mycroft Holmes." He said, absentmindedly passing the gun from hand to hand.
Trying to remain calm Mycroft crossed his arms and tried to look as though situation like this happened to him every day. "I suppose I should have realised you would return at some point. After you you can't resist breaking a promise can you?" He said, remembering the original deal he had offered the consulting criminal that he would help him fake his death well enough to fool Sherlock in return for him leaving London and never returning. Of course Moriarty hadn't stayed away for long and had kidnapped John, almost killing him and Sherlock on the roof of Saint Bart's hospital. Apparently he had returned for another try.
Moriarty snorted loudly and began to pace around the room. "What promise? All you did was tell me to stay away from London. Its not exactly a binding contract is it?" He asked, his voice sly. It was true, Moriarty had given his word but in his experience such a thing was easily broken.
Taking a number of deep breaths Mycroft massaged his forehead with his fingertips. He could feel a headache coming on. "I suppose not." He paused and took a sip of tea from the cup beside him before continuing. "Let me guess...you have returned for another attempt at killing my brother and John Watson. Watch out Moriarty or you'll become predictable." He half exprected the self proclaimed consulting criminal to start gloating of his plan and was surprised when he threw back his head and laughed. "What's so funny?" He demanded, a confused frown on his face.
Moriarty stopped pacing and faced him, bending down so they were level. "Oh Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft!" He cried, throwing his arms around the eldest Holmes brother and giving him a hug. Mycroft stiffened, only relaxing when he pulled away. "I do believe your skills of observation and deduction are becoming stale with misuse, you really should use them more often." He shrugged, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Why must it always be Sherly I try to kill?" He asked, sounding a little hurt. He raised the gun and aimed it towards Mycroft's heart.
For the second time since Moriarty had entered the room Mycroft's eyes widened, though this time in fear rather than surprise. In the split second before Moriarty pulled a trigger he knew without a doubt that he was about to die.
"No hard feelings though right?" Moriarty asked with a laugh before he pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gun going off was deafening and echoed loudly in the tiny, bare room. The bullet when it struck Mycroft was like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath from his body and jerking him backward. He gasped when an intense, overpowering pain radiated out from his shoulder, causing black spots to dance in his vision. Already his shirt around the bullet hole was soaked with blood with more continuing to pulse with every second that passed. He already felt dizzy and knew the bullet had most likely nicked a major artery.
Moriarty didn't bother to stop and admire his handiwork due to the fact he had things he needed to be getting on with. From the other side of the concealed door he heard shocked cries and terrified shouts. A slight smile crept onto his face. It wouldn't be long before Lestrade and Sherly turned up to investigate. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. My,my what a mess they would find. Quickly, knowing he didn't have much time, Moriarty stuffed the gun in his pocket and reached into Mycroft's pocket for his phone, quickly tapping out a message. Then he put the phone back in Mycroft's pocket and walked away through the door and the waiting patrons who simply watched him go past, not daring to lift a hand to stop him. Behind him he left the prone form of Mycroft Holmes, blood pumping steadily from his wound and spraying the floor and walls around him. Moriarty's work here was done.