Greg never knew that Mycroft Holmes existed. Of course he had seen the big, black car which was always standing next to a crime scene on which Sherlock had almost been killed, but he had never seen the owner. He figured they must be rich, but the reason why someone with money would want to be at a dirty crime scene was unclear to him. Perhaps an enemy of Sherlock, he sure had enough of them and a few would probably like to kill him. But there wasn't a single sign of a threat, just this big car with shaded windows. Sometimes he thought about knocking on the window, just to see who was stalking his work, but then he stopped himself. The car wasn't behind the tape and it always came after Sherlock solved the crime. No reason for Greg to arrest the owner. He just was...curious. Maybe it was because of his work, but he didn't trust the situation. No, he was careful and paid attention to everything around him. He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but he was able to smell the rat before he was kidnapped, killed or hurt.

But he never knew that Sherlock had an older brother. He never thought about it, anyway. Sherlock acted like an only child, so Greg never considered the possibility of siblings. Maybe the hope that his parents realized their mistake as Sherlock grew up and never gave birth to another child was too great.

He sighed quietly and lent back in his chair. His day at work was over, the others were gone, but he had to stay. There were still files to take care of, cold-cases waiting for the final sorting in the archive. The case of a woman whose corpse was found without arms, the case of a man with the head of a cat stapled on his own. Sometimes he thought about the crime scenes and even if the case was closed, he searched for missing details, something he hadn't seen the first time at the scene, or the second time. It was foolish to believe he would be able to find the murderer just by looking at the old files and photos, but it helped him keep his mind busy.

The last case had been an ugly one. A woman, not very young but not old - 43 years if his mind didn't trick him, divorced with two children living with their father. They had found her in front of a church, nailed on a cross with some words craved in her chest. It was clear that it was something religious, but neither the priest nor anyone living close by noticed anything. As always. Sherlock had refused to enter the church and told him it was obvious, a dull case on which he wouldn't waste his abilities. John had apologized before he had turned around to follow Sherlock before he left with their cab. Sometimes Greg wondered how John was able to survive Sherlock.

Someone knocked on his door and pulled him from his thoughts. Greg frowned and took a look at his watch. Almost midnight, who would want to speak to him at this time? He was no fool, his first move was to reach for his gun.

"Who's there?" he asked.

He wouldn't open the door if no one would answer him. And he wouldn't open the door if it was someone he didn't know. He could hear a chuckle, male, quietly but still hearable.

"I'm not going to repeat this question again: Who's there?"

The man in front of his door chuckled again. Something scratched over the knob, it sounded like nails scratching over a blackboard. It hurt in his ears. He released the safety of his gun and took his phone. He was alone in the building, no one would be able to help him in time and he knew that. He tried to call Sally, but his cell phone wouldn't work. The screen was black.

"Are you afraid, Detective Inspector?" a voice whispered, next to his ear. Greg turned around and tried to point his gun at the stranger - how had he been able to break in? - but he was alone in the room. "Don't be a fool, Detective Inspector, you can't hurt me with a toy."

"Who's there?" Greg asked. His hands were shaking and the laugh seemed to come from everywhere. The scratching continued and got higher and shriller within seconds. I'm going mad, I'm definitely becoming mad.

"Just someone who's interested in Sherlock Holmes," the voice said. Something wrapped its arms around Greg's torso and pulled him toward the door. Something invisible, but still ice-cold, lifted his arm and lay his hand on the knob, ready to pull it and open the door. Greg tried to get free, but the grasp was too strong and the stranger, laughing and chuckling the whole time, didn't even flinch or move.

"Let's let my dear friend inside, shall we, Detective Inspector?"

His hand slowly pulled the door open, controlled by the force behind him. A bad dream, really, really bad dream. You drank too much, you're mad, this isn't real. Please, this can't be real. He could see red eyes in the darkness of the corridor, big fangs slowly reaching out for him. He closed his eyes and tried not to shiver, it was getting colder and colder. The hairs on his neck stood up, he got goose bumps. His gun lay on the ground behind him, he had no chance to reach it.

"Would you two be so kind and let him down?"

Suddenly the force behind him was gone. Greg fell on the floor and crawled to his gun, taking it with shaking hands before he turned around again and pointed his gun in the direction of the red eyes. There was a man, standing in the middle of the corridor. He was dressed in a three-piece suit with a tie and a hat. He held an umbrella in his right hand and in the other a creature Greg had never seen before. Its body seemed to be built up of ink, black and gooey like tar. Its red eyes were glancing at Greg while it showed his fangs as if he was about to attack. No sign of another creature.

