Chapter Four: Brotherly Advice

Sherlock didn't make eye contact with the man who answered the door. Half butler, half body guard, yet another one of Mycroft's faceless minions, thought Sherlock, as he shouldered past without a backward glance.

He found his brother in his study, past the formal reception room at the front of the ground floor, and before the dining room, kitchen and small conservatory that were at the back of the house. It was a masculine room, with a dark wood desk, leather seating, walls lined with bookcases. Only a single table lamp on the desk softened the comforting gloom.

There were two brandy glasses half full sitting on the small table between the two chairs on either side of the fireplace. Mycroft was dressed in old fashioned tailored cotton pyjamas, with a heavy silk dressing gown and leather slippers. Trust Mycroft to look like he's wearing a three piece suit even in bed. The older man did not bother to get up, but stayed staring into the fire, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Do sit down, Sherlock, ….if you can."

The younger man did not answer, but stared down at his left hand which seemed to have a life of its own, half way through a violin fingering practice drill.

Mycroft sighed, and stood up. Crossing to where Sherlock stood, he took both of his brother's wrists into his own hands and applied strong pressure, trying to get Sherlock to make eye contact with him.

"What has happened to get you so worked up?"

Moments passed. The tight pressure made his fingers stop their dancing, but Sherlock wouldn't look at his brother. Then he broke Mycroft's hold on him, and flopped down into the other chair, picking up the brandy glass. As his brother took his own seat, slouching back and extending his slippered feet toward the warmth of the fire, Sherlock asked, "What do you know about James Moriarty?"

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Oh dear, please don't tell me that he's the one behind all these horrid little puzzles that you've been working on with Lestrade."

" 'Fraid so, brother dear," replied Sherlock, his sarcasm evident from the emphasis placed on the last word.

"First tell me everything that has happened between you and Moriarty, and then I will tell you what I can." Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin and closed his eyes.

So, Sherlock began with the tale of the cabbie serial killer who confessed that Sherlock had a "fan" setting him up as the fifth "suicide victim". Before dying from John's bullet, the driver had confessed the name of the person responsible for adding Sherlock to the list of his victims. "Moriarty!" was literally squeezed out of the dying man, against his will.

"I wondered as much, which is why I showed up at the crime scene, despite your hostile reception, if you recall." Mycroft's words were calm, almost soothing.

"Then why in hell didn't you say so at the time?!" Sherlock made no effort to restrain his anger.

"You weren't exactly in a talkative mood then. I seem to remember you telling me in no uncertain terms to leave you alone." He shrugged. "Of course, it was early days for you and Doctor Watson, so I thought it advisable to leave you two to… ah… bond."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to control his temper. If only I had known more, I would have been better prepared for tonight. The detective had not recognised Moriarty's name when he first heard it, but despite his best research efforts amongst his underworld contacts in the first few weeks, he had not been able to get much more than a vague idea of the shadowy figure behind that name in the months that followed. Then, the Black Lotus gang demanded a lot of his attention, and quite a few cases, both private and from New Scotland Yard, kept him occupied. So he let his Moriarty research lapse for a while. The Baker Street bombing and the five pips were his first real chance to get to grips with what lay behind the name. How much easier it would have been if his brother had been honest with him from the start.

Sherlock leaned forward toward Mycroft, his tension evident in the way he glared at his brother. As if he could feel the heat in that look, the British Government opened one eye carefully. "Calm yourself, brother. You will know why, all in good time. Do I gather from this visit that he has made himself known to you now? Why else would the bomb squad be called to an obscure private swimming pool in south London at such an ungodly hour of the night?"

Sherlock smirked. "Sorry to get you out of bed, Mycroft. And, yes, I decided to force a meeting by tempting him with what you were trying to get me to find for you- the missile defence plans."

His brother's reply was waspish: "If you had been more willing to play when I first asked, I might have told you that the whole Bruce Partington thing was a set up. The supposed loss of the plans by the MoD man was originally an attempt to entice Moriarty out of the shadows long enough for us to…how does Lestrade describe it? …'feel his collar'? But it went wrong, and our man bungled it, got killed by his fiancé's brother. So, Moriarty actually showed up tonight himself? If so, then oddly enough, your intervention tonight actually managed to do the trick. I presume you doctored the data?"

When Sherlock nodded, Mycroft continued with more annoyance creeping into his tone. "Pity you didn't bother to tell us about your idea; we could have captured him. Instead, your amateurish efforts resulted in you risking everything- and he still got away." Mycroft eyed Sherlock with reproof. "When will you learn that if you want to play with the professionals, then you need to do so on my terms?"

The two men glared at each other over their brandies. Mycroft broke first. He sniffed. "What did you learn from the meeting?"

"He calls himself a 'Consulting Criminal', a 'Jim'll fix it' for villains who don't have the brains to figure their way out a paper bag. He doesn't get his hands dirty, and boasts that no one will ever get to him. I did tonight. He complimented me about that, said I had come the closest." He did not bother to hide his smugness.

"Don't underestimate him, Sherlock. He is way above your league of common criminal."

Sherlock huffed, his pride stung by Mycroft's comment. "Not so common, and yet I have managed to 'get in his way', as he called it."

Mycroft held up his brandy glass to admire its amber colour against the light of the fire. He sipped and savoured the taste before swallowing. Sherlock waited, but found his leg starting to jiggle with impatience. Then his fingers began to tap against the side of his brandy glass.

Mycroft glared at the offending appendage. "All right, just keep calm." He continued, "I can see by your suit jacket that you went armed. Why didn't you use it?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from his brother and stared into the fire. "Because he had wrapped John Watson in a suicide bomber's jacket, that's why."

"Oh, my...hmm," was the older man's only reply.

