The clink of the chains as he walked was the worst part, he'd decided. They chained him like he was a serial killer or a wild animal at every opportunity. Like he might strike out at any moment. It was humiliating, infuriating and a massive blow to his pride.

The Iceman. The British Government. Now he was just Holmes, M. Another number in a drowning prison system.

His arrest and trial felt like such a long time ago. He'd been arrested for corruption and fraud, all of the charges fabricated by Moriarty, but his innocence didn't matter when the judge and the jury were under the thumb of the Consulting Criminal. Within days he'd been stripped of his job, his assets, his power. Now he was just a man, struggling to stay sane whilst he was locked in isolation for 23 hours a day.

Books were banned. Access to the outside world was limited, censored.

Everything he'd worked for was gone.

"How are you?" Sherlock asked from the other side of the glass in the visitation area.

"I'm alive." Mycroft replied with a slight shrug.

"Mycroft, I am working everyday to get your conviction overturned. You're innocent and everyone knows it." Sherlock said, studying his brother with worry. Mycroft had been the strong one but now he was weak, dejected, depressed.

"I don't know how long I can continue." Mycroft admitted, looking down at his hands. They were scarred now after numerous prison brawls.

"Maybe we can get you access to books again? That will help, surely?" Sherlock said gently.

"I don't know, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, "The longer I'm in here, the more I become like him. I can feel the madness, Sherlock, I can feel him in my head."

"Stop thinking like that. You are not Moriarty." Sherlock replied with a frown, "This whole situation has been created by Moriarty to make you feel this way. This is a game, Mycroft, and we have to wait it out."

"This is my life, Sherlock, not a game. I don't want to play his games anymore." Mycroft said, "I just want to sleep."

"They'll put you on suicide watch if you're not careful." Sherlock sighed, "They'll probably dose you up on tablets and take you to a psychiatric ward."

"If I get taken there, I'll never get out." Mycroft murmured, "I'm careful. I know what not to say."

"I'm sorry I can't do more. We're working with the lawyers and the courts but it's a real battle." Sherlock explained.

"I think I'd like you to stop visiting." Mycroft admitted, "You're a reminder of my old life. The life I'll never get back."

"No, Mycroft. Don't isolate yourself even further." Sherlock pleaded, his eyes wide.

"I need to move on and embrace my new life. It's been months and I can't hope anymore. I can't dream of a world without bars and chains. This is my life now." Mycroft explained, "You need to move on too. Forget about me."

"No. Myc-" Sherlock started, but Mycroft was already on his feet and walking away.

It had been days, weeks, months, years. Life inside was easier now. He was established, people knew to keep away. Moriarty's never-ending game had driven him mad, driven him to breaking-point. He now understood that isolation was a luxury. It was his own personal safe space, when the communal areas became too noisy.

The coded letters from Moriarty began to arrive after he'd refused to see visitors. He'd had one every single month without fail and they'd become his only link to the outside world. Mycroft kept them all in a box beneath his bed referring to them when he needed to read words on a page again. He'd memorized the letters the minute they arrived, but books were still in short supply so he used any opportunity to read.

He knew he should have said something, reported the letters to the guards, but he couldn't give up his only penpal. Sometimes he wrote back in their private code, picking out the flaws in some of Moriarty's plans and theories. He knew he was being indoctrinated into Moriarty's criminal empire, molded into the type of strategist that Moriarty wanted, but he didn't care. His old life was gone, why shouldn't he embrace his new life?

Sherlock had tried to visit and contact him multiple times, even sending John as a last ditch attempt, but he wasn't interested. He wasn't Mycroft anymore, he was M. There was no point having a long, formal first name in prison. The more mystery, the more danger, the better.

"Look at you. My, my, you are even better than I imagined." Moriarty said with a large grin, looking at Mycroft through the glass. The elder Holmes brother was fit, strong and tattooed on his arms.

"I got your letters." Mycroft replied, his gaze cold and steely.

"And? Are you eager to get involved?" Moriarty asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I am. Your plans are very good, but they lack finesse." Mycroft replied.

"You are perfect now. You have been broken apart and rebuilt into a better man." Moriarty exclaimed proudly.

"I can't wait to get started." Mycroft replied with a dark smile, his gaze cold and calculating.