A/N: I'm back! I figure 10 months is a good enough hiatus for a story. But I'm back with the outline complete and ready to go! Keep in mind that this was written before the Victorian special, so Sherlock has not yet 'confirmed' that Moriarty is dead. As always, please read, review, and enjoy!

"What do you mean, two James Moriartys?"

Sherlock abruptly stopped his pacing through Mycroft's office and gave him a hard stare. Unabashed, Mycroft looked passively back.

"I'm sure there are plenty of other James Moriartys," Mycroft sneered. "It's not altogether an uncommon name, and with a population exceeding seven billion..."

"But you wouldn't have called me if that were the case," Sherlock shot back. He never enjoyed it when his brother was able surprise him; Mycroft, on the other hand, loved these opportunities. "If there are so many other James Moriartys, what's the importance of this second one?"

A slow smile spread across Mycroft's face as he leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers together. "This James Moriarty was the brother of the James Moriarty we know."

Sherlock stopped his pacing, turning to look at his brother's sneering face. "That makes no sense," he said. "Why would two people give their sons the same name?"

"That's where it gets interesting. The Moriarty we know was the younger, and I will be referring to him as such, lest it becomes too overwhelming for you to process." Sherlock's surprised look quickly turned into a scowl at his brother's jibe, but Mycroft remained unfazed. "Both sons were adopted during their young childhood. The elder had seven years on the younger, but all reports point to a close relationship. It seemed that the younger was heavily influenced by his older brother."

Mycroft stood and walked around his desk, lighting a cigarette as he went. He offered one to his brother, who in turn shot him a look. Mycroft shrugged and blew out a puff of smoke. "From what I can gather, the elder was involved in some gang activity, and was promptly killed at the tender age of 17."

"And then the following year, Moriarty committed his first murder," Sherlock mumbled, turning around and processing the information.

"No doubt he had some sadistic tendencies even earlier," Mycroft agreed. "Whether his older brother influenced him positively and prevented other tragedies earlier on or if the death of his brother made the younger snap, we will never be sure. Foster care and adoption records have been destroyed, other official documents missing, most likely caused by the younger once he became old enough. Most of my information comes from word-of-mouth with little factual evidence. Still, it does give us some insight."

"Why is this brother important now?" Sherlock asked, turning back to his own brother. "What does this have to do with Moriarty's sudden 'resurrection?'"

Mycroft returned to his desk and tossed a file to Sherlock. As Sherlock glanced through it, he explained. "We recently apprehended two individuals attempting to use Moriarty the Elder's information: stealing his identity, so to speak. We are currently... questioning them. Though I believe our efforts will prove fruitless. They don't seem like criminal masterminds."

"Do you think he really is back?" Sherlock asked, growing serious and solemn.

Mycroft was transported to a time where young Sherlock would open up to him, asking him why the other children thought he was different and strange, or why his peers weren't like him. Sherlock had a look in his eyes that begged Mycroft to fix everything for him, and try as he did, he was never able to.

Sherlock held a similar look in his eye now, understandably so. Moriarty had been the biggest threat not only in his life, but in the lives of his friends. Sherlock had comes to terms with his 'exile' simply because it kept his friends safe. With Moriarty back...

But Mycroft couldn't fix this. This is something they would have to solve. "I think there are too many unanswered questions, brother dear. Where is his body? Who faked the autopsy report? How could he have faked a bullet through his brain? We will have to answer these questions, and only then will we know if he's back."

John was frustrated, and rightfully so, at least in his book. The last week had been a whirlwind of chaos, first coming to terms with the fact that his best friend would be going into exile and he would likely never see him again, then with the sudden scare that Moriarty was back in the picture. And now they were taking another case that had nothing to do with finding Moriarty. "Why are we taking an additional case when we have a madman to worry about?"

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently during the cab ride, eager to reach their destination. John waited for him to explain, strumming his fingers under the window, watching the city pass by. To be honest, John was excited to join Sherlock in another case as if Moriarty didn't exist... as if his best friend wasn't almost sent into exile. He was happy pretending things were back to normal.

Well, as normal as a consulting detective and his blogger could get.

The taxi dropped them off at an impressive building on the outskirts of the city. John glanced around, looking at the sign in front of them. "'Adcock & Company, Private Equity?' What are we doing at a private equity firm, Sherlock?"

"Last week, £750 million was stolen right from under their noses. They wish to know where that money is."

John stopped in his tracks, causing Sherlock to glance behind him, eyebrows raised. "Seven... what... how in the world does that kind of money just disappear?"

Sherlock shot him a quick smile, turning back and walking towards him. "That's what we're here to find out. Mycroft also has a feeling it may lead us to Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" John exclaimed. "Moriarty came back from the grave to steal £750 million?"

"It is an exorbitant amount of money, one that a common thief would be too afraid to touch. No, this reeks of Moriarty. Stealing a ridiculous amount of money to get back in the game? We'll find his influence here, of this I have no doubt."

The pair entered the building and were greeted by the receptionist. They were shown into conference room and offered tea while they waited. John accepted with a smile while Sherlock stared at the wall, bored. The receptionist didn't even return with the tea before Mr Adcock bustled into the room.

