Title: "Questions and Answers"
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: Ongoing; multi-chaptered. This chapter = ~3,600
Rating: M

A/N: Ohh shit guys, it's my first M story for Mystrade! I can't wait! On my tumblr (which is my penname, followed by tumblr's url) I've been dreading this fic since I first started it. It's ridiculous.

Um, few things:

1) the story is already written. You can't really change much on it, unless you give me something to work with. And that might not even work;

2) YES, I realize it's close to "Multiples", which is a Johnlock fic that goes like this, sort of. I'm not trying to copy. I actually thought about this idea in my sleep and thought I would write it. Then it turned out to be "Multiples" part deux. So, sorry.

3) "M" part comes later. This is basically T stuff. Wait until the next parts.

Enjoy!

(Oh, one more thing: italics basically mean the other person on the phone. It's quite simple to understand.

Just kidding another thing: Someone on another story reviewed and asked if I had any more stories. I do here, but on my tumblr account, you can see me do some mini-prompts sometimes. You should recommend me some prompts! I love writing these two, or Johnlock. Either or.)

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

"Hello, Detective Inspector! Welcome, welcome. Glad you could join me. I must say, you are looking quite exhausted—has my dear Sherlock been using you to find me? Well here I am! Oh, it's magnificent! You'll be getting a medal for this, yes you will. The government will be pleased to find me alive and well so they can imprison me in a single cell all to myself, so I can play all the games in the world. Won't that be fun? Oh, but I should warn you—maybe I shouldn't. You know, it is more fun this way, playing games with each other. It's lovely to have competition every now and then. No, I'm not that daft. Two rules are in need of knowing in order to win this game: one, you mustn't make a sound; two, if you do, I will not hesitate to kill you. It's not as though you can speak right now, but do try not to give Sherlock dear any hints during our little meeting. I can't bear to see him solve a case when everything is right there in front of him. Come come, don't be ridiculous, he is not intelligent when that happens. I want him to set the world on fire—show me that he has what it takes to be just like little old me. And you know what? I think we should."

x x x x x

"Mycroft, you can see yourself out."

"Sherlock, it is not healthy to be this involved in a case. You have no authorization to pursue the man at hand."

"He tried killing us both, brother. I find it hard to believe that is not enough authorization."

"The government can take care of things from here."

"The government—what has it done for us recently, brother? The longer we sit here, the longer he is out there, plotting against us."

"The longer we are here, the more you wish to be with another sociopath solving another ridiculous case."

"So much for brotherly love."

In 221B Baker Street, Mycroft and Sherlock sat across from each other. John, on the other hand, had just returned from the bedroom, awakened by the arbitrary argument going on in the den. He would be in his own bed above the flat, but Sherlock had botched some kind of experiment in his room—something to do with chemicals and a severed hand. So he was stuck with sleeping with Sherlock. It was hard enough to get some kind of sleep when Sherlock was on a case (and this case, Moriarty's, it had been going on long enough), but when the brothers were together? There was no point to try. John tried to make sense of it, through the door, but it was pointless. They were just going back and forth.

"It would help if the government could actually give me some kind of useful information. I could've found that out on my own by walking outside."

"I cannot give you all the information, Sherlock. You know we have tried that once before."

John shook his head and continued to stand in the kitchen. It never made sense how the two were brothers in the first place; they looked nothing alike. They acted the same way (Lestrade liked to call them stubborn brats whenever he came over), but they could've been friends at Uni. John noticed how Sherlock could stare at Mycroft with the coldest glare, but Mycroft would be unmoved by his attempts to kick him out of the flat; he'd just spin that damned umbrella around, or play with his phone.

"Have you gotten much sleep, brother? You hardly look well."

"I do not need sleep, not when he is out there."

Then John would catch moments like that. It was obvious that Mycroft cared about his brother, but it was like they could only show affection through fighting—Sherlock would never praise his brother, not when Mycroft was in the same room at least. Yes, much to his surprise, Sherlock did talk some praise about his brother when in private quarters. He could only think of one incident, when both he and Sherlock were in the bedroom, and he quietly said: "Mycroft tries too hard sometimes. He should get some rest." It was not high praise, no, but it was something that showed a bit of caring through the sociopath. Though, he just continuously argued, as if that was the way to say "I care about you, too."

John was going to step out for a bit and talk to Mrs. Hudson, but then he heard a phone ring. He looked at the two in the den and noticed neither one of them making a move to get the phone—had they heard it? No, it didn't seem like it; Sherlock was now arguing to Mycroft about the Russian economy. John scoured around the area, but found no phone in sight. Where was it, exactly? He moved back to the bedroom, leaving the two brothers alone again.