"You seem to have lost your usual eloquence, brother. Spit it out." Sherlock glared at him again.

"Well, this is troublesome. Risking your own life is something of a regular occurrence with you. Putting innocent people at risk is also something that has not bothered you much in the past, as Lestrade and his team have discovered to their own misfortune on occasion. But, this… risking John. That bothers you, doesn't it?"

Sherlock decided that offence was the best diversionary tactic. "So, just who the hell is he? What am I dealing with here, Mycroft? I could do with the truth before it's too late."

Mycroft sighed. "James Moriarty is the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen. That's probably not his real name, by the way; he has dozens of different aliases. I don't suppose you managed to get a photo of him, did you? Our images on file are badly out of date, and very few people have ever met the man. What we can trace of his early life is interesting. An excellent education, at 21 he published a treatise on Fibonacci numbers under the name of Moriarty that was highly praised across European academia. On the strength of that he became a senior lecturer in applied mathematics at Durham University for a term, but resigned claiming that he had never been so bored in his life." At this point, Mycroft broke off and looked pointedly at his brother. "Sounds like someone else I know who doesn't like boredom."

Sherlock huffed. "Just get to the point, Mycroft."

"Look at me and listen very carefully, little brother. I am not exaggerating. Stay away from Moriarty. He is simply far too devious, too well connected and out of reach for any one person, let alone you to tackle successfully. There are 32 countries in the world whose law enforcement and security services are at work trying to stop him. They've been at it for… years, so far with little effect."

Mycroft took another sip of his brandy before continuing. "You have no idea of the scale of his operation or the length of his reach. He has a finger in every pie there is- drugs, people trafficking, money laundering, art theft, illegal arms, counterfeiting, terrorism, smuggling, financial fraud. There is no crime that he has been unwilling to turn his attention toward, not even assassination, if it is interesting and challenging enough. No one is safe; if he wants to bring pressure to bear, even the most upright, law abiding folk in the world …bend, in the end. So, despite knowing that a criminal link is there, he proves impossible to convict; the evidence that links him to any crime just seems to vanish into thin air. It is said that he has people in high office all around the world who 'owe' him something. He uses blackmail to collect these people as his insurance policy.

"He never deals directly with criminals, only works through his own people, most of whom have never met him, a convenient cut-out between him and the crime syndicates who use his services. He's phenomenally bright, but totally devoid of human feeling. Psychopath is a kind definition." Mycroft paused, before summarising, "I have become convinced that James Moriarty is the brain behind half that is evil in this world."

Sherlock sniffed. "You sound like a card-carrying member of a teenage fan club, Mycroft. He didn't seem that formidable in the flesh."

"Don't make me repeat myself, Sherlock. Appearances can be deceiving. He is too dangerous and, as of now, officially off limits for you. If my warning isn't enough incentive, then just consider that you aren't the only one at risk here."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me any of this earlier? Maybe if your tremendous ego could have just stood it, you might have found sharing the truth could have helped us both out."

Mycroft winced. His brother's use of the F word was the surest sign yet that he was thoroughly rattled by his encounter with the consulting criminal. The only possible incentive he could provide to Sherlock to stop him from running straight back into battle was the risk it posed to John. They both knew it, but he wondered if it would be enough to deter his brother from his usual full blooded tilt towards self-destruction.

"I don't suppose you could do something really useful for once in your life, Mycroft? Use those dark powers of yours to convince John to do a spell in 'protective custody' or disappear into a witness protection scheme for a while?"

"And do you really think John would go willingly? You seem to have a lower opinion of him than my experience of Doctor Watson warrants. Your ex-army captain won't put any distance between himself and danger, you know that, Sherlock. Especially if he thinks you are likely to go haring off after a man like Moriarty. He will want to stay and make sure you don't do something rash. And if he doesn't understand that at first, I will ensure that he does."

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Don't you dare!" He had suddenly deduced the likelihood that Mycroft would now try to use John. "He's mine! Keep your grubby hands off of him; don't you dare try to recruit him to do your bidding!"

Sherlock's subtext was clear. He was all but begging Mycroft not to interfere, not to try to convince John that his duty lay in choosing Mycroft's side. He knew the threat was real, that his brother was just itching to use his manipulate skills.

"Please…"

Mycroft knew what that word had cost Sherlock, and it was the surest confirmation of his worst fears about his brother's relationship with the doctor.

The silence between the two brothers lengthened. Then Mycroft just gave a tiny shake of his head. No, he could not promise to leave John out of this. There was simply too much at stake. Not just the two Holmes, but the needs of the UK and those other 31 countries after Moriarty could not be sacrificed. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Sherlock's reaction was pure vitriol. "You bastard, you're no different than Moriarty! You're using emotional blackmail to stop me. No, sorry Mycroft, do I have to remind you that I did not go 'looking' for Moriarty; he came after me!" With that, Sherlock knocked back the rest of the brandy, and stormed out. As he got to the study door, he said over his shoulder, "sweet dreams, brother; try not to set anyone else up tonight if you possibly can."

Mycroft waited to gauge his brother's emotional distress by the weight put behind slamming the front door. When it came, the bang was loud enough to wake people on both sides of the street, forcing yet another sigh from Mycroft.

It had not escaped Mycroft's attention that Moriarty had singled out Sherlock and met him face to face. It worried him more than anything else about the whole incident. What does he want with Sherlock? As annoying as he can be at times, Sherlock has not touched even a fraction of Moriarty's network. Why would he be remotely interested in my little brother? As he steepled his fingers again, and stared back into the fire, Mycroft found himself wondering whether Moriarty was after Sherlock, or whether his little brother was being used as a way to get at a certain 'minor official' in the British Government. In either case, I have to find a way to keep Sherlock out of this, once and for all.