Disclaimer: I own nothing. All hail to Ennui Enigma for making sure this makes sense.
Foiling thanks to Irene (thanks to Sherlock) Mycroft's little Coventry plan irritated the eldest Holmes. This was just fine. Jim wanted to get at him anyway. To pique his interest, the criminal consultant started getting involved more heavily with a few terrorist groups. He liked creating havoc so it wasn't a chore, even if he despised them for needing his help. He made sure that Mycroft knew of the flourishing of this branch of his activity.
How else was he supposed to have a chat with big brother? The elder Holmes believed that Sherlock needed no help against him, after all, or he would already have intervened. (Mmmm... how would it have gone, his great game, if Myc had added his own snipers to the equation? Even more fun, surely.)
But Mycroft hadn't, at the time. So here Jim was, crossing his path when he could and baiting him and doing his damnedest best – short of going to his home with a bouquet of roses – to get Myc (Jim loved how much the man hated his nickname) to notice him.
It took more than the consultant criminal expected, but it finally worked. Mycroft didn't pick him up in a limousine. (Jim would have climbed into it without a fuss, didn't he know?). Moriarty wasn't sure if he should be miffed, amused or honoured by the deployment of power used to capture him. In the end, he managed to be all three at the same time.
He had to fight with Seb to persuade him to run away instead of trying to outshoot the thirty-or-so highly trained operatives. "I'm not letting anyone take you!" Sebastian had declared hotly.
"You run away now, tiger. That's not prey for you," Jim had ordered sharply.
"But Jimmy!" Seb almost whined.
"Don't you 'Jimmy' me! It's all in the plan. Do you understand my plans? No, you don't have enough brain cells. So you obey. Shoo, Seb. They don't need to catch you too," the consultant criminal barked – though he let a bit of his fondness for the other man seep in at the end.
"I don't like your plan," Moran had grumbled.
"Any further insubordination and I'll have you killed, Sebastian. You're of no use to me if you won't follow orders, Colonel," Jim had threatened. And he would have gone through with it. He would have. Honest. (Probably.)
"How long?" Seb had asked quietly.
"What? Don't dillydally!" Moriarty had queried, utterly irritated now.
"Before I storm in to free you. Obviously," the sniper had replied cheekily.
"A month, but you won't need to, tiger," Jim had assured.
Seb had snorted incredulously. They were just going to let him go, were they? A quick, sudden, frustrated kiss and Sebastian had finally obeyed, leaving Jim alone to wait for the men coming.
The fact that he wanted to go didn't mean that he had to make things easy for them. He'd created a pretty maze with a few well-placed booby traps as a training exercise for these people. If they couldn't solve it he wouldn't go. No subpar operative for him. It was a question of self-respect. And he needed to make sure to delay them too. Seb needed enough time to run. Jim knew the sniper would be a stubborn idiot about this.
"I apologize, I should have prepared cookies -" he said when they finally arrived for him. (Wasn't that the customary reward for a job well done?). But before he could deliver the rest of the line (let's agree I'll owe you some fine?") He was subdued – manhandled – and bristled, "I'm coming, I'm coming, there's no need to get rough...you've been invited after all!"
When he was brought before his interrogator, he pointed out, "Let it be said that I have every intention to be a good citizen and cooperate. I'll chat until you get tired, but only with Mycroft Holmes. So get him anytime you want info."
The man snorted, clearly thinking that he had ways – lots of them – to make Jim spout everything without involving (disappointingly) his superior. Anyone had a right to his own delusion. They could torture him all they wanted, but he had a prize in sight and couldn't give up.
Electrical shocks? "Interesting foreplay but when do we move to sex?"
Water boarding? "Can I ...pant, pant... have wine...pant...too? I'm legal."
Plain old beating? "Boooring. Can't you be more creative? I'd give you tips but you'd have to pay me for the consultation."
Starving? "No no, I want Mycroft, I'm not Mycroft, of course that doesn't work on me!"
Sleep deprivation? That was just more time to contemplate his cell. He'd smuggled in a tiny diamond (you don't want to know how) and decorated the walls. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. Not that he risked forgetting, but he knew he'd spend a lot of time staring at these walls. Might as well have something beautiful to look at. He was mildly worried that they'd make him switch cells – they'd taken the diamond, of course – and he'd have to decorate the next one with his own blood. But they'd judged it too much of a hassle.
They kept torturing him; Jim kept taunting them. "You really don't want to know what I have to say? It'd save lives!" And trying without much success to determine how many days were left until Seb stormed their enclave in an attempted rescue. Jim didn't doubt for a moment that his tiger would come eventually, just as he'd promised.
His torturers quickly went from considering him yet another unpleasant job (pleasant to the redheaded one if he was good judge of men, which he was) to hating and despising him. They couldn't fathom how he remained unbroken. Worse though, they couldn't put a stop to Jim's snark. But since the feeling was mutual, Jim certainly didn't concern himself over his tormentors' emotions. As professionals, they should have been more creative, honestly.
In the end, they gave into his demands. They called Mycroft Holmes, despite interrogation not being the Iceman's strong suit. Like Jim, the elder Holmes kept to activities that wouldn't damage his impeccable clothes. Unlike Jim, he wasn't particularly eager for a close-up on the torturing process.
Jim was alone, securely bound to his chair in a room empty save for another chair when he saw Mycroft enter. The consultant criminal beamed. "Mycroft! Long time no see! I'd shake your hand if I could. But really, you don't need to have me chained. I'd never attack you. I just want to chat a bit."