As they argued, the phone ring was a little louder. He scanned what he could see, but saw nothing flashing or in plain sight, rather. He stepped over to the dresser near the bed (Sherlock liked to have a table near his pillow, in case Lestrade suddenly called in the middle of the night) and heard something vibrating in the drawer. Pausing, he wondered why a phone was in the drawer in the first place. Hadn't Sherlock carried his phone everywhere he went? He pulled it open and looked down, his eyes slowly widening. He snatched the phone from the resting place and stared at the screen. He knew the number, yes, but he didn't know why he was calling this phone. Why was it this phone? Did the man know the number to this phone? John quickly stepped out of the bedroom.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, he saw Mycroft standing to the side, staring out the window. Sherlock had his arms crossed, still staring at the chair Mycroft once occupied. Mycroft turned to his brother, then his eyes glanced up to John. "Oh, Dr. Watson. Does my incessant brother have a phone call he needs attending to?" Sherlock looked up at John, then slightly, only slightly, turned his head when he did.

"John," he whispered. He quickly uncrossed his hands and rose from his chair. Staring at his flatmate, he had his eyes fall to the phone in John's hand.

"Sherlock," Mycroft looked at the back of Sherlock's head and rose an eyebrow.

"What is the number?" Sherlock asked. He looked back at his brother and stood there. "You should write the number down, if it is not blocked. We are dealing with a sociopath. Be useful, Mycroft," he turned back to John and watched his partner stoically stand there. John didn't look down.

"It's Lestrade's," Mycroft turned his head to the doctor.

"Lestrade?" Mycroft looked down at his phone and scanned the screen. There were no new messages, even though he had been texting his partner the entire afternoon. Sherlock stepped over the furniture to quickly stand near John, looking down at the screen. Sure enough, "DI Lestrade" was on the screen.

"I had programmed all the names that I cared for into the phone, in case he did something like this," Mycroft didn't look over at the two. He just stared at his screen. Had something happened?

John and Sherlock shared eye contact before both nodding. They had to answer it; something could've happened. Clicking the 'answer' button, they held the phone in the air, a little static silencing the air in the flat. Mycroft looked out the window and saw the black car outside the flat. He really should be leaving—but it interested him. He looked at the two in the kitchen and stood there with them, listening for anything to make a sound.

Then, something eerie reached their ears. "Hi!" Sherlock and John met eye contact again; Mycroft watched the stillness in their bodies. "Oh, my boys, I know you can hear me. You too, government. I must say, it's quite the crowd today." Sherlock straightened his posture and turned his head. He saw his brother keep his composure, although he knew what his brother was thinking. Mycroft stepped away from the window. He felt vulnerable. "Oh, silly, don't move away. I was loving the view, honestly."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the phone. "You call with your own voice. A change. What do you want this time, Moriarty?"A sudden fit of chuckles came through the receiver.

"Ah, my Sherlock! I knew you'd love to hear my voice. Is dear John around? I'm sure he is, your pet is always by your side," Mycroft stood near the window and glanced outside. There were no cameras on the street, nor were there any cameras in the flat (that were not Mycroft's)—he would've been alarmed if they were intercepted. So the man was nearby. He scanned the nearby buildings; he couldn't see anything. "I only want to hear your lovely voice, my dear. I don't suppose you backed off my trail, though. Tsk, tsk, love."

Sherlock did nothing. "You knew I would not back down from this game. You set it up where I could not escape. Clever, but you know I will find you." Moriarty hummed.

"Hmm, I do suppose that is the case. You are the only consulting detective in the world; you'll find the criminal in the long run. Dear Sherlock, how long do you want to keep running after me, though? It will surely tire you out," Mycroft held his phone in his hand, texting his secretary ("Andromeda" is what she wanted to be named), but then he suddenly saw a red light shining through the window. A red dot appeared on his chest. He lifted his eyes to the colorless windows and held out his hands.

"I will find you."

"I find that hard to believe," Moriarty darkly replied. Then, a little squeak came from the floor; Moriarty was moving around. "Ah, government! Have you a phone on you? Naughty man, you need to keep that in your pants," Mycroft looked out to the windows and noticed one of the curtains on the windows slightly inch away from the panes. He found where Moriarty was located. The building had been abandoned for years; Mycroft was hearing rumors of demolishing it for quite some time, but the neighborhood has been thinking of turning it into flats again. All he knew of the building was the people of the building were evacuated years ago because of some toxin, and all their belongings couldn't go with them. It was horrific. "I am waving, although I do not know if you can see it. I know you see the window." Sherlock turned around.

