Warnings: Hints of torture/violence and a darkish!Mycroft. Not a particularly joyful bonus chapter if you prefer to leave it on the higher note it ended on in the last one.

The room was dark – pitch black in fact. The temperature was moderate, so normal that it almost wasn't there. It was narrow, but long, with a single door at the end, which let no light through. It was a rectangle of unknown nothings, and Mycroft Holmes wanted it that way.

He slipped inside quickly, closing the door before Moriarty, tied to a chair at the end of the room, could get a good look at him. The man's knee was infected, wound leaking through the rough bandages, but that didn't bother Mycroft.

He didn't care whether the blood poisoning killed Moriarty, or not.

Steady tapping echoed on the tiled floor as he brushed his umbrella against it – the object reassured him, calmed him, something to cling to. That was why he'd brought it. For comfort.

Moriarty, to his credit, didn't break. Didn't ask who was there, didn't call out, taunt, show fear or weakness. Mycroft stopped about five inches from him – he'd counted it out exactly even before they'd even got Moriarty into custody, so he wouldn't be able to tell exactly where he was standing. He hoped that would unnerve him, but he had to face facts – the man was going to be difficult to alarm.

"You know why you're here."

Silence. Mycroft hadn't expected a reply.

"I would tell you we could do this the easy or the hard way – but to be honest, I'd far rather skip to the hard way. You're not an easy man to break, James."

A slight noise in the darkness, the shifting of rope on skin and chair. Mycroft lifted his umbrella and put the tip exactly a centimetre away from Moriarty's broken kneecap – he'd measured it out. He'd checked everything. He'd calculated it.

"I need information about your circle, about your associations, about every single thief and murderer who works for you. You're going to give it to me."

"You're wrong."

Ah. Quiet, not taunting, and not self-assured either.

"I'm never wrong."

"Oh really?" A slight lilt now – of challenge or anticipation?

"You don't know who I am, do you? I'm Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's my little brother." He suddenly dropped the umbrella, letting it clatter onto the floor with a ringing noise far too loud for the soft tones they were speaking in, and threw his weight forwards, placing one hand on each of Moriarty's shoulders, leaning close, chest heaving. It was only afterwards he realised that the move hadn't been planned.

Damn emotions.

"You don't scare me, Mycroft."

Mycroft clenched his hands so tightly he thought he might squeeze the bones right out of Moriarty's skin like toothpaste from a tube. "You played a very dangerous game," he murmured. "You pushed two men to the very limits of their restraints – one of them you planned to. One of them was John Watson, and he passed your test. He didn't even kill you when he had the chance, because he's a good man. A very good man. The question is…do you know who the other was?"

Silence. Breathing, slow, restrained. Fear. Mycroft could smell it – his shoulders were still shaking. Because Sherlock was his baby brother and Sherlock had been hurt and it was this man's fault. This was more than the extracting of information; this was revenge.

"The other one was me."

Thanks for reading; hope this gave just enough hints as to what Moriarty has coming to him. Reviews welcome!

The end! (again)