Chapter 6

Mycroft was woken in the middle of the night by his mobile vibrating beside his head. Reaching a hand up to grab it, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He looked at the display on his mobile to see that he had an incoming call that was blocked. He answered the mobile and placed it to his ear, stifling a yawn.

"Yes?"

"We're having a problem with James."

Of course it had to be one of his security guards. He was still tired and irritable, hence his terse mood.

"Why can't you handle it? You're perfectly capable enough."

"Sir, he's not breathing."

"What?"

Now Mycroft was wide awake, fully alert.

"What do you mean he's not breathing?"

"Exactly that. He isn't responding sir. We've tried everything, even CPR."

"What happened? Why isn't he?"

"We don't know, sir. We were hoping you could get down here to check it out."

Of course, Mycroft was secretly relieved that he might be rid of the problem of James, but he had a guilty conscience that still nagged at him, telling him that he couldn't let someone die because he kidnapped them. Eventually someone would find out and the truth would ruin his whole life. He had to go see if he could help, even if it was futile.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Mycroft hung up his mobile, and turned on his small bedside lamp. He got out of bed and immediately dressed himself in a suit. It shouldn't matter how he presented himself seeing as it was one in the morning and no one would be out, but he wanted to be cautious. He slipped his mobile into his pocket, shutting his light off, and quietly tip-toeing out of the room.

He held his breath as he tip-toed across the main room, hoping that he wouldn't accidentally creak a floorboard and awake Sherlock. He hoped that Sherlock would just remain asleep and oblivious. He had to remain in the dark. If he knew the truth, there was no telling how he'd react.

Mycroft grabbed his keys quietly from the bowl by the door and slipped out into the night. He hailed a cab and gave the cabbie the address. As he rode down the street, he only hoped that James wasn't dead, or he'd have a bigger scandal on his hands.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, making him stare up into the darkness. Why was he awake at such an early time? There must be a reason.

That was when the sound of a creak registered in his ear. It was muted slightly, which meant that someone was walking around in one of the bedrooms. Seeing that the only other person living here at the moment was Mycroft, Sherlock slowly swung his feet over the side of the bed, listening to his movements, wondering what he was up to.

He turned on his mobile and used the light it created as a flashlight, dodging the creaky boards, and opening the door a sliver. He dimmed the light from his mobile, and watched as a shadowy figure made their way across the main room, grabbing up the keys from the bowl by the door, and disappearing outside. Where was Mycroft going? Especially at this hour. Something was fishy.

Sherlock had been right.

Immediately, he turned on a light and got dressed himself. He was determined to find out where Mycroft was going. He knew that Mycroft would be long gone by the time he managed to get outside, but he couldn't get too far. He'd find him.

Mycroft wasn't going to hide anything from him anymore.

When Mycroft arrives, everything was eerily silent. That was to be suspected though, considering that this is where he was trying to hide James Moriarty from the world. He walked toward the warehouse, a soft florscent light shining underneath the crack in the door, signifying that there was someone inside. He rapped twice quickly, and then once long. That was the signal that was established to make it so only authorized people could get inside.

It took a couple minutes, but soon Mycroft could hear the sound of the locks clicking back into place. Soon the door swung open, and Mycroft was bathed by the light from inside. One of his security guards stood in the doorway, a panicked look on his face. He seemed frightened.

"He's this way, sir."

Mycroft followed the guard quickly, almost stepping on his heels. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. He had already evaded death once. To die now, to die here, would be utterly unbelievable.

The further that he was being led into the warehouse, the more curious he became. If they had this whole warehouse to themselves, why station a potentially dead captive this far away? The guard led him into a darken room, reaching to his right to flick on a light switch. As soon as the light lit up the room, Mycroft's heart hammered hard in his chest. His other security guard lay dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood, James standing in front of him, a gun pointed at his chest once again.

"I'm sorry, sir..." said the guard behind him, feeling ashamed that he led his boss into a trap.

"Hello Mycroft. Long time no see. You didn't actually believe that I was dead, did you?"

When Mycroft locked his jaw and didn't reply, James started to laugh.

"Oh, you did. Such a gullible man after all, aren't you?"

He moved the gun toward an empty metal chair nearby.

"Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable? After all, I'm not a monster."

Mycroft made no move to sit down in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him. Though he was trembling with fear on the inside, he refused to show it.

"Sit down, Mycroft. Don't make me get angry."

When Mycroft still didn't move, James shook his head, chuckling slightly.

"Why is it that you people never listen to me when I'm calm? You only listen when I'm angry." He made his voice more high-pitched as he said, "Oh, it's because he's a psychopath and psychopath's never ask nicely." He lowered his voice again, his eyes transforming into two burning coals. "Sit. Down. Now."

He did as you said that time, fearing for his life if he didn't comply with his demand. He sank onto the metal chair, his eyes focusing on James. A small smile crept onto his face as he looked at Mycroft.

"It's amazing how easily your two guards could be bought off. Well, at least that one could," said James, waving the gun at the guard by the door dismissively. "That one on the other hand, I had to shoot. Such a shame..."

Mycroft turned his gaze to look at the dead man on the floor, his pulse quickening. James might just decide to kill him too and be done with him.

He had to hope that that wasn't the case.

"What do you want, James?"

"I want my end of the deal. Duh!" stated James, like the answer should have been obvious. In hind sight, Mycroft realized that it was.

"I will not resign, just to watch you make everything fall in flames around you."

"Ouch! What? No faith in me?" James snickered, crouching down in front of Mycroft so he was eye level with him. "Do you think that all I can cause is destruction?"

"Destruction and death, yes," said Mycroft, hardening his gaze as he stared back at him. There was no way that he was going to appear weak in front of James.

He smirked, rolling his eyes.

"Trying to be brave. How sweet. It won't save you in the end."

James stood back up, arching his back slightly as he stretched, stifling a yawn as if he found this conversation boring.

"What happens in all those hero stories? Oh, that's right. The hero always wins. Well, news flash Mycroft, this isn't a story, and you're certainly no hero. Do you think that Sherlock would agree with what you have done to assure that he stays in London?"

Mycroft didn't say anything. James chuckled, spinning the gun around on his finger as if it were a toy, and not a weapon that could kill people.

"We can either go about you holding up to your end of the deal the easy way, or the hard way. Either way, you will comply."

"I doubt that," said Mycroft. "Tarnish my reputation if you must."

He laughed, rolling his eyes.

"You really don't get it, do you, Mycroft? No, I won't just tarnish your image and reputation if you don't hold up your end of the deal..." James circled his chair like a vulture, pausing behind him, bending down to whisper next to his ear, "...I'll make you commit suicide."

He stood back up straight, chuckling.

"Oh, it'll be such justice. I was robbed last time when Sherlock didn't die. I suppose it won't matter if you end up dead instead. At least you're of the same blood line."

"I won't kill myself," stated Mycroft definitively.

"Trust me. I have ways of making you wish that you were dead. One way or another, Mycroft Holmes, you will make me satisfied. I assure you. After all, I always get what I want. Never try to double cross a genius like me."