4. That's how deals are made

The door swung open and James braced himself for anything. He could easily deduce Sherlock's mood. If, heaven forbid, their positions were reversed - if he'd made such a complete asshole of himself – and his brother – in front of an arch enemy James wouldn't be in the best of spirits either.

Luckily, Sherlock did not try to make amends for his blunder by doing anything stupid. Like jumping at his captor. Or yelling childish insults. Or locking himself in the bathroom.

Instead he stood in the middle of the living room. Wary, alert, but quietly.

"Good morning, my dear" James opened the battle, never taking his eyes from his prey. "I hope you slept well. How's the poor head?"

"Still on my shoulders" Holmes retorted flatly. "It's my turn to ask if that's a weapon in your pants or the pleasure to see me cornered?"

Moriarty pulled the small capture gun from his pocket and showed it briefly. "Both, I'm afraid." he said with an ironic smile. But he didn't delude himself. Sherlock was anything but intimidated. The wildcat was just biding his time, assessing the situation. He wanted to know the rules of the game, not play along with them.

Time to get the inconvenient part over and done with. "Cornered, yes" James said kindly. "I guess that's one way to put it. I would prefer another phrase but if you feel better with this one, by all means, stick to it."

"What am I doing here, Moriarty? And stop playing the thoughtful host, it's absurd."

"Not in the least. You were lucky I was there last night. To save your backside from a fate worse than death." James feigned a shiver of horror "the newspaper reports about this nasty serial killer and what he does to his poor, poor victims... the very idea of what he'd done to you makes me shudder. The man must be completely nuts. Some kind of psychopath, don't you think? A freak!"

Was that a grin in Sherlock's face? Gone as quickly as it had come? Yes, yes, that had been a grin, James was certain of it.

"You should know" Holmes retorted. "You're the expert. Who knows, it might've been you who's sold the idea of the waste water system to him. Did you throw in the maps or do you charge extra for that?"

"Not my street, Sherlock. The man – his name is Tom Jenkins by the way – is not my type. Most of all, he couldn't afford my fees. I finished doing petty business, long ago."

"But you're still in the kidnapping business."

"Am I?"

"You just kidnapped me while I was out flat" said Sherlock and for the first time, his gaze left his opponent and went to the open door in James' back. The message from that was clear: The Detective thought that enough of his valuable time had been wasted and that it was time to go. Tom Jenkins, and the killer's face – there would be an arrest before lunch.

"No, my friend" Moriarty thought. "You're on the wrong track." With an abrupt movement he reached behind his back and gave the door a hard push. It banged shut. "Again" he said "if that's what you prefer to call it – please do. I for my part call it saving you. And the reason for you being here is – I want a reward. I did something very nice for you, now you're going to do something nice for me."

"Nice! I'm going to do something nice for you?" Holmes voice dripped sarcasm.

"Nothing hideous or too indecent. I just would like you to be my guest for a week." Moriarty loved the reaction to that. God, this was so very wonderful. There couldn't be many people in this world who'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes gawk speechlessly, like a moonstruck calf in a thunderstorm.

"What makes you think I'm going to stay here for a week?" the Detective finally regained his voice.

"Don't you like it here?" James asked back, pointing at the surroundings. The locked windows, the handle-less door, the cameras. "I've roundabout twelve men in the house who're especially trained to make my guests stay as long as I like."

"Sorry. I already hate it after the first night. All this black and gold, the tropic woods – it's a trifle showy. Did no one ever teach you some taste?"

"And still you've not budged" James thought. "So you do remember the night at the pool. You know I'd not come to you unprepared." Aloud he said "it's hard to find someone suitable. Perhaps you could give me some advice. After all you call your brother 'Sweet Shanks' and 'Stuffy Bunny'. Remarkably good taste and manners, I must say."

Holmes winced visibly. "Ouch. Gotcha!" Moriarty already enjoyed himself thoroughly. Oh, this would be so much fun. Why'd he not done that earlier? "Come to think of it, you're exactly what I need Sherlock, a tonic for my nerves. I can't let you go. Please stay."

