A/N All of these characters belong to Doyle...

The train ride was rather uneventful. Holmes sat beside me, unmoving, with his legs crossed, his fingers steepled, and his eyes closed. I tried hard to be as calm as he appeared, but I was unable to do so. I was anxious to see Mycroft and to know whether or not he was alright. The train ride was roughly thirty minutes, but it seemed to last for hours. I kept glancing at Holmes, searching for some sign of life, some sign of his awareness of our present situation, but I found none.

When the train stopped at Charing Cross Station, Holmes and I exited along with only a few other people. The train station was rather empty since it was a small, out of the way station, and not many people used it. The seclusion of the train station created a foreboding atmosphere, and I was rather eager to move on. So, we left the station rather quickly, and headed towards our destination.

Victoria Embankment ran along the border of the River Thames, and it intersected Waterloo Bridge roughly a mile to the northeast of Charing Cross Station. The area consisted mainly of businesses and a few shabby apartment complexes. The streets were dimly lit, and most of the businesses had closed for the night by the time we arrived, giving the impression that the streets and darkened buildings did not make up a thriving business district, but rather a barren wasteland. Silence enveloped the dark neighborhood and I could almost feel it creep in around us. It was an eerie silence, and it chilled me to the bone. All in all, it was an unpalatable place. I found myself pulling my collar up round my neck despite the pleasant warmth of the evening.

We arrived at Victoria and Waterloo shortly before eleven o'clock, and we surveyed the building where we were to confront Moriarty. The warehouse was dark, save for a single light, somewhere towards the back. The exterior was uninviting; the bricks were chipped and faded, and what few windows we could see were filthy and cracked, one of them missing entirely. The inky black of the London night took hold of the building a few feet over Holmes' height, and there was not much more to be seen.

I looked around one last time to survey the surroundings, and it hit me. There was not a soul present to witness our meeting. The few apartment buildings were completely dark and appeared vacant. Apparently the Professor knew what he was doing when he instructed us to meet him at this derelict depository.

Holmes' voice shattered the silence, making me jump in the process. "Well, Watson, it looks as though we are here." He looked me in the eye and I could see that he was nervous. "Whatever happens, I need you to trust me fully."

"As always, Holmes."

Before we entered the building, Holmes reached into his coat and pulled out a small lantern. I had not seen him take one from the flat, but it did not surprise me that he had thought to bring one. "Watson, may I borrow the matchbook?" I took the matchbook from my right pocket and handed it to him. He deftly lit the lantern and placed the remaining matches in his own pocket. He then headed into the warehouse, and I followed closely behind.

The interior of the warehouse was just as neglected as the exterior. There were boxes and crates scattered in random clusters on the floor. Most of these were broken, their contents long since stolen by petty thieves. The floor itself was covered with multiple layers of dust, dirt, and various other forms of filth. Once or twice I saw Holmes bend down and inspect the floor in front of him. The second time, he motioned me closer to him. "There are no shoeprints on the floor, meaning that there is another way in," he whispered. "We need to be very cautious in whatever we do. Moriarty probably has every angle covered regarding our possible courses of action." I nodded my acknowledgement and he continued on toward the solitary light in the back, taking in every corner and crate that made up the warehouse as he walked.

It was not long before we approached the source of the light. It seemed to be a relatively large office in the farthest corner of the building. We could see the light through a frosted window that had been cleaned recently. The window permitted us to see the light and vague shapes, but nothing more. Holmes approached the window and tried to discern what the blurry figures and shapes were, but his efforts were to no avail. He was left with no other option than to open the door.

When he neared the door, he handed me the lantern. "Watson," he whispered, "take this. I'm going to open the door, and I want both hands if I need them."

He turned towards the door, took in a deep breath, and opened it as if he were entering his own home, neither throwing it open nor opening it cautiously. I quickly followed him inside, expecting the worst. The first thing we saw was Moriarty leaning on an old desk, looking at a pocket watch. "I expected you seven minutes ago. What took you so long? No doubt you were analyzing the building, committing every detail to memory. No matter, whatever kept you is unimportant. All that matters is that you are here now, and are no doubt anxious to see the elder Holmes brother." I glanced at Holmes and saw that he had such a grip on his cane that his knuckles had turned white. Moriarty turned his attention away from us and toward a closed door to our left. "Lennox, would you be so kind as to bring the good Mycroft Holmes in here?"

We heard shuffling coming from behind the door, and within a few moments, the door was opened and Mycroft was brought in.

"Holy Jesus Christ…" I whispered under my breath.