Holmes attempted to approach the judge, but his unseen bonds held him in place. "Me…! Sir, Your Honour, I can't be…"

This was not right. He was no criminal! He had spent the majority of his life putting away dangerous men, men who violated the law and the lives of those around them. His entire life had been dedicated to bringing justice! How could he be on trial?

He had broken the law. He knew this and accepted this. All those times he had picked a lock, shimmed open a door, climbed through a window, lied, cheated, and done everything possible to obtain evidence. He had killed, but only ever in self defence and when the man had an execution order on his head.

Was this what this was all about? Was this his bending of the laws finally catching up with him? Was this his punishment?

Punishment…

Holmes gave a start. Was this his final punishment? Was this Hell?

In frustration he threw himself forward, only to be yanked back by chains that could not so much as be gazed upon. "Do you know who I am?!"

There was a roar of laughter from the gallery, and even snickering from the stony jury, and the judge had to bang his gavel several times, each one a clap of thunder, to restore order. "Mister Prosecutor, if you would be so kind…?"

"Good morning, Worm, Your Honour," came a voice greeting the judge from Sherlock's left, a confident baritone, unaffected by the chaos of the setting.

When he glanced over, he saw a sight for sore eyes. A very familiar face, and a very welcome one. So welcome, in fact, that he nearly wept for joy.

It was Mycroft. The portly man was clothed in a lawyer's robes, pressed and perfectly black, a cloak of blood red trailing down his back. His fleshy face was still, emotionless, and he did not so much as look his brother's way.

"Mycroft!" Holmes called out, attempting to go to him but again restrained.

The prosecutor slowly turned his head to look at the man, but instead of giving one of the rare, warm smiled he reserved for his brother, his lip merely curled into a disgusted sneer, and he turned his gaze back to the judge.

"Mycroft…" It was a feeble and desperate plea. His knees felt weak, and the detective nearly fell to the floor. It was as if someone had reached into his chest and taken hold of his heart. His brother… His beloved older brother, reliable Mycroft, his prosecutor… This simply could not be!

Not so much as a glimmer of anything resembling a reaction passed over the man's face, and yet he was so thoroughly his brother he could not imagine it would be an impostor. It was not only his appearance; he held himself the same, that intelligence beneath the waters of his eyes was the same…

And yet he did not help him.

"State your case, Mr. Prosecutor," ordered the shadow judge with another hammer of gravel on wood, leaning forward, yellow, aging hands folding as if for grace before a meal.

Mycroft drew himself up to his full, impressive height, his hands coming to be behind his back as he strolled the length of the courtroom in his leisurely way, addressing the jury in the measured tones of a lawyer. "The Crown will plainly show the prisoner who now stands before you was caught red-handed showing feelings." The last word was spat out with as much hate as the large man could muster, and his eyes, narrowing and as cold as ice, were once again on his forlorn brother as if he loathed the very presence of him.

Holmes backed away from him as far as his confinement would allow. This was his crime? How could that be? He did not have feelings, not true ones. There were those faked emotions that allowed him to become character after character, but they could not begrudge him those! Those were needed!

He was a heartless brain; this was one of the few crimes he could be unjustly charged with.

Is that really true? A small voice in his head, that angel (or was it the devil?) on his shoulder, was prodding at him. You wept. You wept for your lost friendship and for your lost life. You felt something you have denied for so long…

"No…!" he called out aloud. "I don't feel…! I don't…"

"Showing feelings," the prosecutor continued, glaring at him for silence as if he were a child who was not respecting his elders."Of an almost… human nature." He gave a guffaw, turning to the jury with a cruel smirk twisted upon his wide face. "Well! This will not do!"

"I don't feel!" Holmes cried out, throwing himself upon the floor, burying his face in his hands. He did not have emotions, especially not now. He had characters; he had faked little quirks, but emotions… The last time he had felt anything it had been regret as he hurtled over that cold cliff.

But what would one call that display before he had sent that blissful drug coursing through his veins? That horrible, gut-wrenching experience of utter loathing of himself, of loneliness, of longing…

"Your Honour… Worm…" That was what Mycroft had called him, was it not? It seemed appropriate, considering the twitching mass of insects that made up his wig. "Surely there has been some mistake… I am a heartless brain! Barely human!"

The judge's face could not be seen, but Holmes could imagine he was wearing a smirk similar to the prosecutor's. "There are no mistakes in my court, Mr. Holmes." He turned to one of the faceless creatures, one in a uniform. "Bailiff! Call the schoolmaster!"

A thin man with a highly domed forehead came forward from the very stones of the wall, his eyes fixed on the shivering detective from the very beginning. They had once been green, but now they were dead with the length of his stay in the grave. Mould tarnished his brown scholar's suit, which was dripping wet and torn in many places. His fingernails were yellowed and stained. When he smiled, his teeth were the same. He was far younger than he had been on the day of his death.

"The Crown presents Professor Moriaty," boomed Mycroft, folding his hands calmly behind his back.

Holmes was now sure he was in Hell.