June 18th, 2005
Mycroft's POV
He had not thought his brother would be able to handle being around a large group of people and it appeared that he was right. As a car is sent to fetch his brother and his companions, he seethes because this could have and should have been avoided!

This is Moriarty's fault. He should have told Anna to pick someone other than the Wildcard as his brother's assistant.

As soon as his brother's doctor is delivered to the clinic, the car brings them back to the flat. He is waiting by the door, but Sherlock doesn't even notice him as he drifts past, eyes heavy lidded, and exhaustion just about pouring off of him.

"My office, now," he orders Moriarty, turning on his heel and heading in that direction automatically.

When there is silence behind him, he thinks that the agent ignored his order so it takes every bit of control not to jump out of his skin when he turns and Moriarty is within touching distance.

The smirk that curves the agents lips tells him the younger man knows.

Keeping a blank face, he heads to his desk settling behind it, and not giving Moriarty permission to sit down. The agent sits down anyways, just about sprawling in one of his armchairs, and turning it face his desk.

A lazy hand is waved in his direction, and he has a sudden flash of understanding as to why the directors have issues with him.

"You're rather insolent for someone who made a mistake." He remarks blandly.

Chuckling, the agent responds, "If I had made one, I'd agree, but alas, no mistakes were made."

"What do you call today?" he grits out, furious and wondering why he is so mad when he rarely lets emotions rule him.

"A success," Moriarty replies smoothly, one hand coming up to rest against the side of his jaw as he smirks.

"A success?" He repeats, baffled because supposedly James Moriarty, Agent Wildcard or 0021 depending on unit, is a genius but how intelligent can he be if he thinks today's mess is a success.

"Yep," the agent replies, popping the 'p' sound.

Several minutes pass with him staring at the younger man, glaring is probably the correct word to describe his expression. The only other person who annoys him this much his brother. Actually, that's not entirely true, he is happy he rarely has to deal with the agent he once recruited who in turn recruited the one before him. That boy is rather frustrating as well, far too smart and sassy for his own good, with an annoying lack of fear.

Moriarty just smirks at him, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

"You find this amusing?" He asks, keeping his voice bland once more and controlling his temper.

"Sherlock having a panic attack? No. You seeing today as a failure or mistake and glaring at me? Yes." The agent responds with a lazy shrug.

Several minutes pass with them simply staring at each other. Most people break when his expression growing bland and calculating. Not this arrogant agent though, some reason, possible they psychopathy keep the Wildcard from being concerned.

"Please keep glaring," Moriarty remarks, waving the hand on his lap lazily again, "It's turning me on."

He blinks owlishly for a moment, completely thrown because no one says things like that to him.

"What makes you think you have the right to make decisions regarding my brother's wellbeing and health?" he demands quietly, keeping his voice even.

"I do because it's what I was selected for. To ensure his safety and assist him as he heals," anger flashes through the agent's eyes, his voice shifting from smooth to sing-song as he responds.

He opens his mouth to refute that statement only to be interrupted by the dark-haired man softly hissing, still in the sing-song tone, "I would suggest you not finish that line of questioning, Mycroft Holmes, because you will not like the answer."

"Remember who you are speaking with," he retorts angrily, slightly shocked anyone who knows who he is and what he does would dare speak with him in that tone. Not even the directors take that tone with him, and they are his equals.

A smirk curves the agents lips, a dangerous gleam filling the younger man's eyes as he suggests, "I remember but perhaps you should take the same advice Iceman. I'm not one of your minions. You are definitely not the person I am loyal too."

The next several minutes are quiet as he glares at the younger man once more. How dare this arrogant agent speak to him like this? Who does he think he is? He can have him deported to the coldest depths of hell if he wants. He could have striped, beaten, and left for dead if he wanted. Torture him until the agent broke. Only, his mind recalls the file, considering the agent's younger years, that probably wouldn't work and then he would have to deal with the directors wanting to know why and the Wildcard's partner.

Internally shaking his head, his voice grows harsh as he demands, "Are you threatening me James Moriarty?"

