Alone within the cold white walls of St. Bart's morgue, pale blue eyes fought back tears.

Mycroft Holmes stood beside Sherlock's lifeless body, unable to tear his eyes away. His baby brother, the one he had sworn to protect, lay bloody and broken because of him. Mycroft Holmes-the brilliant strategist, the wise negotiator, the secret center of the British government-had lost. He had been an arrogant fool, believing he could beat Moriarty at his own game. His pride had led him straight into the spider's web, and this was his punishment: seeing his brother disgraced, discarded, and now deceased.

He knew he couldn't stand there all day. This was not his time to mourn, there was work to be done.; funeral arrangements to be made, meetings to attend, a country to run. Mycroft's logic-driven mind reminded him of this repeatedly, ordering him to pull himself together and do his job. His body however, refused to cooperate, choosing instead to mourn at his dead brother's side, to wonder how the broken man before him could possibly be the little boy who had been bursting with life and curiosity and to stare at the blank face that would never again be alight with said life and curiosity.

The creaking sound finally shook Mycroft from his thoughts. The door opened and his assistant entered. She did not look up from her phone, nor did she close the door behind her, wordlessly informing Mycroft that it was time for him to leave. Sparing a final glance for the empty shell of his beloved brother, Mycroft forced himself to turn and walk away. Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself while attempting to discreetly wipe the moisture from his eyes.

After returning to his office, Mycroft had quickly discovered he was in no condition to work. His desk was already piled with files he needed to look over, and it would only get worse the longer he put it off, but each time he attempted to read one, he found he could not focus. Instead, his mind was filled with the blood matted in Sherlock's hair, the sickening twist of his broken limbs, intermixed with a never-ending chant of yourfaultyourfaultyourfault.

Pushing the file away with a sigh of frustration, Mycroft gave up. He would be useless until he managed to get his mind under control. Closing his eyes, he settled into the familiar technique he had taught his brother all those years ago. Sherlock had built himself a palace, but Mycroft was far more ambitious; he had built a city.

Navigating the cityscape of his mind, he was startled to see the chaos that Sherlock's death had created. At the heart of the city was the largest building: a monstrous warehouse. The jet black building towered over the rest of the city, proudly displaying the label "Sherlock" in icy blue letters. It was here that the damage was the worst. Cracks ran up the sides of the building and glass and debris rained down as it crumbled. The cars containing his racing thoughts ignored the street signs, crashing violently with each other. The usually pristine and organized buildings nearby seemed misshapen and out of place. The ground shook and cracked, as if Mycroft's very foundation was threatening to give out.

It would take him hours to sort out this anarchy, and he didn't have the time for that. He needed just temporary peace. Turning from the gut-wrenching destruction, Mycroft moved instead to the outskirts of his city. Here the buildings, nearly unaffected by Sherlock's death, were run down and unkempt from years of disuse. This was the information he didn't need, the things he hadn't had reason to examine since he had placed them there. This information would be much less painful to sift through and organize, while still easing his mind, if only temporarily.

After a moment of deliberation, Mycroft entered the most worn of the buildings: an office building for a tabloid magazine. It was here that he stored the majority of the useless information such newspapers provided. They contained little more than mindless trivia, but was all his fragile mind could handle right now. He went through stack after stack of papers, the mindless work slowly putting him at ease. Words passed before his eyes-Sasquatch, cheating, conspiracy-until one caught his attention. Winchester.

Sam and Dean Winchester. Mycroft had read about them in an American tabloid years ago. Intrigued, he had done a bit of research. With all of his connections and secret ties, he had discovered something his analytical mind could not accept. His research had told him that these two brothers travelled across America fighting supernatural creatures. Preposterous. He was a man of logic; he knew things like spirits and demons did not exist. They were fairy tales and nightmares, nothing more. Yet somehow, his investigation had seemed to prove just the opposite. Mycroft had been handed pages and pages of seemingly indisputable proof that not only did such things exist, but the Winchester brothers had dedicated their lives to saving people from them.

Despite the evidence given to him, Mycroft found he could not believe such things. Instead he had tucked the Winchesters away in his mind, deleting everything but the tabloid article that had intrigued him so. He had kept it as meaningless trivia, assuming it would never mean anything to him. But now the ideas raced through his head, demanding to be acknowledged and accepted.

With a gasp, Mycroft pulled himself back into reality. While his city faded away, however, the thoughts remained. Spirits. Demons. Gods. They were real. It seemed unfeasible, yet he knew it would have been impossible to fake the amount of proof and documentation he had been presented with. Hadn't he always said that once the impossible was eliminated, whatever remained was the truth? It seemed, then, that the truth was that these things existed. And if they did, what other impossible things could? What if there was to bring Sherlock back? Perhaps he could still save his brother.