"Where is he, Mycroft?" Mycroft did not look away. The window would be his target.

"Go ahead, Mycroft Holmes," Moriarty drawled his named out. Mycroft could still feel the red dot on his chest. "Tell him what you see."

He kept silent. "Mycroft," Sherlock demanded. Mycroft did not look away, but he did speak.

"Tell me," he calmly said; he had been aimed at countless times, he knew the drill, "why are you calling from a Detective Inspector's phone?"

A boisterous laugh echoed the flat; Mycroft saw the curtain pull back to its original position. Those in the flat could hear his feet stomping and thrashing about, seamlessly crashing through the floorboards in the distance. Mycroft waited for some kind of movement, then got a text. Carefully, he looked at the screen: Drop the phone and your life will not end. His arms relaxed, his hands by his sides. Then he threw the phone on the table right in front of him; the red dot disappeared.

"Oh, you are quite the riot, government! Although, you are no fun! You really want to not play our little game? Oh, that's okay. Sherlock, dear, I must leave you, but don't hang up! You can listen if you like. This phone conversation was not meant for you. Do try not to miss our little night conversations we have," Sherlock bit inside his lip, then tore away from the phone. With his back turned, he stared at Mycroft, who was still looking out the window. "Government! You have a phone call!" Mycroft turned his head to those in the kitchen; Sherlock turned back to the phone.

"This game is between you and I, Moriarty," Sherlock could feel the smile Moriarty held.

"I'm adding players, my dear. I hope you don't mind," Sherlock heard small footsteps coming near him; he turned and saw Mycroft next to them. "Oh, government! You joined us! How nice of you. Has Sherlock dear informed you of our little game?" Mycroft looked over at his brother.

"I have been informed of as much of the game as one can have. Although, there are two parts; which are we playing? The one where you kill him? Or burn the heart out of him?" Moriarty moaned in sweet delight.

"Ooooooh, you are good! You are not the government for any reason, no, no, no. Is that why the Detective Inspector loves you so?" Mycroft tore his eyes away from his brother's gaze and stared down at the phone's screen. How did this criminal know about his personal life? "Oh! Silence! Is this the first time the British Government had been silenced? It must be. I must've guessed right," Mycroft looked at neither John nor Sherlock; he was too focused on the phone.

"Where is he?" Moriarty hummed again.

"Oh, your precious Detective Inspector is sitting right next to me. He's in quite a bind, though," Mycroft understood. He dealt with hostage situations before, he knew the codes. "Now, now, what are we doing over here? Nothing yet, but you and I, government, we're going to do something fun. We're going to play a game."

Mycroft frowned. "What are the rules?"

x x x x x

Lestrade could feel his head pounding. He tried to remember how he got here in the first place. Okay, he thought, I was going to Sherlock's flat—was it thirty minutes ago?—when someone in a building called me inside about some disturbance. It was a tall man, dark hair. He was friendly. He led me up the stairs, quite a few flights, talking about something. I was led down a hallway, full of turns—I have no idea where he was taking me—and finally we stopped at a door. There seemed to be some screaming inside, so I told him to step back. I knocked down the door and—that's it. He must've hit me on the head to knock me unconscious. Bloody bastard.

Lestrade looked around the room. There were no lights, just the light outside. There was a man by the window holding what appeared to be a sniper, smoking a cigarette. He had the same build as the man downstairs—probably was the same man. Then there was a smaller man, jumping around with a phone in his hand. He was getting excited about something, laughing and carrying on. He would run back and forth between the window and Lestrade, smiling more and more. He was having fun.

The smaller man hopped over to where he was sitting—he was trying to get out of the ropes, but there was no point. The smaller man pulled his head back and exposed his neck, tearing at his hair. The smaller man—was this Moriarty? Everything was a blur—had the biggest smile on his face. It was like the man was growing to like this fond phone call, whoever was on the other line (Lestrade couldn't stay awake half the time). "Ooooooh, you are good!" Lestrade noticed how the man's face twisted in every direction, how his mouth was loud and his voice rambunctious. "You are not the government for any reason, no, no, no. Is that why the Detective Inspector loves you?" Government?

Mycroft?