Rolling his eyes, Moriarty waves a lazy hand in his direction as he queries, "Please, why I would I bother?" Sitting up and shrugging, the agent continues, "You are not my boss, at least in the traditional sense. Officially I still work for MI6, putting me firmly under M's domain, and we both know she is not a fan of you. If we discount her, then my loyalty is to Pike. He doesn't care one way or another about you, but I can promise he'd have a problem with your treatment of your brother." Pausing, the agent leans forward a bit in his chair, bracing his arms on his legs as he tilts his head thoughtfully. "Sherlock reminds me of him, a less confident, nearly broken version, but still of Pike. I plan to watch as he heals from all the damage your blatant disregard has caused, because he'll be brilliant, probably even outshine you when he does so."

"I can replace you 21." He threatens, voice getting a bit harder as he says it, some would even call it mencing.

"Try me," the agent retorts blandly, the sing-song voice lessening and almost getting down into the lower pitch. "Just because I wish to leave the active field because leg work is bor-ring, doesn't mean I fail at what I do." His smirk becomes mischievous, "Also, possibly unrelated, at least in my head, just because I want in your pants doesn't mean I am going to allow you to cause my charge more problems."

Silence falls over the room as he stares at the agent in pure disbelief. What the hell did he just say? His mind demands even as he automatically repeats it in his head several times and still having a hard time grasping the sentence and its meaning. The agent might not be the best looking, but he is striking and many would consider him attractive. Attractive people do not say to that to him. Never have, never will, it has to be a bluff.

Moriarty meanwhile has returned to his relaxed, sprawled position as he watches with interest.

Twice he opens his mouth to say something, both times he snaps it shut just as quickly. How is he supposed to respond? Particularly when Moriarty appears serious? Though he has noticed how good of a mimic the agent is, so it could all be fake.

Before he has a chance to say anything, the agent starts speaking again, "You're biggest mistake is trying to emulate a sociopath when you so clearly have emotions Iceman." Moving from a sprawled positioning to standing up in a breath, the agent continues, "Instead of owning up to them and using them to your advantage, you cut everyone off in your life. A choice that nearly cost you your brother's life and has probably cost you his affection and trust." The agent snorts, disdain filling the sound, "Why? To try to become the Iceman, congratulations, that was definitely not a thought out plan."

"Do you think you're any better than me Wildcard?" he snaps in anger, hating the fact someone else is saying what he has thought numerous times since finding his brother nearly dead of an overdose the last time.

Harsh laughter fills the air as Moriarty retorts, "Pike gave me that title, and I own it. It's what I did as a consulting criminal and what I do as an agent." The agent moves his chair back to its original spot as he continues to speak, his tone bored as if giving a lecture to someone who is not quite that intelligent, "Psychopaths are born. We're naturally disconnected from the regular emotions, primarily empathy and remorse. Some psychopaths are made through extreme brain trauma. Sociopaths are made. Often times by neglect, abuse, being bullied, not connecting with anyone, and being an outcast. Most sociopaths are highly intelligent, some even genius. A lot of them are suicidal, at least until the point where killing people because a way to feel something, anything." Moriarty locks eyes with him, as his tone gets quietly furious, "Think of how you have treated your brother. I barely have to look at him to know how close he is to the tipping point. Now, I am going to track that lovely cook down for food, and then figure out how much of this conversation your brother's actually heard."

He doesn't have a chance to answer before the agent walks off, determination in his stride as he does so. Every movement is measured and controlled, silent and steady.

Placing his elbows on the desk, he cups his forehead between his palms. As much as he would like to say Moriarty was wrong, he really wasn't. How had he missed the sound of his brother approaching? He was probably too busy being furious about the very bald way the agent was speaking to him. No one takes that tone with him. Ever. Yet that cocky agent had, and without a bit of remorse.

Of course he lacked remorse, his mind grumbles, he is a psychopath. Apparently proud to be one, or at least open about it. Or maybe he is being open about it because Moriarty knows he could easily find out. Doesn't matter. The part that matters is the part where the agent is damningly right.

Perhaps he needs to speak with the doctor about what else he can do to be of assistance. After all, he is definitely partly to blame. Too bad it took Sherlock nearly dying before he realized exactly how much damage his cutting communication with his brother had caused.

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