Part 5: The Crossfire

The chair squeaked loudly in protest whenever he so much as fidgeted. One of its legs was shorter than the others, which ensured the maximum amount of noise for half the effort.

He had been tied to the seat securely; the thick, padded straps held him down and in place by his arms, legs and shoulders, limiting his range of motion severely.

There was not much point in contemplating escape. Even if he somehow managed to free himself from his restraints, he knew he'd still need to bypass thirty-one different security protocols to get out the facility in one piece. That was, if they hadn't added anymore failsafes since the last time he checked, and that had been ages ago.

And so, he hadn't bothered trying to come up with an escape plan. In any case, staying would surely prove to be far more entertaining.

He had been left to sit in the small room for hours, all by himself. They were watching, he knew, but his back was turned to the viewing glass. The wall and door he was left facing were grey, blank and dull. It wasn't the same cell he graced with his presence last time; else they've managed to completely remove his fingernail scratches from the concrete walls. Shame, he liked his little art piece.

Jim pursed his lips, whistling to himself to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb. He rocked the chair back and forth, using the balls of his feet as leverage. His head slowly swayed left and right under his own rhythm. His eyes were closed.

He'd been stripped down to his pants this time around. He wondered if he ought to feel exposed. That had probably been their intention. Boring.

After some time, the door opened. A rush of fresh air hit him in the face and he cracked a single eye open. He observed the two tall men as they stepped into the room one by one.

Jim watched them with little interest. Their expressions were identical: mouth set sternly and brows furrowed. He wondered if they taught that at Secret Service Academy. He changed his whistling tune, matched it to their movements, supplying their dramatic entrance with a befitting soundtrack.

Then, the two foreboding men were all but forgotten, standing unmoving next to Jim. He fell silent abruptly when a third man made his appearance. The chair stopped squeaking.

A slow smile made its appearance on Jim's lips.

"We have got to stop meeting like this, my dear." He said and then lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "People are going to talk."

Mycroft Holmes stopped a mere few centimetres away from Jim, looking down at the bound man from his considerable height. His features shifted briefly. Whether or not it was intentional, Jim couldn't tell, but he cherished the rapid flow of emotions crossing Mycroft's face – disgust, contempt, wrath – before the cool mask snapped back into place.

Mycroft backed off, settling into a confident stand near the wall. He grasped the umbrella handle with both hands, leaning slightly on where it stood in front of his body.

Jim once asked Sherlock about his brother's favourite prop, but all Sherlock did was shrug in reply. Jim had his own theories, of course, and they had much to do with the phallic shape of Mycroft's constant companion. He smiled even more broadly at the tall man.

He looked impeccable as always in his three piece suit, even more so compared to Jim's underdressed state. The three years however, had aged Mycroft noticeably.

Even so, he appeared as cool and as collected as Jim had ever seen him. The Ice Man, Jim thought in amusement. The Holmes brothers and their silly little masks, how very seriously they took themselves.

"This is a pleasant surprise." Jim continued. His eyes were glued to the man before him. "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon. Did you miss me? Honestly?"

"I can't say that I have, but I was looking forward to meeting you again, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft replied. He pulled out a fob watch, glanced at it critically before returning it to his pocket. "I've cleared my schedule for the rest of the day; we have all the time in the world to-" He smiled, and it wasn't his gentle, polite one –"Catch up."

Jim grimaced. "So very formal." He tutted. "Call me Jim, please. I'm practically your brother-in-law." He smiled brightly at his captor.

Mycroft eyes narrowed. He turned to his men. "You may begin."

One of the men dropped his briefcase to the ground, and if he was disappointed that the prisoner did not twitch at the loud noise, he did not show it.

The other man had been carrying a hose, as well as a clear plastic apron, which he then shrugged on in a practiced move. He attached the hose to the tape on the wall, screwing the plastic cover until it clicked into place. That again, Jim thought in amusement. Unoriginal.

The man holding the hose smiled briefly, and stepped away from the wall once again, uncoiling the hose as he walked. Jim followed his movements until he disappeared behind Jim's head. Jim dropped his head backward just to show off a toothy grin.

The man patted Jim's head, like a dog. And then he smacked the back of his head, jerking Jim forward in his seat. The smile did not drop from Jim's face. He turned to look at Mycroft instead.

