Mycroft caught the hard bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, channelling his anger caused by this whole ordeal away. He could hear clearly each of Sherlock's agonising sobs from inside 221b, ricocheting against the thin walls with horrid thuds, but couldn't bring himself to comfort him; to turn back on himself and pull his younger brother into his arms.

That just wasn't an option.

Sherlock was the type to follow up on his threats, but also a man who would seek comfort should he so need it. Mycroft could name but a few times when his brother came for him for comfort. There were those days in their younger years when Sherlock had taken up reading fiction and given himself horrible nightmares, courtesy of his momentous imagination. The elder Holmes would often wake up at night and find a tiny, wiry figure tucked up against his side with huge, round eyes staring imploringly at him in the dark.

"I had a nightmare." Sherlock would state simply, voice high and cracking, and Mycroft would pull the slight boy into his arms where they would sleep for the rest of the night. But that was years ago, and things had long changed between the brothers since then.

He is a grown man and a Holmes, Mycroft reassured himself, and he will deal with this as such.

Before Mycroft could step away from the door to the awaiting car outside, a petite, fresh faced older woman approached him, petering slowly up the stairs. She was dressed in an unflattering cerise button up dress, and heels that clacked ferociously against the wood of the flooring.

"Oo-oo." She called ahead, "Is everything alright, dear?"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson-" The sound of heavy furniture being flipped violently filled the air; a contrast to the smooth reassuring tone of Mycroft's condescension. "-Everything is just fine."

"Ooh, what's that sound?" Mrs Hudson tittered, cocking her head to one side and placing her hands upon her brittle hips. "That had better not be Sherlock and that ruddy gun again."

"Mrs Hudson…" Mycroft adopted a lower tone, one usually reserved for private political chats and underhand conversations. "My brother has just… requited his relationship with his boyfriend. I do hope you understand that-"

"What? John?" Mrs Hudson's mouth fell open and tears brimmed her eyes. "But, why ever would they break up, they were so lovely together!"

Mycroft gave a tight lipped frown, "Conflict of interests," He settled with using his usual tact.

"Oh that's such a shame." Mrs Hudson huffed gently, shaking her head. "Young people these days, always moving from one person to the next."

"Indeed." Mycroft made a show of checking his silver pocket watch, quirking an eyebrow. "Well, I'm afraid I must dash…"

"Yes, yes, of course." Mrs Hudson patted his arm with motherly tenderness and turned to descend the stairs. "If you've ever got any free time, Mr Holmes, you can always come to mine for a cup of tea; it would be lovely to have you."

"Why thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll keep that in mind," Mycroft halted his reply to view his mobile, which buzzed irately. His eyes widened minutely as the text was opened.

[Want to make our darling Johnny writhe in pain?

He does look so pretty when he does so. –JM x]

Mycroft paused, running his thumb along the length of his screen. It was no surprise to him that Moriarty had somehow discovered his mobile number, simply a minor annoyance. He would have to have Anthea change it; too many texts from the deceitful Irishman would grate upon his nerves.

But, John. Then there was the matter with John. The man who misled his brother, dredging up unwanted feelings of love and adoration from him only to tear up his heart.

The grip Mycroft had on his phone tightened dangerously, anger tainting his neck a flushed red.

No one would hurt his brother and get away easily. That much he would work to make clear.

[Happily. What do you require? –MH] He replied.

An uneasy smirk worked its way across his face. Finally, he was doing right by his brother.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night at 9pm, Sherlock sat alone in the flat, thinking.

He lay lengthways along the sofa, a lone tear escaping as his thoughts twisted and danced silently though his mind. His fists flexed and uncurled sporadically.

Moriarty had enlisted John to break his heart. Now there was a sobering thought.

As he dissected the situation in his mind; it all made sense – John's inexplicable attraction right from the beginning, his almost unnerving bravery when the first met; his control over the situation. He knew what was going to happen. It was all planned. He was simply a cog in a vast machine to bring Sherlock down, and put him in his place.

To show him who was in charge.

Moriarty.

There was that name again. That repetitive little name that was always there… hiding in the background behind a layer of lies and illusions. Sherlock brought his hands together, tucking them gently under his chin, a thousand strands of thoughts like a web entwining across the branches of his mind.

John had obviously been a ploy to get Sherlock's attention; a show of his power. And although Sherlock hated to admit it; it was terribly clever. Neat, almost. He'd struck before Sherlock had time to react. It was a plan within a plan. Moriarty could have broken out of that isolation unit with minimal fuss – oh no, the entire hostage situation was a massive ruse to wrap Sherlock up in the beginnings of a game. And what a great game it would be.

Hostage. Hostage situation. The spin of Sherlock's mind began piecing together idol pieces of thought. John's father was being kept hostage by Moriarty, using him as a chess piece to exploit John.

Sherlock shifted restlessly on the sofa. His heart ached furiously whenever his mind strayed upon John's name.

Heartache. How quaint.

Lost in his own private world, Sherlock failed to notice the figure that had been lounging in John's armchair for the past half an hour at least.

The figure cleared his throat pointedly, rolling his eyes with patient aggravation.