Standing outside a dingy American diner, Mycroft hesitated. It had taken only a few hours to find and contact the Winchester brothers. Though they had been wary, they had agreed to meet with him. One private jet ride later, and he was mere moments away from meeting two experts in an area he still wasn't sure he believed in. Resorting to such measures made it obvious that he was not in his right mind. Still, Mycroft had failed his brother, and now he would do anything he could to fix it.

Steeling himself against the unknown that awaited him, Mycroft entered the diner. The restaurant was crowded, but it was easy to spot the brothers. The younger, Sam, was easily a head taller than the other customers, and was glancing around warily, attempting to appear nonchalant. Beside him, the elder brother was hunched over a piece of pie, elbowing Sam in a clear message to calm down. They were clearly as unsure as Mycroft was.

Clutching his umbrella like a lifeline, he took a seat across from the two boys. He was startled, at first, by how young they appeared. Surely they were not old enough to be facing such dreadful business. Yet as he looked closer, the telltale signs of stress, fear, and grief revealed two children grown old far before their time. Clearing his throat and tapping his umbrella anxiously against the filthy floor, Mycroft addressed them.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Sam, regarding him with suspicion, kicked his brother under the table. Dean, who had paused with his mouth full of pie, sputtered and then swallowed. Straightening up, he fixed Mycroft with a serious look.

"Okay. I take it you're uh...Mycroft?" At Mycroft's nod he continued. "Man, I gotta ask. What kinda name is that? Mycroft. Weird."

Dean paused, silenced by Mycroft's raised eyebrow and Sam's admonishing look.

"How did you find out about us?" Sam asked calmly and carefully. He and Dean had been startled to receive a phone call requesting they meet with some unheard of British politician. They were experts at covering their tracks, they should have been untraceable, yet this strange man had found them with ease.

"I have my sources." Mycroft replied just as carefully, his eyes hardening in a warning not to probe further.

It was clear that the elder brother was irritated by his vague answer. Taking in Dean's suddenly puffed out chest and furrowed brow, Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and prepared for the coming outburst.

Dean huffed in frustration. "Now look here, buddy-"

"It doesn't matter." Mycroft cut him off. "How I found you is irrelevant. I mean you no harm. I simply need to know if you can help me."

"We'll just see about that." Dean uttered gruffly, his hands reaching into his pockets. In seconds, Mycroft found himself with droplets of water on his face and grains of salt stuck to his suit. Brushing off his jacket and reaching for a napkin, he took a moment to be grateful he had come alone. His usual security detail would not have taken kindly to that little display.

"Are you quite finished?" He asked sardonically.

"Yes." Dean grumbled, settling back in his seat.

Sam leaned forward earnestly. "What do you want us to help you with?"

Mycroft answered, surprised to find himself struggling for the proper words. "A person of...significance to me was taken recently. It was the result of an error or my part and I-"

His voice broke, shocking Mycroft as much as it did the Winchesters. Mortified, he fought to keep his composure. Clearing his throat and forcing himself to treat this as any information-extracting job, Mycroft continued. "I wanted to make it right."

The brothers' faces were marred with confusion when Sam spoke again. "I understand that this if difficult for you Mycroft, but you have to be open with us." The tall boy said softly, obviously the more gentle and accommodating of the brothers. "We want to help you, but we can't unless you level with us and tell us what's going on."

Mycroft hesitated; being open and honest went against everything in his nature. He couldn't, however, pretend that this was just another job. This was his brother, his family, his mistake. The wall he had erected to keep the pain out crumbled, and the truth fell, unbidden, from his lips.

"My brother...my little brother...he died. He...he's gone and it's because of me. I was supposed to protect him..."

Disgusted by his lack of control, Mycroft paused to collect himself. He did not notice the Winchesters exchanging astonished and nervous looks.

"You two have done amazing things." Mycroft continued. "You have destroyed things that I never even believed existed. I would do anything to save my brother, and if there is anyone who might know a way, it's you."

Mycroft looked up, this time catching the brothers' glances. Dean appeared sympathetic and unsure, while Sam seemed angry. He shook his head sharply, his brow furrowed, at Dean's imploring gaze. Mycroft could clearly see a wordless argument occurring between them. Finally, their staring match ended, with Sam the obvious victor. While Sam's shoulders sagged in apparent relief, Dean turned away with a sigh, looking back to Mycroft.

"I'm sorry, man." He said with genuine regret.

