Rated T for violence and language.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.


"It was a clean break, sir."

"I shouldn't have sent him in there. He is inexperienced."

"What do you want to do with Moriarty, sir?"

"Send for Jones. He has done good work for me before."

"Jones was transferred, sir."

"Williams, tell Jones I am personally requesting him. He will come."

"Yes, sir."


Moriarty looked as though he was dozing in the dark. This was false; in fact, he was plotting. There were several moves Mycroft could make at this point, but he was fairly certain he knew which one would be made. First they would lower the temperature of the room, then they would start to turn the lights on and off suddenly and apparently randomly to mess with his system. Finally, they would likely send someone in soon.

Mycroft was brilliant; Moriarty was certain of it, which was why he had been looking forward to this game. He, like everyone else on the planet, was predictable, however, and that made it more interesting. Even Moriarty recognized he himself was just as predictable as everyone else, but he left many less witnesses to view his patterns.

Because of this predictability, Moriarty had ranged down the moves that were likely to come next. Would Mycroft show force or maneuverability? Would a bishop or a knight be his next move?

Regardless, Moriarty realized he didn't have much time. While these thoughts were roaming his head, he had another pressing matter to deal with. He had not broken the pawn's arm just to break the pawn's arm. It had been a calculated move: one that had been successful. When re-cuffing Moriarty to the chair and handling their injured companion, the other pawns had overlooked one fact; the key that was used to unlock Moriarty's cuffs had fallen into his lap when he broke the guard's arm.

When Mycroft Holmes' next move became clear, regardless of who it was, they would see it when they entered the room, unless he got it under his leg without attracting attention to himself.

He worked in slow increments, twisting his legs and pushing himself up with his hands as he readjusted during his "nap."

The lights snapped on, and he"'woke" with a start, sliding the key the last little bit under his leg as two pawns entered the room. They lifted the table that was in front of Moriarty and dragged it out of the room.

"James Moriarty," the man stalked into the room, "we meet at last. I have to say, I thought you only existed in rumor."

Mycroft had sent in the bishop. This was good. It told Moriarty that Mycroft was not certain of the information he was searching for. Moriarty had laid a paper trail that said he had something, but the other end was only to be found by pure dumb luck. Moriarty liked those odds.

"Jones, yes? I heard you switched departments. Miss being here?" Moriarty asked.

"I have specialties that are useful in situations like this." Jones replied.

"Beating up people? A regular hero, you are. How's the family? Your kids doing fine? I believe your eldest just had her first child?"

Jones rolled up his sleeves. "My family doesn't concern us. What concerns us is information critical to national security."

Moriarty sighed, as if in exasperation. "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. Go tell Mycroft I will only talk to him, and then go call your family and tell them you will be home for supper. This will be beneficial to both of us. I get to keep my face pretty, and you don't end up with blood on your trousers. It's a win-win," Moriarty smiled, "and I don't give that option often."

Jones' fist smashed in to the side of Moriarty's head. "I will take your deal and make a realistic one. You tell me what I want to know," Jones mimicked Moriarty's speech cadence, "and you get to keep your face much prettier than it will be otherwise."

Moriarty turned his face back to Jones. "Do yourself a favor- don't do impersonations."

Again, Jones' fist smashed into his face, followed by one in the stomach.

Moriarty stared into the camera. "Not going to do your own dirty work, Mycroft? All I want to do is chat." His musical voice came in at the end. The only reply was Jones fist. Moriarty stared into Jones' eyes. All there was left to do was wait for his check.

Oh, and outlast the other… inconvenience.

Hit.

Again,

And again,

And again.

A monotonous, tedious pattern that was dull enough to bore Moriarty.

After a particularly nice right hook, Jones paused, "All you need to do is answer our questions, then the pain will stop."

Moriarty turned and spat blood out of his mouth. "Pain? What pain? I must have dozed off there for a second; you were saying?"

A knock came on the door. Check.

"Tell Mycroft, if he wants to know what I have, and if it might possibly remain in my possession, he needs to give me three pieces of information. First, I want the name of his younger brother. Second, I want his brother's self-proclaimed job description, and third, I want the title of his web page."

To Jones, this request was confusing. A quick search would tell one all three pieces of information, all on the same page, even.

The door opened. "Jones, we have news."

Moriarty watched as Jones left the room. Hopefully someone was watching the camera and would repeat his requests to Mycroft. Jones would be in no state to do so.

Jones rushed back into the room, and fist met jaw with a loud crack; A sound barely discernible over the wail of pain roaring from Jones, "You son of a bitch, you killed them. You killed all of them. My family! How could you do this? I will kill you. I will make you wish you were dead. You hear me?"

Other pawns were restraining the bishop. "Do you hear me?"

"I told you to call your family and go home for supper," Moriarty replied, "I had this feeling you would want to. You chose not to do it. From the moment you entered this building, their lives were in your hands. You killed them."

"NO! Let me…" Jones was in the hallway by now, "Kill him! Let me.." The door swung shut and the sound from behind the thick door was muffled, but discernible, "kill him! Moriarty, I swear I will kill you!"

"Hmph," Moriarty grinned, "take a number and get in line." He turned to face a camera. "You have the ability to stop this pain, Mycroft, but, then again, what do you care? You and I both know it's not an advantage. Unless, of course, you do care for something, in which case, your decision to not talk to me makes sense. I guess I won't know until we chat. I told you what I would tell you, if you affirm information you know I already know."

The lights flickered off, and still Moriarty smiled. The game was continuing precisely to plan.


A/N:I love hating Moriarty. He's such a fun character to write. Thanks to my unofficial beta, CaringIsNotAnAdvantage, who helpfully edited this chapter.

Finally, if you feel so inclined, feel free to Read and Review.