"That's better, isn't it?" the stranger asked, he had an accent which reminded Greg of Scotland. "I'm afraid I have to kill you. How foolish it was to attack him, little minion. I'd say 'Think before you act next time', but there won't be a next time for you." And with that, he threw the thing against the wall, the ink splattered. The stranger held up his umbrella, opened it and secured himself with it against the ink, suddenly standing in front of Greg to shield him too.

"Who are you?" Greg asked and pointed the gun at the stranger. He just defeated a monster. Without any problems or resistance. Something wasn't right here.

The man just smiled at him and reached out to pull Greg up. He took the offered hand, eying the man mistrustfully while he helped him up. He closed his umbrella, where had the ink gone? and turned his head to look into the darkness behind them.

"I think we should leave this building immediately, if you don't mind," the posh man said and started to walk into the darkness, stopping just once before the lights were on again, "There are more of those hell spawns heading in our direction and I don't want you to get into trouble just because of your association with a certain Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do you think I would follow you?" Greg turned around and thought about his options. He could either follow the man and trust him blindly without any evidence that he wouldn't kill him like he had killed the ink-thing, or he could try to lock himself in his office until his phone started working again. Getting out of here without this man, on his own with just one gun and no knowledge of these things wasn't an option.

The man stopped and turned around, smiling at him like at a little, naïve child. "You don't have much of a choice, Detective Inspector."

There was a high-pitched growl. Greg's hackles rose abruptly and he quickly ran to the man. He seemed to know how to defend himself, he was a danger, but a smaller one than those creatures.

"I think there's no need for you to carry your gun anymore", he man took the gun out of Greg's hands and eyed it with an amused expression, "It will only do harm to the furniture and will make them sulphureous. You've had to deal with Sherlock more than once, if I'm not mistaken, try to imagine the corrosion thousands of him could do."

Greg gulped, but took his gun out of the man's hands. "I won't put away the only defense I've got!"

The man looked at him and smiled. It was a dangerous, murderous smile with shining eyes, always looking white without any iris. "I have to insist that you put it away, Detective Inspector."

"I won't, accept that."

Another growl, quickly coming in their direction. The man stopped and swung his umbrella. He laughed quietly.

"Stupid creatures," he said while tapping the umbrella on the ground. "They don't know they're facing the greatest threat in the entire universe."

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, flinching slightly when a big ink-monster broke through the wall in front of them. "You don't want to fight against that, do you? That's insane."

"For him, indeed."

The thing looked at them with bright red eyes, staring at the men before growling louder. Black liquid dropped like saliva from its teeth, big and sharp, each like a large knife. His claws were bigger than one of Greg's hands, its head almost touching the ceiling. It took one step forward, leaving a trace of ink and destruction behind it.

The man just stood there as the beast ran in his direction, growling and screaming like a thousand people all at once. Greg got out of the way. He wasn't suicidal, there was no way he would want to face something like that.

The monster jumped and was about to land on the man.

Time seemed to slow down.

And suddenly, there was something shining inside the eyes of the creature. It was the man's reflection, bright and clear as if Greg looked straight into a mirror. His expression was blank, emotionless. Only his eyes told Greg that he wasn't normal. Not an ordinary human being like Greg. He raised his arm just as the monster went to drive his fangs into the flesh. Greg's jaw dropped.

This man just grabbed a monster by its neck. Regardless of how hard the thing struggled and tried to escape, it wasn't able to break the grasp of the ginger man. He titled his head and said something in a tongue Greg wasn't able to understand, it sounded ancient and old, strong with hard words. The beast just growled louder, ink splattered everywhere on the floor and the walls around it, except for on the man's suit or skin.

"How many of you are waiting outside for us?" the stranger asked, suddenly speaking English again. "I'm surprised that father has been able to find us."

The beast growled. It yelled - it almost sounded like he was speaking - and pull his muzzle open.

"Well, it seems like there's no way you're going to survive this, my friend."

The man raised his umbrella and swung it like a sword, it slowly cut through the ink until the beast's head fell to the floor, the rest of the body imploded, until there was only a little puddle of ink left. Greg just starred.

"We have to leave, fast," the man said, grabbing Greg's arm and dragging him forward. "There are more of those creatures coming. I'm able to defeat them easily, but you're an easy target and the reason for them being here."

"What are they?" What are you…?

The man chuckled. "I'm surprised how calm you are. The last person who had to see some of them hadn't been able to scream or cry. He committed suicide a few days later."

"You didn't answer the question," Greg broke out of the hold and tried to keep up with the man. "What the hell are they?"