"There's nothing we can do, Mycroft." Sam added. "The dead can't be raised. I'm truly sorry for your loss." With that, the taller Winchester grabbed his brother's elbow, dragging him from the booth, and the pair left, Dean casting one last remorseful glance back at Mycroft.

Mycroft wasn't sure how long he sat in that diner after the Winchesters left. He was in a daze of sorts. It had been foolish to come, to allow himself to hope. What had he expected, that these boys would magically revive Sherlock? What an idiotic assumption on his part. Sherlock would have been appalled. The cases the Winchesters worked on almost always involved deaths. Both of their parents were deceased, in fact. If there was a way to raise the dead, none of those deaths would have occurred. He never should have come, never should have let sentiment cloud his rationality.

That was it then. Sherlock was dead. Gone forever and nothing would ever change it. Mycroft would just have to carry on then. He had a funeral to plan, and his brother's flatmate to face. There was no more time for foolish fantasies. Shaking his head, as if to clear them away, Mycroft stood. He forced his emotion aside, banishing his guilt, anger, desperation, and hopelessness to the back of his mind and allowing his body to move mechanically. His heart may be broken, but that was just a metaphor after all: he didn't need it to function. His body could go through the necessary motions, even as his mind cried out in agony. Smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his impeccable suit, he strode towards the exit with his head held high. If the hand clutching his umbrella was shaking and there were tears prickling at his eyes, no one noticed.

Just as he neared the edge of the parking lot, where a discreet black vehicle awaited him, a sleek Impala tore into the lot. Mycroft heard his name shouted through the car's open window. Turning quickly, he hastened back to where Dean was scrambling out of his car.

"Mycroft," Dean panted "I don't have long. Sam's gonna kill me, but I ditched him at a gas station. He doesn't get it, but I do. I know a way you can save your brother."

Dean's words hung in the air, and Mycroft found he could hardly breathe. You can save you brother. His knees nearly buckled as hope flooded him once more.

"How?" He croaked, too emotionally worn to care how desperate he sounded. "Tell me what to do."

Here Dean hesitated. "You have to be sure. It comes with a heavy price and there's no way to undo it."

"I'm the reason Sherlock is dead." Mycroft said softly, feeling Dean's searching gaze. "I assure you, I will do whatever it takes."

Whatever it was Dean was searching for, he seemed to find it in Mycroft's face, and he continued. "You can make a deal. With a demon. Your soul for your brother's. You go to hell, and he comes back, safe and sound. Usually they'll give you some time before they take you, but it depends. Most people get ten years, I got one. My dad didn't get any time."

"Wait." Mycroft interjected. "You made one of these deals?"

"Yeah. I told you, I get it. I couldn't just let Sammy die, not when it was my job to look out for him."

At Mycroft's confused look, Dean elaborated. "I know, I'm still here. I got lucky. I was brought back because I was needed. It's a long story. But you won't be brought back, Mycroft. There's no getting out of it. If you do this, you will go to hell and you won't get out. And let me tell you, hell is no picnic."

Dean shuddered. "If anything, it's...worse than you can imagine. They'll turn you into a monster. So I'm gonna ask you one more time: are you sure? Are you willing to do this?"

Mycroft stood tall as he answered immediately, resolutely.

"Just tell me what to do."

Mycroft stood in the middle of a dirt road intersection, his government ID clutched in one hand, his umbrella in the other. This was it; there would be no turning back after this. Digging at the center of the intersection, as per Dean's instructions, Mycroft found the wooden box. Placing his picture inside, he closed his eyes, allowed himself one deep breath, then closed and buried the box.

"Well isn't this a surprise. A lovely one, too."

Mycroft froze. He knew that voice, it was the one that haunted his dreams. It couldn't be. Whirling around, he found himself face to face with James Moriarty.

"Hello Iceman." Moriarty said with a twisted grin.

"No," Mycroft sputtered, stumbling backward. "You're dead."

Moriarty's grin only widened. "Course I am. Didn't think I'd just sit idle down there, did you? Tsk, tsk, Mycroft, you've underestimated me again. It's becoming a nasty habit of yours, I'm afraid."

Mycroft took a step back, still in shock. He had been told to expect a demon, he could have handled a demon. But this was Moriarty. This was the man who destroyed both he and his brother in one move.

"I-I don't understand" Mycroft's mind was reeling, unable to comprehend how Moriarty could be a demon.

"No, of course you don't" The dead criminal sneered. "You thought you were so clever but your view is so limited. What did you think happens to the dead? Nothing? There is a hell, Mycroft Holmes. I've been there. They burn the humanity out of you, turn you into a monster with their torture. Lucky for me I didn't have much humanity left, so they put me to work."