Now perhaps 'long time no see' wasn't the right thing to say, as they'd never met in this body, but his brain was muddled from lack of sleep, and hopefully Mycroft would surmise that Jim meant he'd seen the politician when stalking Sherly.
Mycroft sat down, remarking coldly, "I don't shake hands with psychotic criminals anyway."
"Now, now, Holmes, your mum brought you up politer than that," Jim chided with a pout.
"Don't mention my mother," Mycroft hissed sharply.
"Fine, I won't. Don't get your knickers in a twist," the prisoner replied, smirking.
"You said you'd cooperate," the elder Holmes pointed out.
"And I will. God, Mycroft, I want to. Information for information. I will tell you about many terrorist groups and their – our, really – projects...and you'll tell me everything that comes to mind about your little brother, age 0-5 and 13-20. Deal?" Moriarty smiled broadly.
"That's a very specific request." Oh. He'd surprised Mycroft. Wasn't that precious?
"These are the gaps in my knowledge. You fill mine. I fill yours. Fair isn't it?" Jim asked, wishing he could shrug.
"You are lying. You don't have info on my brother's elementary and middle school years. There's no way that you would have been able to buy info from people about him as a child," the elder Holmes said, more to reassure himself than anything.
"But I knew your little brother better than even you, Myc, at one point in his life. Test me," Moriarty tempted.
"What was the name of Sherlock's boyhood pet?" Mycroft took the bait.
Jim couldn't help it. He almost choked on his own manic giggles. "Redbeard." He let his tongue caress his old name. "His name was Redbeard – Irish setter. And now, you. Your turn to share, Mycroft. Or I will believe that you don't want certain info, after all. Even if it could save millions of lives."
Mycroft shrugged. "Fine." He'd just have Moriarty killed when he wasn't of any use anymore. He might as well give in. Just this once.
"No you won't," Jim interjected.
"What? Of course I'm going to. I was just deciding what to say," the elder Holmes objected.
"Yes you will – talk to me, but no you won't – kill me in the end. I have a trump card, you see," Jim explained grinning.
"Let's see this card of yours, then," Mycroft prompted impatiently.
"Oh no. Not until the time is right. You're familiar with playing cards, after all. No, you tell me what I want to know in exchange for what you need to know – and all this despite the niggling fear that my card could just be legitimately that good and you'll be forced to let me go in the end – with all that new information to play with. You will do that, Mycroft. Because you're a good kid who's never shirked his duty, and you won't start to now," Jim proclaimed smugly.
He might have chosen to reveal his trump care now and reassured Myc about what he was going to do, but what could he say, he loved making the man uncomfortable. The git deserved it for agreeing so late to Jim's plan.
He kept his part of the agreement though. He revealed some of his clients – plan after plan after more evil terrorist plan. But what marvellous things he got in exchange. Baby Sherlock would always stop crying when Mycroft cradled him. Fifteen year old Sherlock's experiments destroyed the first oven of a long series (a long series of experimentally exploded ovens, that is). Finding Sherlock on his eighteenth birthday prey to nicotine intoxication (it was never clear exactly how much he'd smoked). And many, many more tiny treasures. At least now Jim knew what he should have been there for. All that he had missed. It was worth everything to get this.
Then, of course, came the day when he'd revealed everything he knew, and the tales trickled to a stop. "I suppose now is the moment for me to persuade you that killing me is only a waste of a good bullet. How open minded are you Mycroft?" Jim stated with a grin.
"I'm not easy to dupe as you well know," the elder Holmes replied tightly.
"Of course I know. Well, here goes nothing. You won't kill me because I've never meant serious harm to Sherlock, and we both know that even if I gave you an excuse to catch me protecting Sherlock is the reason I'm here."
"Those snipers of yours would beg to differ, Moriarty," Mycroft objected politely.
Jim laughed. "Seb? Christ, no. That was for show. To spice up the play. If I tell you a secret, promise not to tattle it to Sherlock? I don't want to have my grand reveal ruined."
"I will make no promises to the likes of you," the elder Holmes sneered.
"Fine. But I'll get angry if you ruin my surprise, Myc. Do you know why I'll never really hurt Sherly? Why I love playing with him above anything else in the world? I'm Redbeard. Well, his timey wimey reincarnation," Jim announced.
"That you are completely insane is hardly a grand reveal," Mycroft replied, nonplussed.
"God, but try me at least! Ask away! So sorry about throwing up upon you on your thirteenth birthday, by the way, but you shouldn't have fed me cake."
"I'll play your game. When Sherlock got lost – he was seven, we were on holiday – and the dog led me back to him what was he doing?" Mycroft queried, challenging. That was a secret between Sherlock and he that he'd bring to his grave. Sherlock had been so ashamed and upset after his brother's explanation, that Mycroft just had to promise him he wouldn't tell a soul.
Jim smiled dreamily. "He'd found dragon footprints and was searching for the beast's lair. I still don't know what he meant to do once he found it. They were dinosaurs', of course. After that, he fixated solely on pirates – they were real, you see."
It made no sense. How could Moriarty know? Their parents bloody knew but the edited version of it. The thought was clear on Mycroft's ashen face.
"So? Have I proved myself? Can I go home? I'm not about to hurt Sherlock, you know. I just want to play with him. I've always wanted to play with him. Naturally, now that he's grown up, it involves dead bodies. But not his. Never his. I'd rather kill myself, I swear." Jim uttered fervently.
Seb's face, when he went home a day later, was priceless.