Holmes grabbed the jacket – in such a disgusting state after its brief lie-in on the wet bathroom floor – and made for the door.

As always Moriarty admired the man's gracefulness. Sherlock moved like a dancer. And he sure was a very convincing actor. If his captor hadn't known better he'd thought the Detective went past him in serene calm, without a care in the world.

Sherlock only stopped when James' arm shot by his face and blocked the door frame. Naturally it wasn't the arm, it was the capture gun pressed to his side that did the trick. "I said" Moriarty insisted "you stay!"

"I have a life to lead and you're not my friend. Why should I stay?"

"The nerve" Moriarty thought enthusiastically. "Such nerve. A weapon pressed to his side, twelve men between him and the exit and he asks me why he should stay!" A pity that he had to crush this confidence here and now. "Think again my dear. If – and I say if – you manage to get out of the house, your friend Johnny will not survive this day. My men know my plans, if you attack me or molest me in any way, Watson will die."

The blow hit home, James could see it hit the mark. Holmes had been pale before, from his ordeal the night before, but not as white as he was now. His eyes narrowed, searched James' face. For confirmation? He could have that. "I'll do it, Sherlock. You know I can. Just a week, my dear. It's not too much to ask for a friend's life, is it."

All of a sudden Sherlock shrugged, the jacket was thrown to the floor and he leaned against the wall. "If you put it this way, how could I refuse?"

"You will stay?"

"I promise I will stay. For a week."

James relaxed. Not too much, though. After all, this had been only the first round. "Shall we have breakfast then?"

Holmes wanted to say 'no', that much was obvious. However, he thought better of it. James deduced that the threat against his faithful - if annoyingly insignificant and low-level – flatmate had rattled him even more than James had hoped.

It took Moriarty an effort to hide his satisfaction when Sherlock just nodded and followed him down the stairs to the breakfast room. There was nothing better than a victorious battle to give a man a healthy appetite.

"Aren't you eating some of this?" James saw his 'guest' only picking at his food. "It's good, I assure you."

Sherlock frowned, but he did not say anything. He didn't eat, either.

"You don't have to worry, darling, its not poisoned" James said. "Eat!"

"I'm used to going without food for a while" Holmes replied calmly. "I do not want to eat."

"I said, eat!"

"Don't get your hopes up, Moriarty. You haven't bought yourself a slave!" Sherlock's tone of voice matched James' in anger and sharpness.

"All right" James thought. "Short breaks only. Second round is already on." He raised his voice for the first time this morning. "Let me get one thing straight, my dear. This is my house, you're in no position to bargain and you will do as I say. Rule No. 1: You will not call me 'Moriarty' again. I'm Jim for you and you're Sherlock to me. Rule No. 2: You will not refuse anything I give to you, not the clothes and most definitely not the food. Understood?"

Holmes didn't look very frightened. "I said I'll stay. I won't try to run or contact someone but that's as far as it goes. Whatever sick, kitschy theater play you want to perform here, I'll not ape the funny side-kick for you. Forget it!"

James knew, if he backed off now he'd never bring his foot down again. And he would not leave the Holmes brothers off the hook that easily. No, he had decided he'd teach them a lesson and a lesson it would be. "Perhaps you'd prefer to spend that week chained down? At least it would spare us both these useless debates."

Sherlock pushed his chair back with a jolt and rose.

As calm as you please, James dabbed his mouth with the napkin "Where do you think you're going my dear?"

"Upstairs. Back to the bedroom."

"Suit yourself. But if you go now you will not leave that room again until say I let you go. And I already enjoy having you. You're sure you want to cancel our deal? Cancel the time-limit, too?"

Holmes lowered his head briefly and Moriarty heard him draw a deep breath. Abruptly he turned and came back to the table where he sat down. "Fine. Have it your way."

"Have it your way who? The cat's mother?"

"Have it your way... Jim."

After this first victory James found bringing his foot down much easier than he'd thought. Sherlock even munched two slices of bread with cheese, although, judging from his face, he felt he was eating rotted lemons.