"He's been a bit naughty, your brother." Jim called out with a wicked grin. "I'd say he earned himself a spanking." He swept his tongue over his upper teeth. "For starters," Jim added.

Mycroft made a tiny little noise of amusement. He gestured, and Jim's chair was pulled backwards. He was suddenly hit in the face with a strong water spray. It continued for almost a minute until Mycroft raised his hand to signal for a stop. The spray stopped, and the man unhanded Jim's chair.

Jim spluttered, coughing violently. The cough turned into a laugh mid-exhale. He shook the water from his hair, splattering the man behind him.

"Woo!" He exclaimed, and laughed again. "Temper, temper!"

"I'm glad to see you're having such a good time," Mycroft said dryly.

"And yet, so predictable." Jim added. He sounded somewhat disappointed.

"Don't worry, they're only getting started." Mycroft looked down suggestively as the other man, the one not handling the water torture, opened the case next to his feet and began rummaging around in its contents. Tools clicked ominously against one another. The man pulled out a pair of shiny pliers. He stood, silently examining the tool in his hand.

"So I see," Jim said with an amused chuckle. Water dripped from the tip of his nose. "Usually it's customary to ask questions."

"Yes, and you are being awfully chatty this time around." Mycroft said with a kind smile that didn't match his eyes. "Unfortunately there's very little I actually need from you." He nodded toward his little helper. "You see, Mr. Moriarty. I'm like you in a way. I don't like to get my hands dirty, either."

Jim looked sideway briefly, in a mock contemplative gesture. "No, your baby brother has that one covered." He closed his eyes, sighing. "And he's been so dirty. You can't imagine." His eyes blinked open when a new idea struck him. "Or maybe you can. You've been watching us for a long time, haven't you?" He bit his lower lip suggestively, hissing a little as he did so.

"How much ground did your surveillance cover?" Jim continued. "State sponsored pornography, I should sue." A slow, insidious smile spread across his lips. "Did you like it?"

Mycroft's face was like marble for all the emotion it showed. "My brother, Mr. Moriarty," he started, "is the sole reason you're here today, and soon, most of your network will be apprehended as well."

Mycroft spun the umbrella by its handle, looking down at it briefly before raising his gaze to meet Jim's steadily. "You see, while you were busy playing house, we have been working." He smiled then, "you've been sloppy."

"Sloppy?" Jim repeated, contemplating. "No, I don't think so." He said finally.

"No? Perhaps simply foolish, did you really imagine you could turn Sherlock into someone like you?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward to peer at Jim's face in curiosity.

Jim laughed briefly. "You're not getting it at all, my dear," Jim said in frank amusement. "I've already won."

"Sherlock is right, you are delusional." Mycroft said after a loaded pause, his eyebrow rose. "Don't worry; we'll put you out of your misery very soon… although, not too soon."

Jim was pulled back, and once again the water hit him in the face, running down into his nose. The session lasted for over a full minute.

Jim spat out a hearty quantity of water, hacking and wheezing loudly. Once he regained control over his breathing, he relaxed again in his seat. Cold water dripped down his naked back, and his skin goose bumped involuntarily.

"Rude!" He called out, eyes widening. His voice was uneven yet still remarkably unfazed. "Right in the middle of a conversation. You're supposed to be the one with manners." He tilted his head sideway, shaking out the moisture that seeped into his ear.

He glanced at Mycroft as he straightened his neck, sighing. "I hoped Mummy Holmes taught at least one of you right. Oh, well." He shrugged.

Mycroft did not reply, only gestured to the man behind Jim with a curt wave of his hand. Jim was pulled back once again, gurgling under the strong water current.

"Forgive me," Mycroft uttered in a less than convincing apologetic tone, speaking over the sound of the water gushing out of the hose. "I didn't realise you said anything of significance."

The chair's front legs hit the floor again. It wobbled unsteadily. Jim smiled cheerfully up at Mycroft, once he could, his chest expanding in painful intakes of breath. After a moment, he replied.

"You haven't been listening," Jim said in the sweetest voice he could manage.

"Oh?" Mycroft breathed out, his expression a perfect imitation of his little brother's. Jim wanted to coo.

Instead, he said confidently, "I'm not worried."

"What a relief," Mycroft said in a sotto tone, entirely unconvincing. "But, pray tell, why is that?"

