Warning: This chapter contains mention of PTSD, non-graphic tortures, violence and unsettling behaviors towards children, kidnapping, and implicit descriptions of characters' death.

A/n: Again, I'm sorry for making you guys wait for such a long time!

5.

It had been three days – or Arthur thought it was three days – since he was kidnapped. His sense of time had been blurred without his permission, messed by the unwavering dim light radiating weakly from the small bulb above that destroyed the definition of night and day. His whole body ached due to the confined position he was forced into with his hands tied behind the back of a chair and his feet bound to its legs – He could no longer feel the gritting bite of the rope against his skins, his limbs numb and bloodless. And he kept wondering if Brandt were fine.

Brandt – or thoughts of Brandt – distracted him from the oppressing stillness that closed in on him every passing moment. The physical confinement was nearly nothing compared to the deadness clinging to this place. Throughout the time he was kept here, Arthur hardly heard any kinds of whispers, not even those of abandoned ghosts. Darkness tilted lewdly in every corner and seemed to approach more and more boldly until Arthur felt like he couldn't hold himself up against it anymore. But these shadows were far less frightening than the complete blackness of his mind, where he found himself standing in the middle of black nothingness – a figure of grief and anger absent. And he could not sleep – not when it was so loud, that void left in his head. Buzzing like a broken bee nest.

Arthur did try to dream sometimes, whenever he closed his eyes to desperately find a rest for his mounting exhaustion, - dreaming of tucking himself behind Mycroft's leg and Mycroft's palm covering his head sheltering. He dreamt of Brandt's awkward serious hovering, of Brandt's bending down and picking Arthur up to carry the weight of his little world. He didn't dare dream when Moriarty was near though – did not dare let the mad man see his soft, quivering yearnings that could be used to tear him asunder. Moriarty would come and grin and shout, boring into his eyes and sneaking fingertips up his shoulders to look for something that he believed to burn through the shattered vulnerability of his captive. Looking for a God who didn't exist in the way he carved Them out to be with his feverishly bloody hands.

Arthur had watched Moriarty slash his men open – screaming for the right light to be reflected on Arthur's eyes – while the boy vomited onto himself and the floor crying quietly as he endeavored to double his body over. Moriarty screamed and screamed, but it didn't deafen the dead silence of the place and the dead silence in his mind.

I know whom you want to see, Arthur had thought as his throat and eyes burned, He was gone now – You can never, never, see him. And he cried a little more because everything hurt so badly – he could feel every of those cuts and tears inflicted on those men like it were happening to his own fleshes –, and he knew this was never going to stop for all of these doings would not reach its fulfillment, for Arthur couldn't bring the right entertainment Moriarty wanted to have. Through the haze of pains and the bitter ignition of hatred, Arthur could not understand these points of suffering.

He was just Arthur – Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur Kirkl…

Who are you?

Who are you, now?

All of a sudden, there was a loud clang signaling the door's being opened. A squeak of spotless expensive shoes against the ground resounded bluntly, and Arthur tensed immediately – eyes still hot from his agonized recollection. The boy kept his head down, staring solely at his trousers. Shadow loomed over him, and a hand was tucked under his chin to raise it up. Arthur looked straight to the dark, dark void of Moriarty's eyes.

"Again, how's disappointing," Moriarty intoned, not a muscle on his face moving like he was made of cutting marble. "If it's just you, boooy, it will be so –" he stilled, letting go of Arthur's chin and straightening his stance. He glanced around the room, and shouted "BORING!"

Moriarty's voice exploded against the walls, making the darkness cower as if it heard the killing contempt in those syllables. Then, it was all quiet one more time. Arthur blinked his eyes, his thoughts falling apart and his body shivering. He wanted to escape it all, but Moriarty was crowding in again – with black eyes trying to eat away Arthur's soul. "You're so useless," Moriarty hissed, leaning close, "Such a meaningless creature." Breaths caressed Arthur's ear – then his neck – cruelly, and Arthur found it hard to inhale or exhale normally, absolutely terrified.

"I should just kill you," Moriarty whispered, and there were teeth closing around his skin, Arthur's pulse quickening so fast he thought it would burst. It was like being eaten alive, like Moriarty tried to tear him away from existence. Arthur couldn't help himself anymore – he screamed in terror; the shrilling sound of his horror echoed deep inside him and he wept uncontrollably.

