Sorry for the longer wait. Real life wanted me to write a few nice articles. Besides, I have serious trouble writing Mycroft, I hope he's not too OoC. Anyways, on with the story

Disclaimer: See chapter one, plus, title of this chapter taken from Rihanna's G4L. No profit made.

Chapter Eleven: How it feel down there on your knees?

Mycroft entered the interrogation room, which really wasn't much different from the cell they had kept Moriarty in so far. Moriarty was sitting on the chair in the middle of the room, hands handcuffed behind his back. They had brought him rice and chicken, which he had refused to touch, and water, which he had downed in one go. Then they had brought him to the showers, where he had just quickly washed his hair and body before putting on new clothes. Since then, he had been sitting here on the chair, shifting his weight every now and then. But as soon as Mycroft opened the door, the man on the chair straightened up, and even though Mycroft couldn't see the face, he was sure James Moriarty was smiling.

Mycroft had long thought about how to play this. He had decided to try and be the nice guy. Violence got them nowhere. He walked to the other side of the room, into Moriarty's vision. He was mildly shocked as to how a month of captivity had changed the man. His body showed clear signs of malnourishment; his cheeks were cavernous, but the dark eyes were bigger than ever. And they hadn't lost their glint.

"Mr Holmes. Glad you decided to have a little chat with me." Jim's voice was barely audible, coarse, and he had to swallow a few times during the little sentence, but it didn't take the threatening edge off his voice. "I was getting rather… impatient."

Mycroft leaned against the wall, "I understand you wanted to see me. I am a busy man, and have to come up with new plans since the last ones were… well, discovered."

A smirk appeared on Jim's face, "Oh, yeah, that. Did I give you a little fright with my text message? Sorry. Didn't mean to."

"Of course you didn't. So… what did you want to tell me?"

Now Jim grinned widely, "Ah, this is not how it works, Iceman, is it? I haven't been through all of this just to spill the beans now. I want something in return."

"The Government doesn't negotiate with terrorists, Mr Moriarty."

"Oh, please, I'm not a terrorist." Jim seemed offended. "Believe me, if I had any hatred towards this country, I'd have blown it to pieces a long time ago. After all, I've been living with the nickname 'Irish shit' all my life. No, Mr Holmes, if I wanted this country down, you would be ashes by now. I'm not a terrorist."

"We also don't negotiate with ordinary criminals."

"I'm not an ordinary criminal either, Mycroft. Would I have a key code if I was?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to smile, "So, it does exist."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"If you have it, why are you still here? You could have gotten out of this building."

"Maybe I didn't want to? I loved having Mrs York around. Such a beautiful woman. Ordinary of course. She got nothing on Ms Adler. But well, it's not like there's much choice here."

Mycroft fell the headaches growing stronger, "I really don't have time for this. Tell me what you know, or I'll send Matthew and his men back in."

Jim, for only a split second, let his exhaustion show, "And do what to me? What else could they possibly do to me?" He cleared his throat; talking was difficult. "But I agree that time is precious and I've wasted enough of mine already. My people will soon start worrying; even I don't go on vacation for more than a month, usually."

Mycroft looked up from his shoes he had examined with faked boredom, "You knew we were coming?"

"Of course. Did you really think you could capture me if I didn't want to? Nobody can make me do things I don't want to. You have no idea who I am, obviously." He sighed. "Aw well. Now, I tell you how this is going to work. We will exchange information. You answer my questions, I will answer yours."

"I told you we don't negotiate with… people like you."

Jim sat up straight, ignoring the pain it caused him. "Do you really want to risk this, Mycroft? Risk a worldwide chaos? Just because you don't want to talk to me? All I want is a bit of information on your brother. Nothing vital, just teensy bits. You'll get much more than I do."

"And why would you agree on a deal like this if you know you lose?" Mycroft asked.

Jim pretended to think about this, "I am intrigued by Sherlock. You must know how I feel. All those ordinary people, all stupid, you can't have decent conversations with them, because they don't see what you see… Well, no, you don't, obviously, because you had Sherlock. I had nobody."

"Your father was a professor at a university. He must have been quite intelligent."

"Oh please. He was good at what he did, but that was it. Never was interested in anything else than mathematics. You don't need to be intelligent to do that. And he didn't understand people. Couldn't see what we see." Jim rocked left and right on his chair, "Now, Sherlock and you, and I, we are different. We see everything. You saw what happened to me. I could foresee that you would come to see me after the little artwork I made in my cell for you. Don't worry, Mycroft. What bad can happen? You tell me what it was like growing up with a person that matched your intellect, and I tell you about the key code. It's as easy as that."

Mycroft watched Jim. He seemed unaffected by the traumatising experience he had suffered. Given that he was in physical pain, and that talking seemed to tire him, but he wasn't broken. And Mycroft was pretty sure that if he hadn't broken by now, it would never happen. There was nothing they could do anymore. But Mycroft didn't want to be the last hope. Not at the cost of talking about his brother. What could he tell Moriarty? That Sherlock had always been considered a freak by the other children? That he had never had anything close to a relationship with a woman? No, Moriarty knew that already. The Virgin. So, he had that information. And he hadn't done anything with it yet. He couldn't have known that Irene Adler would tell them about the nicknames. Moriarty was right; what could happen? The man would laugh about Sherlock, maybe taunt him a bit about it, even. That was nothing new for Sherlock; hell, even Mycroft taunted him about it. And, if Moriarty taunted him so much that Sherlock would snap and attack him… no harm done. Mycroft went through all possible scenarios in his head, but nothing he could think of seriously alarmed him.

So he said, "Okay. But I start. Have you used the key code already?"

"Nope."

"Then how do we know it exists?"

Jim grinned, "It's my turn to ask a question. When did you first notice Sherlock was a genius?"

Mycroft messaged his temples again. This was going to be a long night.

And many more of those nights followed. Moriarty answered his questions without hesitations, but Mycroft wasn't too sure he could do much with the information he had. But Moriarty couldn't do much with what Mycroft told him, either. Two weeks on, Mycroft had extracted as much information as he could. He had understood the concept of the key code, how it worked, how it was created. But Moriarty had not told him anything about how he intended to use it. He had told him about people that were interested in the code, which was already more than Mycroft had hoped for.

After another two weeks, Mycroft was faced with a decision. He knew there was nothing more he could get out of the man. Now, there was the question what to do with him: put him in prison, set him free, or… dispose of him. Jail was not really an option. Not only because Mycroft figured that a simple holding cell could stop James Moriarty, but also because it made them a target. The press would get wind of it; they always did. And people would find out: not only Moriarty's men, but also those people that wanted the key code. And they would go every mile to get the man out of jail. Killing him, however…. It had a certain appeal. The greatest criminal ever, wiped off the face of the earth for good. It really was Mycroft's favourite option. Yet… would it do the trick? Mycroft had no idea what Moriarty had told his people about the code. If there was anybody among these men and women who could use the key, Moriarty's death would be in vain. And there was an even bigger risk: They knew Moriarty, but they didn't know any of his associates. There was a rumour Sebastian Moran, the United Kingdom's best sniper, was working for him, but nothing was known about Moran's whereabouts since his dishonourable discharge from army, or whether he and Moriarty had even met. It had taken them quite some time to find out about Moriarty; if they had to start from scratch to find the second-in-command, they would be wasting precious time during which said person could wreak havoc on the world. Moriarty however was known to the Government, they could keep an eye on him, he was a constant. Mycroft sighed; they had to let him go. His hands were bound. So, he made the necessary calls and then went to see the guard who was watching the criminal. He had a bad feeling about this.

So yeah. I hope it wasn't too bad. Lemme know.