"I've got a secret weapon," Moriarty whispered conspiringly. "I'm going to walk out of here, very soon." He wriggled his toes for emphasis.

"Oh, I see, a secret key-code, perhaps?" Mycroft sighed, eyebrows rising. "We've been down this road before. You're boring me, Moriarty."

"Patience, dear. I'll show you, soon enough." Jim watched Mycroft from under his half-lidded eyes. His breathing was normal now, strong and steady. "You're not planning on letting me out of this alive, are you?"

Mycroft smiled turned predacious. "Naturally not," he said.

The look on Jim's face was honestly pleased. "Perfect," he said.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to the dripping man in order to watch him closely. Jim stared up at him, a small smile playing on his lips. Finally, Mycroft sighed, exhaling through his nose as he stepped back once again. He pulled out a notepad from his pocket, marked something down before returning it to its place.

"There is, however, one thing I'd like to know," Mycroft said finally. "It's not important, but I'm curious. I'd like to know what name I should put on your death certificate. We checked, you see, and James Moriarty didn't have any siblings, not on record." He gave an elegant version of a shrug. "What is your real name?"

"What do you want it to be?" The bound man intoned suggestively.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighing to himself. He waved his hand to the man standing behind Jim, signalling him to continue.

"Like I said, it wasn't important."

XXX

Jim had the audacity to look betrayed.

Days after, it was still the first image that crossed Sherlock's mind whenever he thought back on their confrontation: the look on Jim's face when he was pulled away. Awed, yet hurt? Betrayed? It was hard to tell with him, sometimes.

It made him feel uncomfortable, thinking about it, and then he felt irritated at himself for getting sidetracked with emotions. Stupid and sentimental. He didn't have time for that.

He had arranged for Jim to be taken into custody. Secretly, of course, and hidden from the public eye; Sherlock had an image to maintain now and Jim's arrest would only complicate matters. He needed to trust Mycroft to keep Jim under control for the time being.

He'll have to meet him face-to-face eventually, in court if nothing else, assuming everything goes to plan.

It was easy to face Jim when Sherlock was playing a part, in character as James Moriarty. That had been fun, even. He was seeing the events unfold not through his own eyes, but through his character's eyes. It was a game, and he could treat it as such.

However, what would it be like when he'll have to face Jim again as Sherlock Holmes? The look he gave Sherlock as he was dragged away made Sherlock's breath hitch when he remembered it, just a little bit.

He worried about his reaction, vaguely, but set it aside for the time being. He had more pressing matters to worry about.

Sherlock sat by the window, plucking at his violin in distraction (not his violin, not really.) He was alone, truly on his own for the first time in three years. With no one left around to gauge his every move. Unobtrusively of course, Jim never left him with any guards, so to speak. He'd always insisted that Sherlock wasn't a prisoner.

The illusion of freedom, Sherlock thought, his mouth twitching.

He plucked another cacophonous note from the violin, and then set it aside impatiently. Bringing his hands to press together under his chin, he contemplated his next move.

Sherlock's gambit had paid off. All he really needed was to have Sebastian on his side, and in the right position at the right time - when Sherlock publicly denounced Jim's identity. He knew Moran would cover him, just as long as he believed he was watching the back of the real Moriarty.

Moran really deserved all the credit that Jim gave him. In the end Jim had done him a favour, when he asked the sniper not to come with them to London after all. Coupled with Sherlock's earlier insinuations about Jim's character, he managed to raise Sebastian's suspicions. The man was both intuitive and resourceful; Sherlock had to give him that.

What a pity his loyalties were so misplaced.

It had taken three years and Sherlock's considerable efforts to manipulate him into coming to the wrong assumption about Sherlock, right under Jim's nose, and without the sniper noticing anything was amiss. It wasn't Sebastian's fault he'd been tricked. Sherlock had outside help, thankfully, for Sebastian had been digging.

Now with Jim out of the picture, and Sherlock in charge, it was time to act. He was in the perfect position to bring Jim's network down. He was probably the only person alive besides Jim who knew the full extent of the network, as it was.

For the past three years, Sherlock had been a ghost. Only a handful of people knew as a fact that Sherlock was still alive, his brother and his agents included. Those who were privy to this information either reached an early grave, or, like Sebastian Moran, were some of the key members of Jim's organization, none of whom would have dared betray him. Becoming James Moriarty was the only way to turn their allegiance from Jim to Sherlock.