(He was just Arthur – Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur Kirkl… )

He felt Moriarty get up – away, away from him – and strike him across the check. The slap stung, and Arthur was terribly light-headed. It was all whirling in his head. He faintly caught some sounds outside the room which caused Moriarty to momentarily pause. "Ooooh, the Ice Man must have come with his precious little Virgin...! All just to amuse me." Moriarty clicked his teeth, and petted Arthur's cheek with his fingers. "You just wait here, boy. Daddy gonna get us a lot more toys."

With that he left, abandoning Arthur to imposing darkness.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock flatly said, not once averting his eyes from the zoom lens of his microscope, so he essentially didn't have a clear view of Mycroft's face when the man stepped fully into 221B not heeding the younger Holmes' typical response to his appearance. But John did, and it made him hesitate at the kitchen doorway with his recently filled cuppa – the vaporous steams rising from the cup vaguely blurred Mycroft's expressions into something less real, grayness and exasperation smudged to the edges of wavering. Perhaps it was the hesitation in John's silence, or may it be that dark thundering black-hole of Mycroft's soundlessness coating his foreboding presence, which made Sherlock turn his attention away from the on-goings of his experiment. The quietude following was fraught with Sherlock's keen – almost curious – observations and the tight human lines' - that held Mycroft Holmes together – refusing to unbolt.

The imposingness of it all set John's spine up straight, his hands firm as though his fingers were steadily fixed on the familiar shape of his Browning ready for battle. He went to make more tea.

When John came back from the kitchen, Sherlock had left his seat at the desk to be peaking on his armchair, eyes darting across the spreading of papers from Mycroft's folder into a web. Mycroft as per usual was residing in John's chair, seemingly not in the mood to elaborate anything he deemed as insignificant. He looked both strained and grateful as John passed him his tea.

"You are using me as a distraction," Sherlock suddenly stated, and John looked to his flatmate folding himself to his thinking pose with precise feline elegance and fingers steeped under his chin. His voice didn't express any annoyance or irritation at this deduction. If anything, Sherlock was curious – a cat-like tilt to his tone while Mycroft kept to his austere contours.

"A distraction for what?" asked John, feeling wary.

Sherlock's trenchant smile didn't do anything to lessen John's worry, "To lure out Moriarty, of course."

John sharply stared at Mycroft then, at the man who weaved a network of CCTV just to keep watch on his younger brother, who would kidnap potential acquaintances to make sure they were safe for Sherlock's pick (What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?). "It's a bit not good," said John, his jaw line hard.

"I, by no means, would send Sherlock to danger, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied – his words terse, hardened and impatient as if he would not deal with John's vacuous protectiveness right now. "I simply ask him to cooperate with me in order to retrieve something very important to Britain that Moriarty had found fit to steal."

"Or, to put it even more simply, you has already gathered all the information that you need – whereabouts, men powers, methods, and motives. You can walk in there with a special force team, maybe even having a chance to capture our dear Moriarty. But," Sherlock almost hissed at that, "you can't. Why? In doubt of high fail percentage? Unlikely. In fear of damage to the thing? Possible. Because you're nervous. An artifact or a confidential plan shouldn't have provoked such anxiety in you. Then, what is it? What is it that make you feel the need for an offering, a negotiation that will balance all outcomes – that will distract and interest Jim Moriarty enough for you to be able to get the thing back in one piece? What is it that you must risk my facing Moriarty and putting myself in danger?" At that, a pained look crossed Mycroft's feature, too fleeting for Sherlock – with his nonchalance to familial affections – to catch properly.

"Whatever it is, this is dangerous," John can't help snapping, worried as he watched Sherlock almost vibrating with excitement at the idea of secrets and "playing-time" with Jim Moriarty to the disregard of his own safety – Too prone to challenges to side with his indifference for governmental issues and his brotherly distaste for Mycroft to decline the case like he often did.

"That's why I'm asking you to come too, Dr. Watson. I know you are an excellent shooter. You would never let any harm come to Sherlock's way, would you?" said Mycroft, and John thought he heard something as a hint of desperate threats in his voice. The ex-army doctor looked into the older Holmes' eyes, resisting in the urge to punch him.

