The brothers were jolted from their moment by Mycroft's phone. Sherlock snatched his hand away, as if burned, and walked around to the far side of the desk in the office.
Mycroft leaned across to answer the call, giving his brother a nod as he did so.
"Mycroft Holmes." he acknowledged into the handset before listening intently for several minutes, his frown deepening as the seconds passed.
"You're absolutely sure?"
Sherlock gave a long, impatient sigh and pulled around the second wing back to seat himself. He began picking at a small splinter of wood on the desk edge while his brother continued the call.
"And you're only just telling me this now?" Mycroft's voice had raised, and Sherlock's eyebrow raised along with it.
It was unusual for Mycroft to lose his cool with anybody, even more so at work. He was well-known for being "The Ice-man": cool, calm and unaffected.
This business with Moriarty was clearly affecting him more than Sherlock had realised, and the thought make the younger man's stomach turn somersaults.
Mycroft lowered the receiver back in to its cradle and dropped his head onto his hands.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock inquisitive baritone rumbled, causing his brother to raise his head only slightly in response. Sherlock didn't repeat himself, merely tipping his head a little as if to encourage his brother's response.
"Counter Terrorism have asked to speak to Jim Moriarty." he said, lowering his hands and flattening them on the desk to steady himself. "Usually, I might be able to fend them off for a little longer, but apparently, they put in the request 6 days ago when Moriarty was first apprehended. I was not informed and therefore the request has already been approved. They are due tomorrow morning."
He leaned himself back in his chair with a loud sigh and looked at his brother who was clearly still working through the ramifications of the situation.
"Are you worried that they won't be able to get Jim to talk? Or that they will?" Sherlock rested his elbows on the opposite side of the desk and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, trying to deduce his brother's feelings about the turn of events. Was he worried that counter terrorism would also fail to get anything out of their captive, or was his greater concern that they would succeed and what Jim Moriarty might reveal?
Mycroft pushed himself up from his chair and came around the table to where Sherlock sat. Sherlock immediately stood, levelling himself up to his brother's height. Mycroft's anxiety was almost tangible. His breathing was accelerated, and he was sporadically chewing on his bottom lip.
"I think we both know what the consequences could be if Jim Moriarty decides to talk, Sherlock." he said, placing a hand on his brother's arm and absently sliding his thumb around the younger man's jacket cuff.
"I have lived in constant fear that our past could come back to haunt us someday, and the only way I can think to prevent that is to speak to Jim Moriarty myself as a matter of urgency."
Sherlock nodded. Jim Moriarty knew too much. He knew things that nobody could know. Nobody ever.
It had been long years since the Holmes men had had any direct involvement with the Moriartys, but it had not been long enough. It could never be long enough. The Moriartys were like a virus. They wormed their way into homes and families and infected everything they touched, making it bleed and burn.
After James Moriarty's death 25 years ago, Sherlock had never expected to encounter another in the Moriarty line. He had certainly hoped not to.
However, when a well-dressed young man had become acquainted with his brother some five years later, nobody expected him to be the only son of James Moriarty, and during the ten years that the man had managed to keep that fact hidden, the Holmes brothers had found themselves more deeply involved than they ever could have imagined.