Chapter 9
Mycroft watched Sherlock in concern as he sat, limp, in the chair across from him. His forehead was stained with a small patch of scarlet, standing out against his white skin. James was sitting off to the side, keeping an eye on both of them to ensure that they wouldn't escape. He was currently unloading Sherlock's gun, allowing the bullets to drop onto the ground and clink against the tile floor. After James had knocked Sherlock out, he had proceeded to drag the two of them inside Mycroft's office, making both of them sit in the conference room and lock the door.
James looked down the barrel of the gun once it was empty, snapping it shut and tossing it aside.
"You really should look into getting a better security system," suggested James, nodding his head up to the security cameras in the corners of the room, which hung slightly down, signifying that they were currently disabled. "It was much to easy to obtain the passcode. Or maybe you just shouldn't be so trusting. You can't trust anyone."
He placed his own gun across his lap, bouncing his leg as if he were impatient for something.
"Remember, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer," said James, a sly smile spreading across his face. "You forgot that fact, and look where you are now."
Mycroft turned his gaze off his unconscious brother to look at James.
"I did not forget anything. I chose this. I just didn't think it would end up like this."
"Of course you didn't! That's life! It's filled with twists and turns, and no one ever knows what will happen! That's the fun part about it! It's so unpredictable!" James chuckled slightly in amusement.
Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock, seeing slight traces of a grimace on his face as he came around. Sherlock's eyelids soon fluttered open, James grinning widely from ear to ear.
"Welcome back to the land of the living!" said James with immense glee.
Sherlock sat back up from his slouched position, looking around in confusion for a second, no doubt a bit disoriented from being knocked out by the butt of a gun.
"Lets play a game!" exclaimed James, springing up from his chair and clapping his hands together in glee. "It'll be fun!"
Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look. James Moriarty's version of fun was usually not something that matched their version.
James opened the chamber of his gun, emptying all of the bullets, replacing one bullet into the chamber. Sherlock and Mycroft both watched James as he fooled with the gun, spinning the chamber. He snapped the gun shut and then placed it on the table between the two of them.
"I'm sure you must have heard of this game before. It's called Russian Roulette."
Mycroft and Sherlock both looked up at each other, fear present in both of their eyes for a minute.
"See, the object of this game is to be the person to not get a bullet through the brain." A wide smile overtook James's face, making him appear even more malicious than he already was. "By the end of this game, one of you will be dead, and the winner will be able to die in a much more creative way."
James backed away from the table to allow the two brothers to both turn their attention onto the gun.
"So," said James, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. "Who is going first?"
Sherlock shifted his steely blue eyes to meet his brother's, his newly cut hair sticking up at different angles.
"I'll go first," remarked Sherlock, reaching forward to grab the gun.
"Sherlock, no..."
Mycroft reached out, placing his hand over Sherlock's, which rested on top of the gun.
"Mycroft, please..."
"Sherlock, no. I'll go first. This is all my fault."
Sherlock's grip on the gun fell slack a bit as Mycroft grabbed it, bringing it toward him. He stared at his warped reflection in the gun, taking a deep breath.
"If it wasn't for me, you would have been depressed in exile, but at least you would have been alive."
With a shaking hand, Mycroft placed the gun to his temple, his hands pooling with sweat. Sherlock's eyes starting to display small glimpses of sadness.
"Mycroft, don't talk like that."
"Sherlock, you have no idea what I've done. You can't tell me not to talk like that."
Sherlock's eyes filled with pain.
"I know what it's like to sacrifice everything for the people you love," stated Sherlock, looking at Mycroft's paled face. "I know what it's like to want to do anything to protect them."
"Sherlock...stop..." Mycroft's hand was starting to shake more than it was. "Please..."
"I'm not leaving you," said Sherlock flatly. "Even if I had a choice, I would stay here and try to protect you."
Mycroft's eyes started to sting with tears as he tried to blink them back, his finger slipping around the trigger.
"Why?" asked Mycroft, his voice coming out choked sounding.
"Because I'm your brother," he said. "And I care about you. It's a weakness of mine, as it is for you."
Mycroft blinked more rapidly as his finger tightened around the trigger and he pulled back some. Sherlock turned his gaze away as Mycroft pulled back on the trigger all the way. He didn't want to see if the chamber happened to be loaded or not.