(Who are you?

An Interested party.)

Of course, he would.

They made a very detailed plan about what to do and what to expect with the two Holmes' brainstorming between, around and against each other (Obviously it's because your men are too incompetent Mycroft –). Meanwhile, John found some time to read the folder, looking at the blurry smirk on Moriarty's shadowed face when he mingled into the crowds wearing faded ripped jeans and nondescript white shirt – a mad, sharp knife edge that cut through normal fleshes unknowingly. Just like the time when Jimmy from IT (Hi!) shyly grinned at them in his fidgeting act of a gay boyfriend – silently laughing as he fooled even Sherlock's deductions. He swallowed down the immediate contempt rising in his throat and put his foot down on the security protocols of the plan, trying to get Sherlock to listen to half of them without deleting the whole process again.

Later, Anthea came with bullet vests in hands and an incline of the head indicating the car was waiting. A briefing of the current progress was issued as they filed into Mycroft's car. John can't help feeling like being sent back to the war again with statics and orders passing amongst soldiers, weapons and minds ready. Sherlock looked at him then in his awkwardly serious search of a consequential flash of PTSD, which nearly made John smile fondly. The ex-captain minutely shook his head instead, and a brisk but confirmative eye-contact brought assurance to them both.

Soon the car was driving out of London, coming into parts where industrial plants and warehouses occupied vast, deserted lands. There were crackled reports rushing to Mycroft's HT, and experiences helped John detect the baffled panic of the talking agent.

"There had been unidentified interference, Mr. Holmes," said Anthea gravely, her fingers agile on her blackberry. Severity painted her beauteous, perfect brows into a slight crease – that was more expressive than John had ever seen of her.

"Maybe it's just a gang scuffle? They probably didn't know that area is under Moriarty's watch," John offered.

"Unlikely, John. Moriarty is well-feared throughout the underground network; the criminal populace know when and where not to trespass and intervene with his business. They know enough of his methods to be cautious," Sherlock objected. "And this interference has managed to fly under Mycroft's radar; it would not be of some petty gangs' pitching for power."

"Get me the details, Anthea," Mycroft demanded, "I want a full report on the situation before we arrive there." Anthea swiftly complied while silence descended on them heavy and contemplative. Then, the transceiver came to life once more, and the voice was speaking to Mycroft with perplexed unease layering each word.

"Most of Moriarty's men are dead, sir –" Sherlock hissed something furious and inaudible as John tensed beside him. "We are waiting for further orders, sir."

Mycroft's palm curled round the device in a tight grip, his whole body stilling into a point of cold, narrowed focus – as though retreating to a state where the world was a large stage that he took part as a spectator, a string-holder contemplating how things should play out.

"Stay put till we get there."

The agent's obedient response cracked briefly over the speaker before cutting off entirely. Mycroft took his phone out, and John realized he was reading the report Anthea must have composed in an alarmingly efficient short time. A text alert on both of Sherlock and John's phones went off signaling the reception of that same report under the form of an enclosed file. Time for re-briefing the battle.

There was a man standing over Moriarty's figure, his back bending after the gradual limp fall of the great criminal mastermind – his hand squeezing Moriarty's neck in an eerily tender-looking hold that entirely belied its frightening death grip –, when they charged into the warehouse with Mycroft's team. John was sure he would see a glaringly blackening bruise wrapped around the flesh of the criminal's neck once he was able to examine the corpse. There were also immediate demanding shouts of the agents telling the man to step back, hands where we can see them before Mycroft walked up and raised his hand to stop them all.

And Moriarty was dead – John realized. Somewhere in the back of his mind – after The Pool – there was an irrational fear that the terror Moriarty wielded would never truly end, never fading just like the warmth of Semtex tucked underneath the heavy vest so very close against his ribcage. John would sometimes dream of running across Afghan deserts with the sun burning down upon his skins and the bombs held tight to his heart – beating and beating, not quite exploding. It felt dangerous, those moments – that even in his unconsciousness Moriarty had managed to evade him in such a secret depth, cultivating a fine deep-rooted wariness which sharpened his alert when he was awake and in control of himself. It was insidious in a way the war hadn't accomplished despite all of its brutality and starkness – To John, Moriarty wasn't merely a name, or a human being bearing deadly ingenuity and a web of bad, bad deeds – Moriarty was fear manifested into fleshes, hot and dark and mad and alive.