In the end, he didn't really care what the greater public thought. He needed to convince the key figures within the network. Bless Jim, but he made it easy for Sherlock to know exactly what threads to pull. He supposed he ought to consider himself the spider, now.

Jim's inner circle, they people both Sherlock and Jim interacted with personally, were not numerous. With Sebastian Moran at his side, they'd need little convincing.

The rest of the network needed something a little different. None of them met with Jim in person - they've interacted with the network as a whole. They knew it existed, although they did not always know to which extent, and sometimes didn't even realise they were part of it. Yet their interactions were reserved to the organisation itself, with all its different branches and figureheads.

For years, very little was widely known about the man behind the name Moriarty. Then, after the entire media circus three years prior surrounding the triple break-ins and subsequent media frenzy around Richard Brook, none of them knew exactly what to think.

Sherlock's living status was known to very few, but whenever he appeared alongside Jim, reports of his sightings followed. Rumours, of course, conspiracy theories, there were whole websites dedicated to it.

Those sightings had a way to make waves. Some of Mycroft's undercover agents helped fuel the rumours in the criminal underworld, but they needn't had bothered, in Sherlock's opinion.

The recent drama inside the nightclub was known to a very select group of people, all of them would swear on their children's lives that they hadn't talked. Yet, Sherlock knew, already a new wave of rumours began to spread about who really was pulling the strings.

No secret was really ever safe, but without proof, all they had was speculation and hearsay. Oh, no one talked outright, Sherlock knew. They conversed in whispers only, assuring each other that whatever was said wouldn't leave the room. No one was stupid enough to gossip about Moriarty openly if they knew what's best for them.

Sherlock heard Jim's underlings mutter among themselves when they thought no one was listening (Sherlock always had excellent hearing, and when that failed, he was very good at lip reading.) they talked, egged on by Jim's public appearances as Richard Brook alongside his continued activities as a consulting criminal. No one could be sure what to think.

There were all sorts of conspiracy theories running wild. The websites especially were a laugh; Jim liked to read those out loud to him.

Some were determined that Jim was the real Moriarty, others thought that it was Sherlock who was the real criminal mastermind, others speculated that neither of them really existed, and others more suggested that both of them were actors, controlled by the real Moriarty who was some unknown shadow figure. The most vocal theorists decreed that it was the government who created Moriarty to distract the people from the real terrorists. A small minority also suggested that Moriarty was actually John Watson the blogger (both Sherlock and Jim laughed out loud at that one.)

Still, Sherlock's outing was only enough to create waves for the select few. He needed something to inspire the rest of the world, and more importantly, Jim's criminal connections, from his most important allies in the government to the most insignificant client.

Luckily, he had an old "friend" to help him with that.

Sherlock snapped out of his musings by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Steady, military, familiar. And making himself heard, Sherlock realised, since the man's footsteps were usually as silent as the grave.

"Come in, Sebastian." Sherlock called out, before the man had a chance to knock.

Sebastian stepped inside the door, kicking it closed impatiently behind him. He waved a newspaper before Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's own face was plastered on the tabloid's cover.

"Oh," Sherlock intoned, reaching for the paper. "What's this, then?"

"Trouble," Sebastian replied, running a hand through his blond hair. He flung himself into the armchair opposite Sherlock. "Check out page five."

"Ms. Reilly works fast." Sherlock commented. His eyebrow climbed up as he skimmed over the article. "It's not much in terms of quality, but that's The Sun for you."

"Wait, you knew about this?" Sebastian asked incredulously.

"Who do you suppose gave her the scoop?" Sherlock said, looking at Sebastian over the newspaper. He flung it away for someone else to pick up later, and leaned back in his seat, hands steepled under his chin once more.

"After all the trouble you took to disappear?" Sebastian asked angrily. "Jesus Christ, Boss, do you realise how much danger you're putting yourself into?"

"I didn't recall asking for your opinion, Sebastian." Sherlock snapped. He shook his head. "It's a tabloid. I don't expect any substantial investigation to follow."

"So, what was the point?" Sebastian asked.

"I've been a ghost for far too long." Sherlock said simply. "It's just publicity; don't read too much into it."

"Publicity?" Sebastian echoed in disbelief.

