AN: This story is AU, so the characters may seem a bit OOC in parts. It's not beta-ed, but it is Brit-picked. In this AU, Mycroft is an only child, so there is no Sherlock to keep him tethered. Reviews are appreciated as well as criticisms.

Hierarchy is inescapable. It dictates natural and civilized society.

It works in a triangular structure from the bottom feeders to the ultimate leader. The bees have their queen. The wolves have their alpha. And the humans have their God. (Revelations 1:8- I am the Alpha and Omega.)

Even as a new age dawned and half of mankind saw fit to cut their stifling ties to their false deity they were still controlled- by prime ministers and presidents and popes. Because it is human nature to be lead. To follow and to listen and take orders. Because without structure society would crumble. And structure means there are those at the top and there are those at the bottom.

Humans are not born equally- it is a bitter truth- you have the wealthy and the impoverished and the gap between the two can deflate but it will never close.

Mycroft Holmes knows this better than anyone. He was born into wealth- he has never wanted for anything material in his life because his family is at the top of the hierarchy. It has been utterly fascinating for him to watch his parents and their struggle for power- with each other in their loveless, convenient marriage or with their work.

It was his years at home, inspecting his world through a microscope, which left Mycroft what he is today- a cold being fuelled by pride and power.

Eighteen years old and already consumed by the thought that without power he has nothing.

He is Head Boy of St. Bartholomew's Boarding School- it was an overly easy conquest, because Mycroft is clever and can manipulate as well as the devil can fiddle, but he sees it as good practice for when he's running this country. For now he is content with being the top of the social hierarchy of this school- his school.

Every now and then he sees fit to assert his power over his peers- just so they know he is still their leader- and Mycroft has never been one for public affirmations- much more suited to being behind the scenes, a puppet master holding the strings as it were- but he will display his feathers when he needs too.

At the start of his final year at Bart's, this is what Mycroft is thinking of, that it is time for another display. He already has the most desirable girl in school- all legs and no brain and when she touches Mycroft it makes his skin crawl but he tells himself it's her idiocy that turns him off- which was his big flourish last year. But it's time for something new.

What to do? What to do? Mycroft thinks mildly as he lounges in the courtyard one afternoon. As it happens, his answer strays across his path- looking lost and out of place.

A new boy.

"Who's that?" Mycroft asks the girl hanging from his arm and she shrugs.

He is a pretty kind of creature with dark, intelligent eyes and in other circumstances Mycroft thought they could get along but right then he was just another pawn in this boring little game.

Sixteen year old Jim Moriarty, Mycroft has other people discover on his behalf, is on the scholarship programme that Bart's runs so they might not look quite so elitist. So he's poor- that much is obvious to Mycroft without the information. One look tells Mycroft that much. His uniform has been passed down once—no, twice judging by how many times it has been re-sewn. He is healthy enough now, but years of malnourishment have left him a few inches shorter than he should be. Because Mycroft is clever and can deduce even if he can't be bothered sometimes. He doesn't suit wealth- he looks uncomfortable surrounded by it and he doesn't know how to be part of it. Like oil and water, he cannot mix.

No, Jim does not fit in and that makes him a perfect target.

The bullying starts of innocently enough- snide jokes when Jim is just in earshot and gentle trips in the hall. Mycroft is never the voice that taunts or the foot that trips but he is the one to give the demands. It's nothing personal- nothing ever is with Mycroft- it is just business.

But as these things do, it escalates until Jim Moriarty is a segregated completely from everyone else. In a particularly cruel twist, someone leaves collection boxes around the school halls for the 'Moriarty foundation' so that poor Jim might get enough money to buy a decent pair of shoes. It's abhorrent, and Mycroft doesn't find it funny but he lets it happen and encourages more because this power he has over the sycophantic masses is his nourishment.

He never expected Jim would fight back- he expected he would leave the school or tell a teacher and Mycroft would skillfully pin the blame on someone else- but one miserable February afternoon Jim approaches Mycroft and his swarm with fight in his eyes.

He doesn't look scared. That throws Mycroft off. He looks defiant.

Still, Mycroft casts a sardonic look over the boy and leans forwards, head cocked.

"Oh look," Mycroft pouts mockingly, "It's little Jim. How can I help you?"


Jim Moriarty was clever. He was too clever for his social status granted in life and he hated it. When Saint Bartholomew's Boarding School accepted him on a full scholarship, it was bittersweet. It proved that he was clever enough to take on anything, but he knew he wouldn't be accepted by the students.

And he was right. The torment started from day one. It started with the simple pauper jokes or the fake notes in his locker and slipped under the door of his room. Then it turned into more outward and physical mocking. Jim let it roll off his shoulders, never acting out or even giving more than a small reaction. He was better than that-above all of the mongrels that tortured him.

He knew who the ring leader of the bastards was, though-Mycroft Holmes. He was pompous and arrogant; impossibly rich and he knew it. More than that, he loved to flaunt it. But Jim could take anything Mycroft Holmes threw at him because he knew something about the arrogant prick that no one else did.

Jim was more than clever-he was brilliant. He had an eye for detail that no one could match or begin to rival and he could see right through the Holmes boy and see a truth that he himself probably didn't even know.

And then there were the charity boxes with his name on them. No. It was too much now. Mycroft Holmes was going to regret the day he ever decided to use Jim as a metaphorical punching bag. He marched right up to him-perfect, his friends were there. He knew he was going to get the piss kicked out of him for his insolence and he was glad. He was glad because he knew this would kill Mycroft inside and shatter his world. If only he knew then what it would cause.

Jim Moriarty stared defiantly into Mycroft's eyes and was un-phased by the domineering pose the boy, only two years his senior, took.

"It's little Jim. How can I help you?" Jim couldn't wait to wipe the sneer off his angled face.

"So when are you going to tell that dumb bimbo that hangs off your arm that you're gay?" His voice is confident and mocking. Silence meets him as a hush runs down the hallway. Good, because he wants everyone to hear. "Oh, you thought no one would notice? The way your pupils dilate when you see an attractive male student, but recede the moment they set eyes on her? Or how about the way you carry yourself with your shoulders just a little too back and your hips just a little too forward. Or the way you put product in your hair or keep your eyebrows manicured just so?" Jim snickered. "Don't look so shocked, Mycroft...unless..." he feigns guilt, "Oh, goodness me...you didn't know? Sorry to be the one to break it to you." And then Jim turned on his heel, starting to walk away, knowing he wouldn't get far.