The Dragon
PenPatronus
Chapter 3 of 10
Two Spiders
Mycroft Holmes entered his office at 5am and started brewing tea. The water hadn't even warmed up yet when a voice suddenly asked, "Do you love your brother?"
Mycroft glanced at the glass face on the clock above his head. He squinted until a man-shaped silhouette appeared in the reflection. "Yes," he answered. His shoulders refused to obey when he ordered them to relax. "Yes, I do."
The reflection shut the door and then sat down in a chair by the window. "I envy that. I grew up alone. No siblings, just a father who beat me when his football team lost, a mother who lived in a fog of alcohol and sleeping pills, and a neighborhood of boring, ordinary bullies."
Mycroft calmly poured two cups of tea as he listened.
"If I'd had a brother – someone on the same intellectual level to distract me from the dark thoughts – maybe I'd be more like you and Sherlock. More angel than devil."
"I'm no angel." Mycroft mentally slapped his own wrist and reminded himself not to engage.
"My childhood was so boring. You two played chess, played detective. I spent my time hiding from bullies and drowning anthills."
Mycroft carried the tea over and sat down across from the intruder.
"That's what I'm doing now," said James Moriarty. "London is just an anthill. And I'm pissing on it."
The elder Holmes forced himself to make eye contact with the man who wanted to murder his brother. Moriarty was dressed in a crisp, tailored gray suit. His skin had aged in three years but, bizarrely, his eyes looked younger. They were sparkling, excited, wide. Mycroft's eyes flitted over every detail: the red mud on Moriarty's black shoes, the nearly undetectable scent of sulfur, and the pea-sized brown briar stuck to the inside of his pants. "Would you like a scone?" he asked. "I have blueberry and cranberry but I'd be happy to send for some lemon."
"That's what I like most about you Holmes boys. Your manners." Moriarty's smile was more unnerving than anything else. "I already got what I wanted. Such a merry Christmas, wasn't it?"
Mycroft covered his frown by sipping his tea.
Moriarty sighed contentedly. "I spent so much time trying to discredit him, turn his friends against him, make him look like a fraud, a kidnapper. I tried so hard to turn him into a criminal and then – voila! – he did it to himself." Moriarty pointed his forefinger at his temple and mimed a pointblank gunshot. Mycroft's stomach churned but his face remained expressionless. Moriarty shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, a smile pointed at the ceiling like he was basking in a warm noon sun. "Sherlock's like me, now. More devil than angel. More Moriarty than Holmes. More my brother than yours. I'm so proud of him."
The tea in Mycroft's stomach threatened to exit his mouth. He fought the nausea, fought the rage. "So… no scone?"
"No, thank you. Just your brother's head, please." The corners of Moriarty's lips spread out like a bird stretching its wings.
"My brother is a fugitive wanted for murder. The whole country wants his head."
The criminal mastermind pouted his lips like a wounded child. "I wanted him first."
"You got what you wanted. Like you said, he's a criminal now."
"That was the first thing on my Christmas list, yes. The second thing I want is his life. It'd be pointless to have one but not the other – like buying a child a remote-control car but no batteries to run it."
"That's why you're here?" Mycroft wondered aloud. "You expect me to tell you where he is?"
Moriarty suddenly clapped his hands together. In the dim light of the small office it was as loud as thunder. "I'm here to make a deal." Moriarty set his cup down and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's quite simple: give me Sherlock. Every day that you don't give me Sherlock another bomb will go off somewhere in London. I'll even give you my address." Moriarty slammed his foot to the floor and a half dozen flakes of dried mud slid off his shoe. He pointed and said, "Ta da."
"No," Mycroft whispered.
Moriarty shrugged. "Counter offer: give me John Watson and I'll only set off a bomb every other day. Sherlock will want to be dead if John is."
"No."
"You're going to lose your brother no matter what. If I don't kill him, your government will. If they give him the option of exile again you'll still be separated and I will still find and kill him." Moriarty stood. He rotated his shoulders and buttoned his suit coat using one hand. The man looked like he'd just enjoyed a massage. "You need to get in the game, Mycroft. I used to be on the sidelines, like you. Behind the scenes. I sat in my web and pulled the strings. You have as many strings as I do and every single one of yours is now a noose around Sherlock's neck." Moriarty walked behind Mycroft and whispered in his ear. "No matter which way you pull those strings they will hang him. And if you don't give me what I want then London will join him on the gallows."
Just before Moriarty politely shut the door behind him he said, "I'll see you soon."
To Be Continued