"Jim, please." Mycroft's voice had almost a begging tone as the Irishman's grin broadened further than seemed possible. "Please. You know what it did to Sherlock last time."
Jim nodded. Of course he knew. He had watched from afar the younger Holmes' descent into addiction with a kind of childish glee at the knowledge that he had caused it. He, Jim Moriarty, had caused the complete and utter destruction of Sherlock Holmes, leaving Mycroft; elder brother; saviour of the family name, scrabbling to pick up the pieces of their lives and their family. It was a truly beautiful thing to watch
Of course, it hadn't lasted forever. Mycroft did eventually manage to pull his brother off the streets and into rehab but not before the younger man had suffered greatly. It was clear to anybody who bothered to look that there were still lingering effects of Sherlock's time as an addict. His solitary nature; his manic, unpredictable behaviour; his strained relationship with his brother to name but three.
The Irishman smiled. Yes, he had certainly left a lasting impression on the Holmes family, and while he wasn't happy that this time, Mycroft had failed to prevent his temporary capture, it was with a certain pleasure that it ultimately meant he was able to hammer another nail in the Holmes coffin. It was just a question of "what" and "who" this time. He hummed as he ran over the decision in his mind.
Jim leaned forwards, as best he could within his binds, and looked into the eyes of the man to whom he had given ten years of his life and received ten years of relatively easy criminal activity in return.
"It is time, once more, for your brother to pay, Mycroft. You have had ten years of doing your part. I'll admit that sometimes you did it better than others, but you did what you do best. Now it is time for your brother to do what he does..." Jim paused to look into the mirror, knowing that Sherlock would be watching and listening, even if the recordings had been stopped, "... time for Sherlock to do what he does best." He finished with a wink at the one-way glass.
Mycroft sat forward, his hands on his knees and his face pained; all aspects of his flat, expressionless mask now completely gone as he leaned towards Jim. This Irishman had once been a part of him. He'd had all of Mycroft: heart and soul; everything. Even after everything that had happened in the past ten years, Mycroft was still affected by Jim's proximity. Despite all of his better instincts, the man was intoxicating. A deadly poison that drew him in; wrapped its toxic tendrils around every fibre of Mycroft's being and held him there: suspended in a kind of limbo, with no way out.
Mycroft's move towards him was expected by Jim, of course. He knew all too well the effect that he had on the elder Holmes just as he knew the effect that he had on the younger.
"Please." Mycroft whispered again. "Not Sherlock. I really don't think that this time he could..." Mycroft was cut short by the sound of a throat clearing behind him.
"Mycroft." it began, the rich deep baritone clearly battling to keep its composure as Sherlock crossed the interrogation room and stood beside Jim Moriarty and his brother. Mycroft's lowered head shot up and he stood quickly.
"No, Sherlock." he said, grabbing the younger man's arms and looking at him, his eyes pleading and desperate. "No, please don't do this."
Sherlock shrugged his arms free and moved around his brother, sitting himself on the now-vacant chair opposite Jim.
Jim was looking from brother to brother, his face fixed in an expression of pure amusement.
"This is beautiful," he began with a chuckle, "It's really very touching, but I think you both forget that I am the one making the rules here."
Mycroft walked to stand behind his brother, resting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders as they both looked at Jim. He felt Sherlock relax slightly under his touch before stiffening up again, putting on an impassive front for the man sat before them.
"You planned this." Sherlock stated calmly. It wasn't a question. It was fact. It was as if everything had suddenly become clear. "This was your intention all along."
Jim laughed, and Mycroft let out a small gasp before composing himself again. Of course. Of course this was planned. Jim Moriarty would never be so stupid.
"You deliberately allowed yourself to be caught on the CCTV." Mycroft continued for his brother, "You allowed yourself to get caught, and for what? To get us here? At what cost to yourself? Counter Terrorism will be here in less than 4 hours, and then what?"
The resulting smirk that crossed Jim's face at the mention of the Counter Terrorism unit was obvious to both brothers.
Sherlock responded with a groan and a head shake. "He won't be here in the morning."
Jim's smirk broke into laughter. An insane laughter that sounded out of place in the doom and gloom of the bleak, grey interrogation room.
"Why bother?" Sherlock asked, fighting to hold down his frustration and anger at the whole thing, "Why go through all of this just to get to us? Why not just approach us directly?"
"Oh, Sherlock," the Irishman started, struggling to speak as the laughter continued, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock."
Slowly, Jim began to regain his composure, his face settling into his usual mask of evil, guarded contempt and control.
"Really, Sherlock," he continued, leaning towards the younger Holmes with a half-smile and a tilt of the head, "What would be the fun in that?"