"Isn't it obvious, Sebastian?" Sherlock asked. "I'm advertising." He smirked at Moran's dubious look.

"What, being alive?" Moran asked. "What's next, an ad campaign? TV interviews? If you're trying to branch out, James, I think I should know."

Sherlock snorted, "And why would I do something so crass?"

Moran rubbed his hand over his stubble. "Just tell me if you're planning on spending time behind bars for this publicity stunt. Because it will have to really be you in there this time, not Richard Brook."

Sherlock only smiled behind his steepled hands.

Sebastian stared at him. "You're not, are you?" He asked in disbelief. "The jury trick isn't going to stick this time. They know better now, James, no TVs in a Juror's hotel room in high publicity cases." Moran paused, sighing deeply. "Unless you expect me to break you out of prison?"

Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone, gesturing. "No, no, don't worry; I have an app for that." He assured the sniper.

He smiled at the man's answering groan. "No, no jail time, no publicity stunts" He said finally, amusement coating his voice. "Just the tabloid article," he said, and then paused, contemplating. "And the Internet."

He stood up abruptly, reaching for the laptop. He tossed it carelessly into Sebastian's lap, who caught it moments before it tumbled to the floor. Sebastian balanced it on his knees, frowning at the screen.

"John Watson's blog?" He asked, reading the title page out loud.

"No, look at the other tabs." Sherlock said impatiently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Watson hasn't written anything about it yet, I believe he's away for the weekend. But plenty of others had."

"So, a bunch of conspiracy nuts are writing about Sherlock Holmes being alive. So what? They do the same for Tupac." Sebastian's shook his head at Sherlock's blank expression. "Or Elvis…Tell me you at least know who Elvis is?"

"Is he important?" Sherlock wondered.

"Never mind," Sebastian said finally, "You're something else, Boss. Anyway, people are talking about you, so what?"

"As I said, it's publicity." Sherlock smiled, "Just as long as they keep guessing, I can work the situation in my favour. It will be good for business to keep our friends - and our enemies - on their toes."

Sebastian still looked unconvinced, but apparently decided to keep his doubts to himself.

He continued to browse the websites for several long moments, both of them falling into comfortable silence. Sebastian's eyebrows rose from time to time in disbelief over some of the more outrageous theories. Sherlock's lips quirked when he glanced at him occasionally from over his smartphone, where he'd busied himself by texting orders and instructions to what basically amounted to his personal army.

Sherlock loved Jim's phone.

"How is Brook by the way?" Sebastian asked suddenly, offhandedly. "Still alive?"

Sherlock smirked, "Yes, for now."

"Shame about him, he was a decent actor." Sebastian smiled crookedly. "Bit overdone, though." He frowned when Sherlock only nodded absentmindedly. "I'm sorry." Sebastian added.

"Pardon?"

"You've known him for years, right? And uh, I know you were close." Sebastian coughed, awkwardly. "I mean, I've been needling you about it for ages, it was clear what was going on. Maybe a little too obviously kinky, but, eh, guess there's nothing wrong with that…"

"Sebastian," Sherlock said, aghast. "Stop talking, right now."

XXX

Several days later, John Watson was fuming.

He squared his shoulders unconsciously, his walk brisk and body language radiated agitation. He tried to tone it down a bit, and thought he was doing fairly well until a lady walking on the pavement in his direction got one good look at him, visibly startled, and immediately crossed the road.

Good one, Watson.

He was being ridiculous. He didn't understand why he let himself get so worked up over a stupid tabloid article. Maybe if the writer had been anyone else but Kitty fucking Reilly he would have had an easier time dealing with it. Maybe he would have been able to finish the blog post with something akin to dignity.

He hadn't intended to get so affected, he hadn't, really. After three years, he ought to be able to keep a level head. No wonder his girlfriend insisted he should keep seeing his therapist. All it took was a news story to send him back to square one.

He sighed. He'd been doing so well, too. The weekend away to the country was nice and romantic, even if camping was really not their area. It felt good to leave his worldly concerns behind him, in the city. The weather was nice, the mud wasn't completely atrocious, and they had an overall good time.

His mood was sunny and relaxed when he woke up on Monday morning and headed back to London. Of course, that couldn't last. He remembered the sinking feeling in his gut when he picked up the days old newspaper someone had been gracious enough to save for him.