Lestrade thrashed about in the chair; Moriarty put a knee right into his stomach. Lestrade felt it push against some of the internal organs; he bit down on the duct tape in his mouth. He stared directly up at the man, who now was frowning. Moriarty, still holding his head, smirked. "Oh! Silence! Is this the first time the British Government had been silenced? It must be. I must've guessed right," Lestrade felt Moriarty loosen his grip on Lestrade's hair, but still combing through it, as if to calm him down. But he was feeling his anger grow. How he wanted to scream (the duct tape, however, was proving most difficult).

"Where is he?" Lestrade blinked; he knew his gaze softened. He moved his gaze over at the phone and stared at the black thing. It looked like his phone—oh, no, it was his phone. Moriarty slid away from Lestrade, his knee leaving his stomach. Lestrade wheezed a few times, quietly, and Moriarty started to walk around Lestrade. How he wanted to stare at the phone, to hear Mycroft's voice again. He didn't know what he was getting into being in the chair—what was going to happen?

"Oh, your precious Detective Inspector is sitting right next to me. He's in quite a bind, though," Lestrade felt Moriarty's fingers trickle down his arms, tracing over the rope that held him down. Then he felt his fingers circle around his fists, somehow wanting him to relax. It wasn't helping. "Now, now, what are we doing over here? Nothing yet, but you and I, government, we're going to do something fun. We're going to play a game." Lestrade felt his hands slowly making their way up his back and then brushing around his hair; Lestrade was terrified.

"What are the rules?" Lestrade heard the interest in Mycroft's voice. If I make it out alive, he thought, I'm punching him.

Moriarty started to jump around. "Exciting! How exciting! You are quite the player, government. Get your brother to be this way, he's such a tease," Lestrade felt him brush pass his chair—the wind was nice and cool—and rush over to the window, staring out the old curtains. Lestrade looked around again. It was a normal flat, nothing special. He wondered if that was a bed next to him. Or maybe it was a table. He couldn't tell. "First step, come to the window."

Lestrade wanted to see his partner. He felt his legs starting to bounce, wanting to run over to the window and stare out. He knew he was still across the street. It wasn't like he was across town. He heard slight footsteps on the other line skip across that floorboard. Lestrade closed his eyes. His head was a mess. Moriarty made a slight move and started to talk to Lestrade. "Oh, it looks as though only Mycroft Holmes is coming to the window! How did your pet give up that phone, dear Sherlock?" Lestrade tried not to listen. He didn't want to anyway. "Now, don't move. If you move, your poor little Detective Inspector will be getting quite the treatment by yours truly, and we don't want to get my hands dirty," Lestrade opened his eyes and leaned his head back. Oh, Christ, he was getting tortured? He listened to the enthusiasm of Moriarty laugh through the walls.

"You have my word, James Moriarty," the criminal chuckled; Lestrade felt the strings played at. Was that a wrong thing to do?

"Careful with that name, it's killed thousands," Lestrade prayed his name would not be added to the list. "Now, are you ready for the rules? You don't have to do anything but stand there! It's quite simple on your part. However, you will answer," Moriarty looked over at Lestrade, smiling. "10 questions. If you answer 5 correctly, you win your precious Detective Inspector back! If you get 5 wrong, sorry, love, your heart will be burned." Lestrade watched as the sniper rose. "For every question you answer right, your partner here will have a rope detached. For every question answered wrong, my pet here—Sherlock, dear, I have one too, you should meet him—will hurt your Detective Inspector. Are you ready?"

Lestrade felt the silence intensify tenfold. If a pin were to drop in the room, it would scare him to his core. He tried to figure out what Mycroft would be thinking at that time, wondering if he was scared just like he was then (truth be told, Mycroft would be terrified for both their lives). Then he heard Mycroft laugh a little.

"And what happens to you in the end if I win? Greg will not stand for his life to be spared while you go back on the run," Lestrade shook his head and chuckled; goddamn that man, he thought. Moriarty started to move his head from side to side, watching the man across the street. Then he smiled.

"If you win, you can have me, government. But if you lose, tsk tsk, you'll have to let me go. And not only that, but you will stop playing Sherlock's game for him. He deserves to have a little fun by himself. So, are you ready?" Lestrade saw the sniper tower over him, his dark eyes staring right into his eyes. He wondered what would happen to that man if Mycroft won—when Mycroft would win.

"I cannot decline a challenge," Lestrade sighed. He sounded so smug, that bastard. Moriarty kept his eyes on the window, but he was eager to play. He was so excited.

"Brilliant! Let's play." Lestrade was not ready, but he knew what he had to do. He had to play the game.