Chapter 7

There were only two possible directions that Mycroft could have taken. The cab sat at the intersection while Sherlock looked out the window, trying to determine which path he had more than likely taken. Going to the right would lead back to downtown London. Going to the left would lead to a row of warehouses. If Mycroft was up to something, he'd more than likely chose to go left in order to hide what he was doing.

The cabbie tapped a finger on the steering wheel, as if he were slightly impatient. The cabbie was lucky that he was able to deduce fairly quickly which path Mycroft had taken in his cab. If he was just an average, everyday person, it would have taken the person another five minutes to decide which direction to take.

"Go left," said Sherlock to the cabbie, leaning back in his seat again.

The cabbie turned the steering wheel, driving left where tons of warehouses were situated. Sherlock continued to watch out the window as the darkened warehouses passed him by. What was Mycroft doing here at this time at night?

"Stop here," said Sherlock suddenly, causing the cabbie to pull to a stop.

He dug into his coat pocket, and pressed some crinkled bills into the cabbie's hand, getting out of the cab. He shut the door of the cab, tucking his hands into his coat. He allowed his icy blue eyes glance up at the stars, which twinkled and slowly dimmed above his head. He brought his eyes back down to survey the warehouses that stood in front of him. After the cab had driven off on him, all was silent. It was much too silent, even for abandoned warehouses. Usually there was at least a creak or two as the building settled, or mice scattered across the beams.

But no. Nothing.

Sherlock picked up his feet slowly, and quietly walked down the row of warehouses, looking for one that Mycroft might have disappeared into. Even though he was trying to be quiet, his steps still echoed slightly off the pavement, sending off soft echoes to the surrounding metal buildings.

If Mycroft was here, he definitely was hiding something.

Sherlock almost wanted to just call out Mycroft's name and see if he responded, but didn't. Just as he was coming toward the end of the row of warehouses, he paused. He thought he had heard something. He turned his head to the right, staring at the door that lay a few feet away from him. Was that a muted yell he had heard? Still trying to be quiet, he slowly walked toward the building. Sure enough, when he got closer, he saw that the soft glow of a light decorated the pavement by the door. He looked down along the wall and saw a window a little way away. He crouched down and made his way along the wall, hidden from view. Once he was outside the window, he looked up. The window was fogged with dust so if he stuck his head up briefly, no one would realize it was him.

He turned his head toward the wall so he could hear if the yell started again. That's when he heard it. With his head turned toward the side, he managed to pick up strains of a heated conversation. There was someone else in there with Mycroft, if this was even the right building.

He might as well check.

He waited until the conversation had died down again before bringing his head up to peek through the dusty window. He managed to make out three shadows in the room. One of the shadows stood by the door, acting like a guard. Another shadow sat in a chair, while the last shadow circled it. He desperately wanted to place faces to the shadows so he took a deep breath and did something risky. He brought his sleeve up and rubbed it against the window, trying to reveal the people inside.

He managed to rub a small hole in the dust, where he placed his eye so he could see inside. His heart picked up speed. Mycroft was definitely in the building, but he was in trouble.

Moriarty had him.

He quickly ducked back down underneath the window, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. He had to rescue Mycroft. There was no telling what Moriarty would want with him. He had to get him out of there.

He had to protect his older brother.

"So, Mycroft, what'll it be?"

Mycroft still stared at James. Though he was filled with fear, he would not, under any circumstances, resign from his post. He was stupid to make that deal in the first place. He had just been so desperate to keep Sherlock from exile. But now, when it was time to pay up to his end of the deal, he just couldn't. He couldn't let thousands of people suffer because of a stupid deal he had made during one of his desperate moments. He realized that even if he refused, James would kill him and still try to take his position, but at least this way, he wouldn't be doing it willingly.

"I will not resign if that's what you are asking."

A small smile flitted across James's face.

"Very well then. Death it is."

He walked in front of him, a giddiness to his steps.

"This'll be such fun. How shall I make you die? Should I make you fall of a building like I almost made your brother? Should I have you shoot yourself in the head? Or maybe even jump in front of a car!"

The more ways to die that James listed, the more excited he became. Mycroft sat there, becoming more afraid by the second. James was a psychopath and psychopath loved to cause death. It was their thing. He knew that no one would be able to save him from what was about to transpire either. He had done this without telling anyone, because he wanted to keep the deal a secret. He never imagined it would turn out like this. He had been stupid. He had let his care for Sherlock cloud over everything else. Caring was a disadvantage after all. He should have listened to his own advice.

"Well, I certainly won't have you commit suicide here. You need an audience."

He skipped over to Mycroft, yanking him to his feet.

"Come along. This will be fun. Well, at least it'll be fun for me."

He grabbed Mycroft and started to lead him from the room, the traitor guard following close behind. Mycroft certainly didn't want to die, but when he thought about it, it was worth it. Sherlock was happy. If he hadn't made this deal, Sherlock would be wallowing in depression in exile. At least this way, he could be happy again, and he would eventually stop James's rule over London. He had no doubts about that. His death was necessary. He did care, no matter how dangerous that was. He had to die.

He had to protect his baby brother.