He thought he was calm, at first, even prepared to make a joke out it, when he started on his blog post. Of course he got so riled up he couldn't finish what he initially sat down to write. He clicked the submit button hastily and without bothering to proof read his post. He was probably going to regret that later.

He hadn't even picked up his phone after he slammed his poor laptop screen down and left his flat in a tiff. At least he had his wallet on him. He could pick up some flowers for Mary when he returned, to apologise for his disappearing act, but first, by God, he needed a drink.

He stepped around the curve and made his way to the closest pub. It wasn't one he frequented, which was good; he wasn't in the mood to be approached that evening.

He stopped dead in front of the pub, staring blankly.

The pub had one of those electronic screens hanging from their door, one that usually advertised their low prices or special offers.

Right now the message on the board read: "Hello John. Look behind you."

He turned around slowly, and yes, just as he expected, a sleek black car with dark windows came to a stop next to him. John looked at it, and then looked back to the electronic board, which now advertised "Buy the Second Pint for Half the Price!"

He closed his eyes tightly, feeling the pounding in his head increase tenfold.

"You have got to be kidding me." John breathed out to himself. The driver of the car, a large man in a dark suit stepped outside the car and opened the backseat door for him.

"Is he serious?" He asked the driver, stepping closer to the car. He didn't bother to specify who he was. The driver did not respond, so John bent down to peer into the passenger seat, one hand holding on to the car roof for support. A familiar dark haired woman sat in the backseat; she smiled at him vaguely in greeting, without taking her eyes from the phone in her hands.

"Are you serious?" John asked her incredulously.

She didn't reply. Apparently all of Mycroft's employees took a vow of silence sometime in the past three years.

"Right," John breathed slowly to calm himself, straightening. He flexed his right hand, which began to tremble. He shook it angrily, now was not the time for that.

He spotted a nearby CCTV camera, which was, unsurprisingly, aimed straight in his direction.

John pointed angrily at it with his steady hand. "You better have a damn good explanation." He yelled. Mycroft probably couldn't hear him, but that hardly perturbed John. A few people whispered amongst themselves as they passed him, looking at him in a way they probably thought was inconspicuous. John leaned back against the car, covering his face in his hands.

Three bloody years and suddenly Mr. Holmes was finally deigning to meet with him. This day was turning out to be more precious by the minute.

Fine, he decided. He'll go, if only to give Mycroft a piece of his mind, and maybe his fist. It depended on how smarmy the smug bastard was going to be.

He slammed the door behind him without waiting for the driver. Harder than he needed to, just for good measure.

XXX

The drive was a long one. John spent about half of it fuming in silence, and the other half ranting to his heart content at his escort, who hummed and nodded in response, occasionally offering half heartened comments.

He didn't know why he bothered, to be honest.

They arrived to a deserted factory somewhere outside of London. He was led through countless corridors by Mycroft's assistant, who, despite never once looking up from her blackberry, never stumbled or hesitated. John wondered how often Mycroft kidnapped people for a friendly chat these days; now that his brother was gone he probably didn't have much of a reason to.

Maybe he just missed it.

She stopped at the entrance to a small, claustrophobic room with no windows. John nodded at her briefly and squared his shoulders before he stepped inside, eyeing the man sitting by the table. A water pitcher was placed on the table, a slice of lemon floated lazily inside the cool liquid. There were three cups on the table, John noticed distractedly. Was Anthea supposed to be joining them later?

"John," Mycroft stood up to greet him, his laugh lines deepening despite his smile being little more than a small quirk of his lips.

"Mycroft," John said curtly, not shaking the offered hand.

He looked older, John realised with some trepidation. Mycroft always seemed like he came from another planet. Both of the Holmes brothers had, to some extent. But John had seen Sherlock ruffled, and less than perfectly composed, while Mycroft always was impeccably dressed and unapproachable.

He was still impeccably dressed, but there was some grey thrown in his auburn hair now, his frown line looked deeper and he was somehow pudgier around the middle. Amazing how easily you spot changes in someone you haven't seen in years.

"How have you been, John?" Mycroft asked pleasantly, dropping his hand to his side.

"What does it matter?" John asked, unable to help the incredulous tone from seeping into his voice. "Why did you bring me here? Why, why…" His voice went off and he coughed. Anger clouded his mind. "Why now?" He asked in a quiet, stern tone.

