Author note: See disclaimers and notes from Chapter 1.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.

Trigger warnings: References to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

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Chapter 4

oOoOo

Mycroft stood in the observation room, looking through one-way glass at James Moriarty, who sat silently, twirling his fingers idly as though conducting a silent symphony. Moriarty had said nothing since his capture, and seemed quite content to remain mute. Mycroft looked up as Anthea entered the room, closing the door behind her.

"Sir, I have some urgent news about your brother and Doctor Watson. I'm afraid it's not good. They were attacked by robbers in Regent's Park, and Doctor Watson was stabbed. He's in emergency surgery – the knife nicked his femoral artery."

Mycroft sagged for a moment. "And Sherlock?"

"Was not injured, sir. He apprehended the suspects and applied first aid until the ambulance could arrive. It appears that he saved Doctor Watson's life."

Mycroft straightened again, allowing himself to feel a small glow of relief and pride in his little brother's efficient handling of the situation.

"Thank you, Anthea. Please keep me updated on Doctor Watson's condition." He turned back to the observation window, watching Moriarty's fingers describe lazy patterns in the air.

oOoOo

A week later, stepping from the interrogation room into the brightly lit corridor, Mycroft carefully preserved his cool, unflappable exterior, despite his inner battle with fear and loathing. James Moriarty was a monster. Proximity to the madman made Mycroft feel the strong urge for a long, hot shower.

Anthea was waiting for him in the corridor beside the armed guards. It was a mark of their professionalism that neither of them (one male, one female, both attracted to women) paid her a bit of overt attention.

"Sir? I need to speak to you privately, when you have a moment. It's regarding the surveillance."

While Mycroft knew of any number of current projects involving surveillance, he had no doubt to which project Anthea referred. He led her down the corridor to the small office that had been designated for his temporary use at this nameless detention facility, closing the door carefully. He turned and lifted his eyebrows in query.

"Sir, Doctor Watson was in an altercation this afternoon at a sushi restaurant in London."

Mycroft looked up, stunned. "What? The man has just recovered from a stabbing!" John Watson never ceased to surprise him.

"Apparently he is made of stern stuff, sir," Anthea smirked. "He assaulted another patron of the restaurant in the men's lavatory. The man visited the Royal London A&E this afternoon, and his chart says he has a fractured zygomatic arch, concussion, numerous contusions to his head and face, and serious bruising of his trachea and larynx."

Mycroft's eyebrows were lifted so high that only his receding hairline prevented them from blending into his hair.

"What was the cause for this altercation?"

"There is no CCTV in the men's lavatory, for obvious reasons, so we do not have a record of the confrontation. However, based on the man's identity, I believe that I can surmise the nature of the discussion. His name is Sebastian Wilkes."

Sebastian Wilkes.

Only the previous evening, Anthea had reported that she had narrowed the Cambridge list down to two possible Sebastians – one of whom was Sebastian Wilkes. Mycroft had a dossier on the man in his attaché case. He wasted no time in pulling it from the case and beginning to read. Anthea slipped quietly from the room.

oOoOo

"Sherlock?

The detective did not look up from his microscope.

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock." John came into the kitchen and set a small, polished wooden box on the table beside the microscope. An elegantly embossed silver "h" graced the lid, along with the words "Highland Park 40 Year Old Single Malt Scotch."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then looked up at John.

The good doctor was reading the small card that obviously came with the Scotch.

Ivory 243gsm 100% cotton cardstock, manufactured in Aberdeen, Holmes family crest embossed in high relief – his brother's personal thank you cards. Obvious.

He bent his head to his microscope once more.

"Well, John? You must have done something right for my brother to gift you with such an expensive token. Interesting."

John re-read the note – and frowned.

Doctor Watson –

I believe we might have gotten off on the wrong footing the other day. Please accept this small token of my high esteem. I deem you not only to be a worthy companion to my brother – but also a man who, let us say, does not let the grass grow under his feet when it comes to 'exacting retribution.'

