Lennox all but dragged Mycroft, hands bound behind his back, to a chair beside Moriarty. The Mycroft that I remembered was a heavyset version of the Holmes that I knew so well. They had shared the same spark in their eyes, the same facial contour, and the same enthusiasm for life. The man before us was merely a passing shadow of his former self. Mycroft was no longer a heavy man. He had lost an unhealthy amount of weight for the short time that he had been missing. It appeared as though he hadn't ingested anything, food or water, since he had been abducted. He had lost so much weight, in fact, that his hollowed out frame reminded me of that of Sherlock. In addition to his weight loss, he had been beaten, severely. His face and arms were bruised and bleeding. His clothes were tattered and filthy, covered in dirt and blood. As he sat in the chair, he squinted, trying to hide his eyes from the assault of the bright light.
Holmes dropped his cane to the floor with a resounding crack when he saw his brother. He took a step toward Mycroft, but Moriarty motioned for him to stop, and he obeyed.
"What have you done to him, Moriarty?"
"Nothing that I wouldn't have done to you, Holmes. I merely roughed him up a bit. But you'll be proud to hear that he hasn't told me a thing yet."
Mycroft's eyes had finally adjusted, and although he seemed disoriented, he immediately recognized Holmes. Instantaneously, relief and anguish flashed across his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and raspy, yet full of urgency. "Sherlock, you must get out-"
His warning was cut short when Lennox delivered a swift blow to his abdomen. Holmes and I rushed forward toward Mycroft's side, but we were stopped by the sight of Moriarty with a pistol. We both took a few steps back, distancing ourselves from both Mycroft and Moriarty.
Holmes took a deep breath, letting it out between his teeth before his spoke. His voice was seething with anger and hatred, like a venomous snake pushed to its limits. "Moriarty, you've gone too far this time. Let him go."
"You see, that's where I have to disagree with you. I am not quite done dealing with Mycroft yet. As I mentioned before, he has yet to disclose the information that I need. But I believe that I have found a way to get what I want."
Holmes bent down to pick up his cane, but I spoke before he had a chance to respond. "Can't you see that the man is on Death's door? What more could you possibly do to him?"
"He's not going to do anything more to Mycroft, Watson." Holmes' voice was quiet, echoing with an oppressive realization.
"You are correct, Holmes." Moriarty replied with a smirk on his face as he aimed the pistol at Holmes' head. "Now Mycroft, I'm giving you one more chance. Tell me what I want to know, or the Great Detective will not live through the evening. Oh, and Dr. Watson, if you so much as reach for your revolver… Well let's just say that the consequences would be unpleasant for someone in this room."
The thought had indeed crossed my mind, but I knew that it would be futile to even try. Moriarty would not hesitate to wound or even kill Mycroft, Holmes, or myself.
As my mind feverishly sought a way of escape, my eyes came to rest on those of Mycroft. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and it looked as though his left cheekbone had been shattered. His right eye was bruised, but open, and with it he looked at Holmes. There was a tear rolling down the right side of his face as he weighed the consequences of his decision. On the one hand was the fate of England, on the other, was the fate of his brother. I saw Holmes nod faintly in agreement to Mycroft's thoughts, and Mycroft's shoulders dropped as he turned his head away. His voice was still raspy and quiet, but the urgency was no longer present. His voice carried with it the conviction of one who chooses the right path, even though it is not the easiest. "Do what you will. My answer remains the same."
"Very well then." There was no hesitation on the part of Moriarty. He lowered the weapon so that it aimed at Holmes' left arm, and he pulled the trigger.