"I did try phoning you this time," Mycroft said, half to himself, turning around to pour a glass of water, which he neither drank nor offered John. He sat it down on the table. "You weren't picking up. A different approach was necessary."

"I left my phone at home." John said sharply, voice rising unintentionally. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Quieter, he said, "I'm not explaining myself to you. Answer my question."

"It will be clearer in a moment. Why don't you have a seat while we wait?" Mycroft said.

"I don't want to sit. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on." A sudden thought crossed John's mind. "It's Moriarty, isn't it? Why you called me here?" John asked. "You caught the bastard?"

"Yes." Mycroft said simply, sitting down.

"For good?" John continued. "You're not going to just let him go again?" He asked harshly.

"Yes, John." Mycroft assured him in a clipped tone. "He will not enjoy another day as a free man, I guarantee you."

John sighed raggedly. "What took you so long?" He asked.

"It wasn't just him we were after," Mycroft replied. "He's wasn't the only big fish in the sea. We needed a way to catch all of them before we made our next move. It was a necessity." He paused, obviously considering how much he needed or wanted to tell John.

"All right, so what happened?" John asked, still refusing to sit. Mycroft looked up at him in a silent study.

"An undercover agent, working in the heart of Moriarty's organization," Mycroft replied. John considered this for a moment, brow furrowed.

"Go easy on him, John," Mycroft said softly then. "He's been through so much."

"What?" John barked out, confused.

Mycroft rose from his seat, looking at someone behind John. "You're late," he said.

John turned around, and blinding white shock coursed through his body like a lightening bolt. He could only stare, wide eyed.

"In more ways than one," Sherlock said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He smiled. "Hello John."

Suddenly John found himself sitting slumped on the floor, his back pressed to the table leg. Sherlock, alive, in his stupid great coat and blue scarf, was kneeling by his side, looking at him in concern.

"Was that too dramatic?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"A bit," John said hoarsely.

"Shall we try again?" Sherlock wondered.

A laugh bubbled out of John, sounding a bit hysterical.

"I watched you die," he said softly, reaching out to touch Sherlock's arm hesitantly, as if fearing it would go straight through.

"I know," Sherlock said sombrely, looking down at John's hand.

"You're not dead," John said, a little monotonously. He breathed deeply, as if to calm himself. "I'm going to kill you." He said finally, voice thick with emotion.

He pulled Sherlock by his coat collar, bringing him closer for a hug. "I'm going to kill you." John repeated for emphasis.

It took him several moments to notice Sherlock wasn't hugging him back. Rather, he'd gone rigid in his arms, body stiff and still as a board. Startled and more than a little concerned, John let him go.

John smiled at him to dispense with the awkward moment, and Sherlock smiled in return, briefly, something akin to relief flitting over his features.

Sherlock stood back up and offered him a hand. John clamped his hand over Sherlock's (Sherlock's, Sherlock's, dear God) gloved one, allowing him to pull John to his feet. His leg shook again, spiking with pain, but he stood still until the feeling passed.

"What are you doing wearing gloves in this heat wave, you clot?" John muttered without heat, wiping his eyes distractedly. He took the water glass Mycroft offered him with a muttered "Thanks."

"You should sit down," Mycroft suggested. "You're as pale a sheet."

"Finding out your best friend is alive after three years will do that to a person." John said, but sat down anyway. His heart felt like it was going to burst free of his chest.

"Sherlock," John said, not taking his eyes off his friend. "Tell me you had a damn good reason."

"Jim was going to kill you otherwise," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He took a seat himself. "He had assassins ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly." He turned to his brother with a half-smile. "Not you, though." To which Mycroft only shrugged.

"I had to die, it was the only way." Sherlock continued.

John stared at him in horror. "Okay, that's… that's a good reason." He said finally. He swallowed. "Mycroft knew?"

"Not initially." Mycroft said. His voice was strangely calm. "Sherlock contacted me after several weeks."

"And, you couldn't tell me?" John asked. He didn't feel angry, simply exhausted.

"I couldn't, it wasn't safe," Sherlock assured him.

"Because I couldn't be trusted to keep the secret?" John asked, and suddenly he was angry.

"No, John," Sherlock replied. "I didn't tell you because I knew you would have come after me."