Burning
When Mycroft first woke up that morning, he did not expect his life to crash and burn around him. But it did. And it began with an untraceable phonecall at six o'clock that morning.
"Hellooo, Big Brother!"
Mycroft silently signed to Anthea to run a trace. "Moriarty." Anthea's eyes narrowed before she busied herself with the trace.
"Glad you remember me." Moriarty grinned sharkishly.
"What do you want?" Mycroft asked. "What do you wish to accomplish by calling me?"
"All work and no play makes Big Brother a very boring playmate." Moriarty crooned with that insane lilt in his voice. Mycroft said nothing, instead, he waited for Moriarty to continue. "I haven't forgotton your 'kind hospitality'." Moriarty spat. "Your coercion to make me talk." the criminal sneered, Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line. "I promised Sherlock that I'd burn the heart out of him if he didn't get out of my way. And he didn't." Moriarty voiced in mock-regret.
"I am not interested in listening to threats, Mister Moriarty. If there is a point to this conversation, I would thank you to make it speedily. And be concise." Mycroft said icily. "I am a very busy man."
There was silence on the other end, then Moriarty sighed. "Very well, spoilsport. The fact of the matter is that, despite the fact that I am changeable, I am a man of my word." Moriarty paused again for buildup. "Sherlock's going to burn. I will burn the heart out of him," Moriarty began speaking faster, his tone more frantic and manic. Psychotic. Mycroft could almost imagine his lip curling in distain, pulling away from his teeth in a feral snarl. "and when I do, I will let him see despair moments before I kill him!" Moriarty took a break to breathe. "But you-... the Iceman." he spat like a curse. "I think I'll let you live. To suffer."
And then the connection cut off.
Mycroft looked to Anthea who shook her head. They had not been able to get a trace.
Meanwhile, in the Tower of London, Moriarty stared at his phone for a moment in brief pause. He glanced around at the tourists milling around him, smiling, laughing, come to see the Crown Jewels. The calm before the storm. He fitted his earphones into his ears and closed his eyes as the first notes of 'A Thieving Magpie' trilled directly into his brain.
It was the beginning of the end. The rise of the fall. The match that strikes the flame.
And Sherlock. Would. Burn.
"Mycroft, what the Hell is going on!" Lestrade snapped into his phone as he struggled to provide support to the team of police forces outside Pentonville Prison. He had come directly from the Tower of London after taking Moriarty in custody and dropping him off at Scotland Yard. "Just like a snap of his fingers and all three secure facilities open up?" He swallowed thickly. "Is that even possible?"
There was a brief silence on the other end. "I'm afraid we must believe it is true." Mycroft sighed.
"Do you have a counter measure for this kind of situation? A contingency plan?" Lestrade asked desperately. "Shit! There are civilians in there! Christ!"
He could see a few stranded prison guards and visiting civilians trapped inside the prison. Luckily, the police had been notified about the break-out before the prisoners got out of the facility. They had barricaded the prisoners inside. Unfortunately, they had also barricaded the civilians and guards inside as well.
The prisoners did not wait a moment before unleashing their pitiless rage for the unfortunate guards. It was like one of those horrific zombie movies in which a few of the good guys who could not get out fast enough must be sacrificed to contain the virus. The people outside watched in horror as one by one, civilians and guards were torn away from sight and sucked into the surging throngs of angry inmates. They were not looking for negotiation.
Those who were fortunate enough to escape could only watch from the outside helplessly. Lestrade hated the feeling. It made him sick, nauseous.
"Mycroft..." he breathed heavily, jaw tight. "Tell me, what can we do?"
But Mycroft could not.
Lestrade hung up a few minutes later and let his head fall back on his shoulders, his hands hung limply at his sides as he pressed his eyes shut and tried to force himself not to hear the screams and shouts for help.
A whisp of black smoke sifted through barred windows somewhere in the building. A fire had broken out inside the prison walls. How many people would burn before help arrived?
Mycroft collapsed into his desk chair with a heavy sigh. He had spent the greater part of the day on the phone and in meetings with important people who were concerned about Moriarty's code.
Countless plans were made to contain the damage should the code be used on any facility or asset.
Mycroft's head was filled with numbers, what ifs, and analysis reports on the damage so far. Seventeen casualties in Pentonville Prison, forty some injured, no breakouts. Mycroft must commend the police's lightning-quick response to the threat. In comparison, no damage had been done in the Tower of London, and Mycroft was still waiting on the full report from the Bank of England.
The jury found the defendant 'not guilty'. -MH
Lestrade stared, blinked, rubbed his bleary eyes, and slapped his face a few times but the message never changed.
How? -Lestrade
Internet connection. Moriarty threatened the juries' families. An oversight on my part entirely. -MH
"Detective Inspector!" Someone called out from across the room. "We need you over here!" Lestrade glanced up.
He'll come after Sherlock. -Lestrade
I know, I've taken precautions. -MH
I'll be back soon, give me a day or two. The situation at Pentonville is beginning to calm down. -Lestrade
That is a relief to hear. Unfortunately, I will not be able to meet you on your return. I am expected to attend a meeting in the States, Virginia. -MH
Langley? CIA? -Lestrade
Everybody is worried about Moriarty's code. -MH
Well, good luck with that. -Lestrade
Mycroft's meetings in the States went as smoothly and according-to-plan as an apocalypse on crack. Unfortunately, that was to be expected when facing a threat such as Moriarty and his code. He had meetings with foreign ambassadors, presidents, directors of securities, and computer whizzes all working toward the same goal of containing and destroying Moriarty's code.
Now, he just wanted to go home and sleep.
He eased slowly out of the jet and onto wet tarmac of Heathrow Airport. It seemed like something changed every time he got off a plane. The first time, he had touched down in England, just back from Washington D.C, and found out that Sherlock had gained new neighbors on Baker Street. All assassins. He had called John immediately and informed him of the danger.
The second time, he was making a pit stop between Spain and Japan to meet with their technical analysts. He heard that Sherlock had rescued the children of a British Ambassador but somehow had been accused of fraud and was on the run. Unfortunately, he could not find time to text Lestrade for the details.
The third time, he returned to England to get the consultation of the Defence Intelligence and found pictures of Sherlock on every front page, being slandered as a hoax. John caught him at the Diogenes Club and questioned him about Moriarty.
The fourth time, it was Anthea who had called Mycroft back home. She met the exhausted man at the foot of the folding stairs beside his jet and solemnly gave him the bad news. And Mycroft was not even remotely ready to hear it.
"Sherlock's dead, Sir."
A week, that was what Moriarty gave him. A week before Sherlock burned, before he died. Mycroft had to give it to him. Despite his insanity, his ruthlessness, and his vices. Moriarty was a man who made good on his promises.
Sherlock was gone, the nation was practically looking to him to find a solution to the impossible situation regarding Moriarty's code as if he held the answers to the Universe, John was understandibly upset with him and wouldn't speak to him despite Mycroft's calls, and Lestrade...
... Lestrade's name had been dragged through the media mud because of his relation to Sherlock, he had been fired from his job, John was also not speaking to him because he felt Lestrade had a hand in bringing about Sherlock's downfall, and he had seemingly disappeared from the streets of London. He was hiding away in his flat, nobody had heard from him.
He was gone. Moriarty was right. He had burned Mycroft's world down to smouldering ashes and he had let him live to suffer the consequences.
Mycroft pressed his eyes shut as he staggered with the weight of the news, his arm reached out to steady himself on the metal handrail and Anthea was on his other side in a moment, suggesting much needed rest.
Mycroft shook his head and asked her; "How can I?"