Now, Moriarty was dead. It left John feeling numb, a blankness settling so shakingly onto his contours that John was afraid it weren't all real. Relief curled heavily inside his stomach making him nauseated, as though rebelling against an unexpected end. Bile rose to his throat, and John tasted the sourness of it at the very tip of his tongue. But he swallowed and looked to the two Holmes' beside him. Sherlock was hovering there with a tiny crack of emptiness in his silver-green eyes, absolutely still and lost and raged – Because the universe didn't make sense today, and a criminal consultant died without the foreseen vicious intellectual battle between him and a great consulting detective with his sidekick tagging along to occasionally call out apologizes and make sure the detective would not end up dead. All that remained was the lifeless shell of Moriarty laid down on the dirty ground. John almost wanted to come to his flatmate and put a blanket over that painfully child-like hang of the man's broad shoulders, to reassure him about how often twisted fantasies would go wrong. But John was in his own shock – shaken in his own grief for some significance that he was still trying to understand – so he didn't feel extremely magnanimous at the moment.

And in the whirling staggering silence of this turn of event, Mycroft was pale and cold, his posture rigid and his grip on his brolly borderline that of the unknown man (murderer – John's mind whispered) on the ability to kill. Mycroft Holmes was like nuclear dressed up to be politically powerful and impeccable, which was ready to cause great destruction in all proper and beatific manners if the need arose. John wondered with firmness in his chests what Mycroft would decide to do with the man. Then, suddenly, the red-haired stranger parted his lips, shattering the tension mercilessly just as he had done to the norms of their world.

"You're late, Mycroft," the man said in a deep, airy voice that resonated threateningly throughout the warehouse – unconcerned that there were multiple guns aimed directly at him. Sherlock's head snapped to Mycroft with such vigor John almost told the older Holmes to get away if he weren't so surprised himself. Yet Mycroft was prone to being silent, his eyes narrowing dangerously while he ignored both John's wariness and Sherlock's angry astonishment to contemplate the man. The tip of the brolly was quietly dragged off the ground before Mycroft put it down again in front of him, his stance refined and stern as a solid storm. John hadn't seen Mycroft this fierce before; even Sherlock hadn't opened his mouth to demand answers or fire off furious deductions in spite of the shining glint in his see-through eyes.

"And you're intervening, Alistair," Mycroft said, expressionless and icy.

At this, the man named Alistair finally looked directly at them; his face was a reflection of Mycroft's utterly hard coldness while a little smile stretched languishing on his lips. John glimpsed at that kind of smiles before – tiny, cruel upward lines that promised madness and pains – just like Moriarty with his all-teeth lilted roars of laughter. But Moriarty was dead – and it became as though a chant in John's head -, and standing there confidently and imperiously with large blood stains on his white shirt was just a dangerous (murderous) potential counterpart whose existence seemed wronged Mycroft in many ways. The ex-army doctor realized that if Mycroft or Sherlock gave him a sign, he would get a grip on his gun and pull the trigger.

"I hate waiting," Alistair half intoned, haft signed, calmly smoothing his hands down his sharply cut grey coat as if the action could wipe clear the deed he had done. In the dampened light of the warehouse, the crimson tinge of his hair seemed dark and curious – the man looked young, too young to end the life of one feared mastermind and withstand the intensity of both Holmes' focus like it were nothing. And he turned his back to them without waiting for Mycroft's reply. That was when John truly noticed the small holes on the man's coated backside – three of them in total, which looked distinctively like bullet holes.

"They are bullet holes, John," was muttered in Sherlock's impatient reprimanding tone, and John remembered those red blots on the man's shirt that he had mistaken for someone else's, considering Alistair had indeed crossed some forms of resistance in order to reach and destroy Moriarty in such a manner (But to be able to wipe out Moriarty's men like that? Improbable.). Though, it could be the man's own blood, and somehow by great endurance for injuries Alistair had fooled them all into seeing him as nothing but well. But then again, how could a man survive and act arrogantly and nonchalantly after three fatal shots? – It was beyond John's scientific and medical comprehension. Alistair should be as dead as his victims were with a puddle of blood slowly drying underneath his body.