"Moran." Sherlock sighed theatrically, his eyes unopened. "Come to haul me in to your master?"

Moran snorted and settled back, crossing his skin-tight black jean clad legs at the ankle. "Hardly. It's way past his bedtime."

Sherlock gave a small sneer and peered at the blonde through a cracked eyelid. He was different from before; not just in his attire but his demeanour. His dirty blonde hair was shorn short, and his slitted green eyes observed the room from between his pale eyelids. They had a certain dead quality to them; no light shining behind them, none of the innocence that John's often held. (Damn, there was that name again).

It was apparently now that Moran's face wasn't the only area of his skin scattered with white-thin scars, but his hands and neck too. Claw marks. Scratches by human fingernails, from his thumb downwards – they scratched to pull his hand from their mouths. Interesting.

"You aren't here for me… you've brought no weapons, so you aren't expecting a fight…"

"I wouldn't need weapons to take you down, skinny." Moran smirked, shrugging as if this was the most obvious of facts. "You'd snap like a fucking twiglet."

"Wrong, but irrelevant." Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the sofa to face the older blonde man. "You're here on your own accord, then. Moriarty doesn't know."

"Well done, Point Dexter; do you want a medal?"

"… You're here about John."

"Hurrah, praise the lord. The penny drops."He drawled sarcastically.

Sherlock oscillated in his seat, fingers twitching agitatedly. Moran was fast getting on his nerves. "Do be quick about it; I've got things to be doing."

"Like what?" Moran picked an imaginary hair from his jeans. "Mope over your boyfriend some more? Cry?"

"Work on destroying your boss' entire organisation?"

"Touché," Moran rocked forward and clasped his hands together, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. For a second, a gleam of uncertainty crossed his marred face.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted.

"Awh, jeez; I don't really know how to say this," Moran ran a hand over his face, cradling his jaw. "Right, well, I'll just put it to you straight. This isn't the first time Jim has pulled this trick on someone, it's been done before."

"He repeated himself?"

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Moran sighed heavily. "I didn't think he would pull this shit again. The things he is planning, man; it's sick. And coming from me, that's saying something."

"Interesting…" Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his chin. "What happened the last time?"

"He took an interest in this guy, Carl Powers. They were in the same class at college or something. Powers starting doing really well in their classes – totally slaughtering Jim's results. Made him feel stupid. So, he decided to do something about it. He got a guy from the army; like your John, and pulled the bank trick. It worked, and Powers fell for the guy."

"Heightened emotions in strenuous situations often work in bringing people together." Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah. So, anyway; Powers was completely devastated when he found out the truth. Couldn't handle it. Went crazy. Drowned himself in his local pool. And as soon as he was gone – Jim's attentions back lashed on the nearest person."

"The man from the army…"

"Exactly. But the guy, he didn't want anything to do with Jim. Time went on, and well, when Jim doesn't get what he wants, he gets angry…" Moran sucked in a rough breath through his nose. "He tortured the bloke. You ever heard of the book 1984? It's by George, someone?"

Sherlock's ears pricked. "Heard of it, yes…"

"In the book, the main character is broken down, and then built up again to act how the Government want him to act. That's what he did to the poor bloke. Tortured him until he broke." Moran shook his head, plush lips pushing outward perpetually.

"And you believe he is going to do the same to John?" Sherlock inquired.

"If he doesn't, I'd be surprised. Once Jim's got an idea, he bloody well goes through with it."

Digesting this, Sherlock hovered. By helping Moriarty, John had unknowingly signed himself up for a life time of duty with the villain. He was going to be tortured. Ah, that word drove needles into Sherlock's chest. He rubbed the area over his heart numbly.

"There is one link missing in all this," Sherlock dropped his hands to point directly at Moran. "You."

"Me?"

"Yes. You. You've wholly gone against the man you work for; he could easily have you punished for this. What is it about this that has forced you to make a stand?"

Moran froze, his Adam's apple bobbing visible even from where Sherlock sat. "John, he's a nice bloke. I've been with him since the start. You have no idea how much is fucking killed me to hurt him. I don't want to see him get hurt."

"No, no, no – there's more…" With a flourish, Sherlock flung himself upwards, pacing with fervour. "There is something connecting you to this event; something personal."

There was silence, as Moran's blank expression implored Sherlock to catch on.

"It was you." Sherlock exhaled, "you were the man used to court Carl Powers."

Moran remained silent, his pulse jumping in his neck. He sat back in John's armchair, thick eyebrows drawing close. So it was true. Another wheel turned within Sherlock's brain.

"Ah, ah. That's it; that's Moriarty's weakness. Yes!" Sherlock turned and jumped, excitement seeping through every pore. "Oh, yes, yes, yes. Of course, it's so obvious."

"What? What do you mean weakness?" Moran's fingers tapped along the armchair distractedly.

"Moriarty, he underestimates human emotions. He can't see the depth that love, or affection run in the mind. That's how we'll beat him."

"Sorry? Wait, I'm lost, how are we going to beat him?"

Sherlock grinned, eyes bright for the first time in hours. "My John won't give up without a fight."