Chapter Eleven: Rise or Fall

Two weeks since Demetria had been taken, night was descending on the streets of London as usual. I, as had become my routine, was just exiting Baker Street to take a walk when a car pulled up beside me. It was black, with tinted windows in which I could scarcely see. One rolled down as I approached, showing Mycroft's face. I sighed, unsurprised. The theatrics were just his style, and he had pulled similar stunts exactly four times in those two weeks.

"Yes? What do you want?" I questioned, letting annoyance slip into my tone.

"I want to catch Jim Moriarty, though that is proving a difficult task. Hunting a ghost is harder than it sounds. I also want to know why exactly he is after you, and what you think on the subject."

"He's not doing it to get to you; that stage is long gone. I don't believe that it has anything to do with you or Sherlock," I replied.

Mycroft sighed and shifted in the car's seat. "Well, what do you think?" He questioned.

"What do I think? I think that James Moriarty is alive, and he is not going to let old vendettas go. This time, he has a new target. Me. That is my opinion on the subject, brother mine." I turned on my heel and strode away, hoping that he would get my message and leave. When I turned around near the end of the block, the car was gone.

In the thirty minutes that I was absent from 221C, I began to hope that nothing unusual would happen. I would go back to America with my friend after solving Tessa Lee's murder. I would extract myself from the lives of those at Baker Street forever, leaving the beautiful city to sit in my mind but not in my heart. My hope was founded in nothing, as I soon found out. There was no way that I was going to escape what I had set in motion unwillingly.

It was a cool day in early October that my life crumbled, that my past caught up to me. It was a month earlier that I first heard the confirmation that I had not sought, that I had not wanted; that there was a killer walking among us, and that he was hunting me.

I had spent around a month in London at the time, and for whatever reason, I was feeling more amiable towards the younger of my brothers than I usually did. I had decided to stop by his flat and discuss methods of crime-solving and deduction with him. We were discussing the post-mortem coagulation of saliva, a topic that neither of us appeared to be terribly familiar with, when a single knock reverberated off the wooden door. I had missed the footsteps coming up the stairs, but guessed who it was anyway. Indeed, when Sherlock opened the door, Mycroft stood in the frame. He did not even wait to take a seat before he looked Sherlock in the eye and stated, "He's back."

Sherlock's movements stilled. He turned to his brother with an incredulous expression, obviously not registering how grave Mycroft sounded.

"What? That's not possible. I saw him die. I was there, in case you forgot," he spoke haughtily.

"Who?" I questioned, annoyed at how they both ignored me. There was only one possibility as to who it could be, and I knew the answer even before Mycroft opened his mouth and delivered the two words I had never wanted to hear again.

"James Moriarty."

Even the name was evil, spoken as a thing of darkness. I had heard a lot from both of my brothers over the weeks, but I had seen the extent of his destruction. I had seen the explosions, the newspaper articles; I had heard of Sherlock's fall. Moriarty was the man responsible for Sherlock's ruin, though the taint had faded by the time the curly-haired detective came back, and had killed so many just to destroy Sherlock. Now he had returned. Now, he was after me.

"That's still not possible! I was a foot away from him when he shot himself in the head. I watched his body fall, Mycroft. He is dead," Sherlock said forcefully. Mycroft sighed.

"Well, I don't have all the answers. All I know is that his face appeared on every screen in England right after you, brother dearest, were exiled. That's why we brought you back. Then, less than a month later, Raven shows up with a murder on her hands. It isn't a coincidence that she came here."

"Hold on a sec, Mycroft," I said. "You brought me here to help you take down Moriarty's network."

"Yes, but if it weren't for the killing of Tessa Lee, you would still be working cases in America," he responded.

"I know, but it wasn't all my decision."

"The ammunition led you here. It was a trail set up specifically for you to find, because it would have taken much longer for any normal FBI agent to locate anything about that particular bullet type. No one else would have ties to London."

"True," Sherlock mused. "It would be a good way to draw someone out. Why Raven, though?"

"Because she isn't like us. She's as smart as either of us, but with completely different experiences. She is not a self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath', as you insist on calling yourself. She isn't the embodiment of the British government. She's an FBI agent, Sherlock. America left her acting far different than you or I would in a similar situation," Mycroft stated plainly to Sherlock. Resigned, I sat back in my chair as my brothers continued to argue.

"What do you mean? She's smart, she can read people. There isn't much else that can be different," Sherlock replied. I stood up.

"Sherlock, are you really that stupid to think that my brain is the only thing that defines me?" I demanded. "I have seen things that you never would. When I said that you knew nothing about me the first time we met, I meant it. Do not attempt to define me simply because you and I have similar skills," I spat at him.

"When you actually have something about Moriarty to say, Mycroft, you can stop by my flat. I'm leaving." There was something satisfying in slamming the door of 221B hard enough to make the pictures shake. I was angry, and it wasn't only at my older brother.

A/N: Okay, so this is the first part of Act Two (of three). I wanted to add in the fact that Raven really doesn't get along with Sherlock; he's too emotionless, and knows nothing of what her life before London was like. She likes Mycroft a lot better, because both are smarter than Sherlock. I am stilll trying to figure out a way to express that, but Raven is a bit smarter than her brother.