"Hell spawn, demons, call them whatever you please, Detective Inspector." The stranger stopped walking and turned his head to look Greg straight into the eye. "Creatures created to kill and bring agony and pain. Not capable of feeling anything but anger and the urge to kill and eat flesh and souls."

"You want me to believe that they were demons?" Greg asked. "What tells me this isn't just some kind of sick dream?"

There was something close to pity shining in the man's eyes. He smiled softly and swung his umbrella.

"I'm afraid this isn't a dream." He tapped the ground beneath them, Greg's surprised scream just made him smile more.

The ground began to shake under his feet, slowly starting but getting faster and faster within seconds. There was heat, it felt like fire eating its way through his veins, burning his muscles and nerves until he was numb and useless. Tears began to run down his cheeks, he didn't know why; he no longer had control of his own body, watching its movements like a prisoner unable to do anything. Black lines appeared, surrounding him in a circle of runes, symbols and coldness like ice. He wanted to close his eyes, but the man took Greg's hands and laid one of his own on the shaking detective's shoulders.

"It will be over soon," he whispered, but Greg just whimpered in agony. "Open your eyes and look at it, look into the darkness waiting for sinners after their death."

Greg opened his eyes, afraid of what he would see, but unable to disobey the task.

Directly under his feet was a hole, bigger than the whole corridor, disappearing under the walls. He seemed to float over eternal darkness, there was nothing under him but blackness and air. The man still held his shoulder and smiled sadly at him, regret and fear in the bright blue-grey eyes. He looked down and suddenly Greg saw everything.

Things had been invisible to him, but now he could clearly see people, has if they had been there the whole time. Some were tied on rocks or barrows, others had been stabbed by gigantic spikes and stalactites, the spears still impaled through their body, blood everywhere, the only colour he was able to see. He could hear screams, crying and begging for the end to their pain; the smell of fire and burning flesh, making him want to run away, and forget what he was seeing, the bodies, the pain and the abyss of this hole.

The hand on his shoulders moved to his chin and forced him to look up, straight into the man's eyes. He wiped away some of Greg's tears and tapped his umbrella on the ground again. Suddenly Greg was able to move. The fear and burning disappeared as if it had never existed. He blinked surprised and confused, disoriented and lost in his thoughts and the memories of the hole, the place where sinners had to pay for their mistakes.

"Was…" Greg began but his voice shook too much to continue. The man just smiled and nodded.

"Indeed, that was the twisting and murderous place called hell. The truth behind the subjective view of every sinner whose worst fear comes true once he or she has entered this place. One may see fire, burning his flesh and tearing him apart from the inside until he is hoarse from screaming and his body is red because of his attempts to escape his chains. While another may see spiders, snakes or something else. But this place was the true hell, darkness, coldness, everything is lonely and ice-cold." He paused and examined Greg, slightly shaking his head before continuing to speak. "It's rather interesting how people think hell burns because of fire; ice is worse than fire, killing you slowly and with shivering and shaking until you can't move anymore, slowly dozing off only to be reawakened by lurid pain."

Greg jerked back until his back was resting against the wall. The man lowered his hands. He seemed to completely lost, alone in his thoughts. He reminded Greg of John when he had just woken up from his nightmares or of Sherlock after he thought John had died.

"You want me to believe that hell is real, that there are demons hunting me because I know Sherlock and that you have the ability to make the underworld appear and disappear whenever you want? Who the hell are you?" Greg pulled out his gun again and aimed for the man's chest. He didn't flinch away, he just looked Greg in the eyes and clutched his umbrella. "Who the fuck are you? Some kind of insane psychopath, a sick person having fun with drugs and illusions and costumes?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," the man told him, every word stretched. His voice was calm, but there was something shining in his eyes, almost too small to be noticed. However, Greg did - maybe because Sherlock was slowly affecting his deducing skills or just because he'd seen that shining quite often. "It's a pleasure, Detective Inspector."

Greg just turned around and began to walk in the opposite direction. Mr. Holmes didn't follow him, he just stood there and stared at the wall. But then, suddenly, he was standing directly in front of Greg, looking at him with a calm expression and cold eyes.

"I must insist that you stay here inside this building."

"And what if I don't?" Greg wanted to push this Holmes away, but suddenly there were two fingertips resting on his forehead. He immediately felt dizzy and tired.

"I don't think you'll have a chance to say no, Detective Inspector."

Greg wanted to say something, but his mouth was closed. He could only stare into Mycroft Holmes's eyes and see apology in them, hiding behind the coldness and calmness. He didn't feel anything has he hit the floor or when someone lent him up against the wall.

But when he awoke a few hours later, there was blood everywhere. And it wasn't his.

Thanks for beta-reading to SilentEyedKat