"Well done, my dear" Moriarty said afterward. "That wasn't so bad, was it. And it's only for a week." By now he'd risen and laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. The man's muscles twitched and tensed under the obtrusive fingers but he did not pull away. Fearfully or just waiting for a better chance?

"Don't worry, I'll not make it a month, although I could easily do that" James added "I promise you'll be happy enough. What do a few days matter?"

Sherlock didn't reply anything and his face gave nothing away this time. Yet from the movement of his back Moriarty could tell that he heaved an inaudible sigh. "It's going to be a long week for me." James could almost hear him think it. And he couldn't have agreed more. This would indeed be a long week for the brothers. Spoilt brats they were, indulged by anyone for their singular talents, but now they'd met their equal, no, their better even. Their match on every score. When this week came to an end, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft Holmes would be able to deny that.

"I like to play games in the morning" James said merrily. "Do you like to play? Shall we play pick-a-stick?" This game, of all possible choices, would be real torture to someone who hated sitting down quietly unless to ponder a complicated problem or case.

As Moriarty had expected, Sherlock's shoulders tensed even more, yet he kept his loathing to himself. "Yes. Why not. Let's play." Belatedly he added "Jim."

So they played, Sherlock lost every game and James had the intense joy of seeing him virtually beam in happiness when he was allowed to go to his room for an hour. The wildcat had definitely learned to heed his master's wishes.

As it was, Moriarty needed the hour of spare time to do some urgent correspondence. He wrote a letter, wrapped a little gift and had both delivered as speedy as possible. A look at his watch confirmed that the agreed hour had passed. With joyful anticipation he went upstairs, to once more play a bit with his new found pet.

This afternoon, a package was delivered to Mycroft Holmes' office. Special delivery by a private carrier, Anthea had signed for it. As the sender was a S. H., living in 221B Baker Street, she had had it x-rayed but she'd not even dreamed of opening it.

Mildly surprised, Mycroft first unwrapped Sherlock's mobile phone. Well, the boy had obviously found out that big brother had had it bugged and bought himself a new one. No problem, Mycroft's staff would bug the new phone in no time. When would the boy finally learn?

Only now Mycroft noticed that the phone's backside was a bit sticky. When he looked at his fingertips they were read. It took him a moment before he realized that he had touched blood.

Hastily the elder Holmes opened the attached letter.

Five minutes later he left his office in some haste, shouting something about an urgent top secret business at his assistant. Anthea sighed. Little-brother-problems. Again! As sure as eggs were eggs her boss would not be back any time soon.

In the privacy of his flat Mycroft reread the letter, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Dear Stuffy Bunny,

by now you will have noticed that you're one tiresome little brother short. Don't you fear, Sherlock is my guest of honour for the time being. You know, I could get used to having him around. It's therefore unfortunate that he wishes to leave so urgently, I had to take some nasty measures to keep him here. I think he dearly desires you to bail him out. I guess some information about some certain people and firms, which are easily obtainable to a man in your position, should be enough to cover my expenses on your brother's behalf. I'll take the liberty of contacting you again later.

Rest assured that Sherlock will come to no further harm until then. I for my part feel assured that you'd not even think of letting your little brother suffer the consequences of you involving The Yard or your own people in this very private affair.

Sherlock sends his love to you, sweet shanks.

Kind regards

A fan of Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft swallowed hard. But the bile in his throat didn't go away. Bent over the washbasin in his bathroom the elder Holmes let his thoughts run wild. That was what he'd always feared like hell-fire, that someone would take it out on his younger brother, that Sherlock would be used for leverage. That Mycroft Holmes would have to choose between his country and his brother.

That was the reason behind all the surveillance measures, the bugged phones and laptops, the cameras and microphones, the secret conversations with Lestrade, Watson and virtually anybody else who came near Sherlock.

For Mycroft knew he'd made that choice long ago. And God help him, England's chances were slim at the best of times.

Now they were virtually nil, as Mycroft couldn't even begin to imagine what horrible tortures this criminal must have inflicted on his helpless little brother. For one thing was absolutely certain. Sherlock would not willingly betray his elder brother's nicknames to anyone.

Under no circumstances Sherlock would blabber them out, just like that.

Never.