He was a robust man, late forties. He had bags under his eyes and was obviously very weary. Sherlock could tell that the recent scandal certainly took its toll in him, yet the weariness stretched far back from years ago. He had no doubt Mr Adcock had been very stressed from his job for a long time.

"Ah! Mr Holmes, thank you so much for coming," he said with a smile, extending his hand. Sherlock stood but did not take it. Adcock faltered, then turned to John. "I'm Lloyd Adcock. This must be your blogger."

"Yes, John Watson. Pleased to meet you," he said, shaking Mr Adcock's still extended hand.

"Yes, the pleasure is mine. You'll forgive me, though, if I'm hesitant in allowing any sort of press near this. We've done what we can to keep this quiet."

"Not to worry, case write-ups are only done once we've gone as far as we can, and with edited names and locations if necessary. I'm here only to assist," John insisted, settling back down. "Besides, with this sum of money missing and everything computerized... there's bound to be a paper trail, so to speak. I'm sure we'll figure it out in due time."

Mr Adcock visibly gulped, but before he could comment further, the receptionist entered with John's tea and a coffee for Mr Adcock. With a final nod, she left, closing the door behind her.

"So," John said, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously, wondering why he wasn't taking the lead. "Why don't you start from the beginning..."

"What was your company doing with £750 million unsecured?" Sherlock cut in.

Mr Adcock flushed red and cleared his throat. "We are a private equity firm. Simply speaking, our goal is to raise money from investors, purchase businesses with said money, and eventually, sell them at a higher purchase price for a profit. In our fifteen years of business, our company has been widely successful..."

"Spare me the boring details, Mr Adcock. Tell me about the money."

"Ah," said Mr Adcock, blushing. "During our last fundraising session, we managed to to raise £1.9 billion from our investors, a record in our company."

"Wait, wait, wait," John said, interrupting. "You mean to tell me you have £1.9 billion sitting in bank somewhere?"

"Heavens, no!" cried Mr Adcock. "Our investors have pledged a total of £1.9 billion, but their money stays with them until we formally request it. Some investors pledge as little as £500,000, while our larger investors have promised upwards of £200 million. Two weeks ago, we finalized a deal with a company to purchase them for £750 million. We extend a capital call to our investors, and they are given a certain amount of time to send in the money we requested. This would have been our largest and riskiest purchase to date, but our team was sure... I could have never imagine that something like this would happen..." He covered his face with his hands, shoulders sagging. "Oh, Lord, once our investors find out... I've been able to pause the transaction with the company for a short amount of time, but..."

"That'll do, Mr Adcock," Sherlock said, standing up. John followed suit, though he glanced at his partner, confused. Mr Adcock glanced between the two of them, unsure of their reactions. "We'll need full access to your records."

"Yes, yes, of course, whatever you'll need." He stood hesitantly as well. "Our IT department will give you both full access cards. They'll be ready tomorrow morning, but I'll be happy to give you temporary access..."

"No need," Sherlock said, heading towards the door. "We have another appointment this afternoon, but we will be back tomorrow morning."

"Very good then, thank you," Mr Adcock said, hurrying after them. "I will be in meetings all morning, but please ask for my assistant, Sabrina. She has been given strict instructions to help you in any way you need. She will be present with your access cards tomorrow morning then." Sherlock said nothing as he continued down the hall and out the front door.

"Why aren't we staying? Where are we in such a rush to?" John asked, hurrying after Sherlock.

"New Scotland Yard. Lestrade texted me during our meeting with Adcock. Besides, I'd rather review the files without him breathing down our necks. Hopefully his assistant will keep her distance as well."

"Hang on, how did you know Lestrade texted you? I didn't hear it, and you never took your phone out of your coat pocket." Sherlock reached into his pocket and tossed his phone to John. Flashing on the screen was indeed, a message from the detective inspector asking him to come down to New Scotland Yard as soon as he could. "Incredible."

Sherlock only laughed.

"Wish I could give you better news," Lestrade said, sitting back behind his desk.

"No one's giving anything up?" John asked.

"The uppers are blaming the lowers, the lowers are blaming the uppers. No one is giving a straight answer on how exactly Moriarty's little commercial made it on every station on every television across London."

"Of course not," Sherlock said, standing in the doorway. He hadn't expected Lestrade, or anyone, for that matter, to find out how Moriarty or his people accomplished that. "The appropriate people have been paid off, threatened, or killed. They'll not say a word to the police, not while the threat of Moriarty looms in the air."

"This is what he wanted, isn't it?" Lestrade asked. He rubbed his face, exhausted. "To cause chaos?"

Sherlock turned sharply towards Lestrade, his words resonating deep within him. Lestrade and John both stared back at Sherlock, perplexed. Without further word, Sherlock turned and walked away, his coat billowing behind him.

Mycroft stared at the papers before him, holding his head in frustration. He processed all the information in front of him, but things were still not adding up. There were still too many variables...

His train of thought was cut off by the quiet buzzing of his phone beside him. Picking it up, he read the message and grinned, though a bit annoyed that Sherlock reached that conclusion before him. Middle age, indeed.

Moriarty is dead.