You have my admiration, John – and my thanks.

– M. Holmes

oOoOo

Mycroft took a deep breath, firmly battening down his composure, before stepping into the cell. Cold, dark eyes glittered up at him. James Moriarty, sitting on the floor with his back resting against the concrete wall, studied Mycroft as he coolly strode to the center of the room. Mycroft deliberately kept his eyes locked on Moriarty, refusing to acknowledge the scribbles of his brother's name on every available surface of the cell. Seeing "SHERLOCK" repeated as an endless pattern by the hand of this psychopath made Mycroft feel ill inside, but no one would ever know that from his outward appearance.

Moriarty had been in custody for eleven days now, and had not spoken a single word. Various methods had been employed to encourage cooperation, but Moriarty seemed to have iron fortitude. Now he eyed Mycroft with a sharp, unpleasant scrutiny, clearly waiting for a reaction.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at Moriarty. "Enjoying your stay, James?"

The silence from Moriarty was hardly a surprise. Mycroft began to stroll idly back and forth, hands lightly linked behind his back.

"Your obsession with my brother is fascinating, James. Of course, I understand – Sherlock is fascinating. Oh, the stories I could tell you…"

He paused, looking coolly down at those black eyes, eyes that suddenly glittered with interest.

"Of course, I couldn't bore you with my stories, James. It would be rude to deliver an endless monologue about my brother, wouldn't it? Dialogues are so much more…interesting."

Moriarty said nothing, and Mycroft sighed audibly, turning to leave.

Then suddenly a voice, raspy from long disuse, came from behind him.

"A bit of quid pro quo, as the overdone hack wrote. Is that what you're proposing, Mycroft, old boy?"

Mycroft turned back slowly, not allowing his triumph to chance a muscle of his expression.

"Exactly so. Shall we begin our dialogue now?"

oOoOo

These "quid pro quo" discussions went on for several days. Mycroft tried to tell the most innocuous stories about Sherlock that he could, although he was uncomfortably aware that the psychopath was learning far more about his brother than Mycroft would prefer.

However, perhaps there was a way to salvage a little something from this twisted deal he had struck with Moriarty. On the fourth day of the interrogation, when Mycroft and his team had reluctantly concluded that they were not going to obtain more information from Moriarty without stepping into a realm that would violate many human rights conventions, Mycroft decided to have a last conversation with the self-proclaimed "consulting criminal."

"James, I have one more tidbit of information that you might be interested in learning about Sherlock. However, I fear it would possibly endanger the life of one of your many financial contacts if I were to share it."

Moriarty raised a sardonic eyebrow. "And your heart would bleed for that poor, innocent individual, wouldn't it, Mycroft?"

"Not really. I must confess that I wouldn't be overly sad to hear of the misfortune of a man who could do such a thing to Sher–…but you don't need to know about all of that."

Moriarty's posture shifted, and Mycroft knew he had him. There was no mistaking the possessive, jealous glint in those soulless eyes. Yes, Moriarty would certainly take decisive action on the matter.

" I believe, James, that you have had certain dealings with a Sebastian Wilkes..."

oOoOo

Mycroft settled into the buttery-soft leather of the club chair. The years had not dulled his appreciation of the Diogenes Club. He nodded his appreciation at the flannel-booted butler that placed a perfectly prepared cup of tea beside him, and unfolded his newspaper to peruse the headlines.

Local Financier Killed in Bizarre Escalator Accident

Police were called to the scene of a tragic accident this afternoon at the offices of Shad Sanderson, the international banking conglomerate. Sebastian Wilkes, 35, was found crushed to death inside the escalators that lead to the main lobby. Cause of death has been ruled to be accidental, although so far there has been no explanation for how Mr. Wilkes could have become caught in the mechanism…

Mycroft folded the newspaper, leaned back in the chair, and sipped his tea.

FIN.