As Sherlock's ears were shut, he could hear the empty sound of a click. He cracked open his eyes slowly to watch as Mycroft brought the gun away from his head, unharmed. Mycroft allowed the gun to drop from his hand and back onto the table. James clapped his hands, as if he were congratulating Mycroft for taking the first turn.
"Good job, Mycroft. I can see that you really do care about your brother." A smile spread across James's face as he looked over at Sherlock. "Your turn."
Sherlock calmly reached forward and wrapped his hand around the gun, bringing it toward him. Mycroft watched this, his heart hammering in his chest. He turned to James and did something that he had never done in his entire life.
He begged.
"James, please. You wanted to kill me; not Sherlock. If you kill Sherlock, you'll be bored constantly. You'll have no one to play your games with."
James shifted his cold eyes back to Mycroft, a smirk worming its way onto his face.
"Are you begging, Mycroft Holmes?"
James's smirk turned into a wide grin, lighting up his face.
"Sherlock is right. He is your weakness." James placed his hands on either side of the table in front of Mycroft and leered in his face. "And I plan on exploiting it. So, no. This game will continue."
James stood back upright, clasping his hands behind his back. Sherlock placed the gun to his temple, allowing his eyes to lock with Mycroft as he wrapped his finger around the trigger and pulled back. Again, an empty 'click' sounded. James pretended to pout.
"Why won't one of you die already?"
Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged another look. Mycroft reached to grab the gun again as Sherlock replaced it on the table, looking at Sherlock with saddened eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry to have put you in this position, Sherlock."
Sherlock's crisp blue eyes stared at him, a small smile coming onto his face.
"Don't apologize, Mycroft. I appreciate all that you were trying to do for me. I didn't realize, at first, that you were the reason I stayed in London. You were the one that made that possible."
"Yes, but I should have tried to find another way," said Mycroft placing the gun against his temple. "I should have found some other way. I was just desperate."
Sherlock nodded.
"Please don't apologize, Mycroft. We all make our fair share of mistakes. We're all human."
Mycroft smiled a watery smile as he pulled back on the trigger. He knew that one of them wouldn't get out of this alive, and he just hoped that it was him, and not Sherlock. He couldn't bare it if this deal ended up killing Sherlock. He just couldn't.
Another empty 'click'; another empty chamber. Mycroft dropped the gun back onto the table, and Sherlock grabbed it up once more. There were only three more chambers left to go through before one of them ended up dead. James looked at his fingernails, shaking his head in disgust.
"Such a shame, such a shame. You've disappointed me once again, Sherlock."
Sherlock paused, staring at his warped reflection in the gun, his face going passive.
"I wasn't doing any of this to please you."
"How sad," said James in a mocking tone. "You should have."
James walked toward Sherlock, stopping to leer right in his face. Sherlock flicked his gaze up to James, searching his eyes, trying not to look intimidated.
"You killed Magnussen in cold blood. I thought that you had turned into a psychopath like me."
James backed up, a grin on his face as he watched Sherlock with the gun.
"I'm not a psychopath, nor will I ever be. I'm a high-functioning sociopath."
With a determined look on his face, Sherlock turned the gun to face James, tightening his finger around the trigger. He cocked his head to one side, a small smile forming on his face as he said, "You really should do your research."
Sherlock pulled back on the trigger, causing the bullet to fly through the air and hit James in the shoulder before he had time to react. James howled in pain, immediately putting his arm over the bleeding bullet hole, collapsing onto his knees onto the ground. Sherlock stood up from the table, and walked over to James.
"Don't mess with me."
Mycroft stared at Sherlock, still a little shaken as he walked over to stand beside him. Sherlock bent down to retrieve James's mobile, dialing the yard. As soon as he had placed his call, Mycroft turned and wrapped his arms around Sherlock; Sherlock wrapping his arms around him in turn.
"How did you know you were the one with the bullet?"
Sherlock kept his arms around Mycroft, hugging him tight, burying his face in Mycroft's shoulder.
"I didn't."
AN: Thank you to everyone that has been reading this fic all along. It's not done yet, but it is close to its conclusion. I still plan on writing Series 4 "episodes". If you have any suggestions, please feel free to let me know. On an off note, today, June 17th, 2014, marks my one year anniversary of being on FanFiction. I can't believe that it has been a year already! It's just...wow! So, anyway, sorry for the small babble and I hope you enjoyed this latest update.