Moriarty, still so much himself even after death, moved towards Mycroft like a Jaguar stalking its prey. His sadistic smirk did nothing to light his dark, soulless eyes, and Mycroft fought the urge to retreat from this abomination.

"It's not the best gig, I know. Making deals, stealing souls. Boring. But it's a start, and it will only get better, especially now that I've got you. You know how much you're worth, don't you, dear? You're just full of secrets. Juicy ones too. If I'm lucky I'll be the one to extract them from you. Revenge is so sweet, isn't it?"

His voice, soft and sinister, sent chills down Mycroft's spine. Despite his efforts to appear unfazed, Mycroft found his hands curling into uneasy fists. That was Moriarty's greatest weapon: the small things. He knew exactly how to drag a confident man from his comfort zone, to reduce him to a frightened weakling with the smallest of actions. Mycroft was a man of control. His every moment was planned, his every action calculated. Everything Mycroft Holmes did was on his terms. Yet here he was, at the mercy of the demon who had taken everything from him and mocked him while doing so. Moriarty circled him slowly, invading his personal space to continue his mutterings in Mycroft's ear.

"And then comes the best part. But you already know what it is, don't you? You know just how important you are to this world. You, with your 'minor government position.' I can bring the whole world to it's knees. We wanted to start a war, to destroy the humans, but with you we won't have to. With you we can make them destroy each other.

"Imagine it, Mycroft. Imagine the world burning, burning. Because it will burn, Mycroft. It will burn because of you. You know it, and yet here you are. Big brother here to save little Sherlock. Of course it's your fault he even needed saving, but that's the whole point, isn't it? You chose the world over your baby brother and you just couldn't stand it. You love him, how terribly ordinary of you. And now, to fix it, you're going to destroy the world. I'll get a promotion for sure. And you, you'll end up just like me.

"We're not so different after all. We never were. Maybe that's why Sherlock couldn't stand you, because you're a spider too. You just use your web for the greater good, while I use mine to look out for number one. No matter. I assure you, a short trip to hell will fix that. I'll let you keep your humanity long enough to make you watch the destruction you've caused, and then I'll burn the heart out of you. I'll scorch and slice and scrape every...last...ounce of good in you, Mycroft Holmes. Then you'll laugh at the end of the earth, the end of the baby brother it's all for."

"Enough!" Mycroft snapped. His patience had run out. He was tired of letting Moriarty play every card available to increase his misery. He knew what he was doing, and he would not let this inhuman creature force him to dwell on it. Hadn't he suffered enough already? "I am fully aware of the consequences of my actions, thank you. Make an offer, before I change my mind."

"Ooh, touchy touchy." Moriarty giggled. "Very well. Six months, Mycroft Holmes. That's all you get. I'm afraid I'm not in a negotiating mood. Too impatient, you see. I'll give you half a year to say goodbye to darling little Sherlock. Good luck explaining to him what his life is costing."

Moriarty's eyes, alight with glee, met Mycroft's hardened glance. The demon rejoiced at the struggle and resignation clearly displayed on the eldest Holmes' face. His first victory over the brothers had been satisfying at best, but this one was absolutely delicious.

Mycroft was cold. He had done his best to keep Moriarty's words from reaching him, but his struggle had been in vain. No matter what he chose, he lost. He knew he should walk away, refuse the deal. He did not doubt that Moriarty could use him in all the ways he described. Mycroft knew, however, that he would not walk away. No matter what sense and logic dictated, he had made his decision before arriving at the crossroads. Choosing the world over Sherlock before had been his great mistake, and he would not do it again.

Steeling himself, Mycroft gave in. "I agree to your deal." Mycroft spoke firmly, refusing to give Moriarty the satisfaction of his hesitation.

While the demon stood smirking, reveling in his final victory, Mycroft considered what would come next. The deal had to be sealed, and Dean had informed him the last crossroads demon had preferred to do so with a kiss. Just as he began to hope Moriarty wouldn't expect the same, he felt an ice cold hand against the back of his neck. Mycroft tried and failed to repress a shiver of horror as Moriarty dragged him in for a kiss. Frozen, lifeless lips pressed against his for a painfully endless moment. Mycroft's body stiffened, his eyes wide. Fully aware that Moriarty was dragging it out to cause him further discomfort, he held himself still even as every part of him wanted to shudder, to flee, to scream.

Jerking back once he was released, Mycroft was greeted once again by Moriarty's manic grin. "Ta. Wonderful dealing with you, Iceman." The demon chuckled. "See you in six months. Oh, this is going to be fun."

Suddenly he was gone, leaving Mycroft alone at the crossroads.

Alone within the cold white walls of St. Bart's morgue, pale blue eyes snapped open.