Before he were able to restrain himself, John stepped forward, his fists firm and unshaken. "You're wounded," he spoke in his captain voice – often used in time when gunshots rang through the air like rain with explosives tearing the battle apart and the life of his soldier was draining away right beneath his steady hands. It's alright, you'll be home – he would say while blood warmed his fingers, so wan comparing to that of the harsh sun's heat. Alistair glanced at him then, and John saw – much to his apprehension – a clear spark of distant amusement.

"Oh, I will live," the man responded in that eerie deep voice once more, a discreet accent permeating his sentence as if he were laughing at his own inside joke. It sent a sense of unease creeping up John's spine, and he felt more than see Sherlock walk up behind him as though the detective were prepared to push John away from the human edge of red hair and green, green eyes. Meanwhile, keeping to his own quiescence, Mycroft offered no explanation whatsoever. "Enough idle chitchats; we have to retrieve what Jimmy Dear had stolen first," Alistair continued and started striding toward the back of the warehouse, seemingly acknowledging fully where he was supposed to head and that the others would be forced to follow him without options.

The warehouse was definitely too maze-like for a place to store a large quantity of goods only, and in the dimness, age-long dusts gathering from disuse and crucial degrading it was like a dead trap to marvel that seemed ready to cease in on itself. Yet, Alistair kept his footfalls unaltered, expertly turning and dodging until they came to a heavy-set iron door. Without saying anything, the red head pushed the door open and went straight into the room hidden behind its thick layer. If John detected the urgency in Alistair's posture, he said nothing and knew for certain his Holmes companions took notice of it too.

What inside the room though, John certainly didn't expect it to be a boy, who seemed no more than seven with his little body crouching on the chair he was tied into. Breaths tightened in John's lungs, and terror flashed bright and hot in his veins as the realization of what had really happened came at him at full force. John heard Sherlock make an almost pained sound in his throat just like that time when a child's fearful and teary voice came through the speaker, signifying that it was no longer a game between mad geniuses anymore – but a wretched madness that murdered and enjoyed the murdering show it hosted.

Alistair was at the boy's side in a flash, kneeling down and whispering to the child's ear. John was beside the man seconds later, checking for the boy's conditions – unconscious and breathing a bit shallowly but alive nonetheless. There were biting marks on the boy's neck – right at the pulse point – and a side of his cheeks had become swollen before any inevitable bruising would set in. John gritted his teeth, tore his eyes away from them after assuring that those were not life-threatening, and helped support the kid's head when Alistair worked fast on loosening the rope. The doctor absentmindedly noted that Mycroft was speaking rapidly into his phone and arguing with a forceful, angered Sherlock at the same time.

"Let me hold him," Alistair requested, and John gently passed the limp child to him without questions. The man's arms immediately wrapped around that fragile figure, cradling the child in an embrace that were so protective and familiar whilst the green in those unearthly eyes shone with something fierce John had to look away for a brief moment. Mycroft moved to their side minutes after, pale still but stern and demanding, eyes locking on the boy searching for harms done.

"My men are clearing out the area and will arrive to this room shortly," the older man announced, and looked straight into Alistair while he spoke next, "and you, Alistair, will not bring Arthur to any other places but mine." That's an order was left blatantly unsaid. The crimson-haired man leveled Mycroft's stare unflinchingly and gave no answers, his fingers tracing lightly the bitten spots on the child's – Arthur's – neck.

Then the rescue team came along with the medics who swept the unconscious boy away under both Mycroft and Alistair's watchful gazes. When he fell into step with Sherlock walking out of the warehouse, John didn't find it in himself to comment on the occurrences – instead he observed the glint manifest itself in Sherlock's eyes whenever he landed on a very interesting and puzzling case.

[Message received…]

"Come out and play, Sherlock. It's soooo new!"

[End message.]

.

"Colonel, I heard Boss was -"

"If you want to keep your life, you will not finish that sentence. Either you try to give me a name, or I will put a bullet through your head."

"But…but whoever that red-haired guy is, I can't find a thing on him! It's like he doesn't exist at all!"

"Then try again. Now."