A/N Doyle owns all of these characters. I am merely borrowing them.

Five days passed, and there were no new developments. Holmes was working himself to death. Every night, and most of the days, he had been out trying to find some form of information regarding his brother, but he was unsuccessful. No one seemed to know anything, and Holmes' determination was wearing thin. I feared that if he was unable to lay hands on some sort of clue in the near future, he would not last for more than another week.

Late in the afternoon on the sixth day, Holmes returned to Baker Street dressed as a poor crippled beggar. I had seen this particular disguise before, so I recognized him rather quickly. His six foot frame was painfully hunched over, covered in layers of filthy rags, and he held a crooked cane for support. His cheeks were hollowed out and the skin of his face was taut over his high cheek bones, and his eyes were glazed over with a haunted look. I waited for him to return to his old self and I was sorely disappointed by what I witnessed. He slowly lifted the rags off of his back and placed them on the coat rack. Then he hung the cane up beside them. But nothing else changed. Although he stood straighter, his spine still retained a slight hunch. I watched his face and waited for his cheeks to fill out and his eyes to return to normal, but they did not. The haunted look remained, and the bones in his face were so defined, that it looked as though they would protrude from his flesh at any moment. There was nothing left in the man, both physically and mentally.

I could not bear the sight of him, so I quickly left the apartment mumbling something about needing some fresh air as I passed him.

No sooner had I left the front step than I was approached by a young lad of about twelve years of age. He reminded me of one of the Baker Street Irregulars that Holmes used in various cases.

"Are you Dr. Watson?"

"Why, yes, I am."

"I have a letter for you." The boy looked around nervously, as though he thought he was being followed. I invited him inside, in an attempt to ease his anxiety, but he politely refused. "No thanks, sir, I'm afraid I must be going now." And with that, the boy ran off and disappeared around the corner. Something about the letter gave me an uneasy feeling, so I decided to return to the apartment and open it there.

I had only been outside for a few minutes, and in that time period, Holmes had picked up his pipe and had even succeeded in filling the room with a light haze. I placed the letter on the table and went across the room to open a window. When I came back to open the letter, I found that it was no longer where I had put it. I looked about frantically, trying to find the letter the boy had given me. I turned to ask Holmes if he had seen it, and I found that he had it in his hands. He had put his pipe down and was analyzing the envelope, looking for clues that would be missed by the average eye.

"Interesting. This envelope is almost entirely clean, save for a few smudged fingerprints, which no doubt came from the messenger boy. There is no aroma, no dirt, nothing. There are no distinguishing characteristics whatsoever." He was not speaking to me, but rather to himself. After completing his analysis, he gingerly opened the letter. He quickly scanned it, then threw it at me in disgust. He picked up his pipe and made his way to the window. By all appearances, he was simply taking in the sights, but I knew that his mind was tearing itself to pieces. I picked up the letter, and began to read it.

Dr. John Watson,

At this point, I am sure that you are very well aware of the disappearance of your good friend's brother. I write this to inform you that Mycroft is alive at this present moment, although I can't guarantee his safety for much longer. I give him credit, though. He is as stubborn and persistent as his younger brother.

If you would be so kind as to pass on the following information to Mr. Holmes, I would greatly appreciate it. Tell him that if he would like to see his brother, he is to meet me at the corner of Victoria and Waterloo tonight at eleven o'clock. He will find a warehouse on the corner, and I will meet him there. He is to come alone, although you may accompany him if you wish, Dr. Watson. Thank you for your time.

Yours truly,

Professor James Moriarty

I knew Holmes was seeing something in the letter that I was not, for I was relieved to hear the Mycroft was still alive. And I believed that if we were to see Mycroft, there was a chance that we could rescue him. But Holmes seemed to be in a worse state now than before the letter arrived.

"Holmes, what is troubling you now? We know that Mycroft is alive, and we might have the opportunity to rescue him." When he didn't respond, I became irritated. "Holmes, are you listening to me? We have the chance to rescue your-"

"I heard you Watson." His voice was as cold as ice when he spoke, and it sent chills down my spine. He continued to stare out the window as he spoke. "The only mind in all of England that I consider to be my equal is holding my brother captive and he has the upper hand, while I don't even have a single card. What about that is supposed to excite me?" He turned slowly and his eyes were filled with such a hateful anger that I could not hold his gaze. I knew that the hatred in his eyes was not meant for me. It was meant for Moriarty. But I could not hide the guilt that I felt over being excited to hear that Mycroft was alive. Holmes had been right. Moriarty had the upper hand, and we had nothing.