Previously in A Crack in the Stone Wall…
Sherlock got up off of the couch, walking around to see if there were any clues as to how he got back to the flat. He looked out the window, confused to see that there were no people outside. Baker Street was empty, completely void of cars and people. Everything became clear when he turned around and saw Jim Moriarty sitting nonchalantly in his chair, twirling around the IOU apple which was stuck on the apple coring tool.
"Miss me?"...
Moriarty stared at Sherlock, his cocky and nefarious smirk exaggerating the deadness in his eyes.
"Oh Sherlock, so lovely to see you again… We have a bit of… catching up to do…" Moriarty sneered, getting up from Sherlock's chair.
For the first time in his life, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, was speechless.
"M-Moriarty… How did you… What are you doing here? H-how did I get back to the flat?" Sherlock stuttered. He mentally scolded himself for not keeping his composure in front of his arch-enemy, but it was impossible that Moriarty was alive. Sherlock had watched from close range as Moriarty shot himself on the roof of St Bart's hospital. There was no doubt that Jim Moriarty was dead, yet here he was, staring at Sherlock like he could see right through him.
"Oh, my dear Sherlock. You thought you'd seen the last of me, did you?" Moriarty walked around the room slowly, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock. His eyes locked on Sherlock's like a predator stalking its prey. Picking up the skull from the mantel, Moriarty studied it for a moment before turning back to Sherlock.
"You really haven't figured it out yet, have you? Do I need to spell it out for you?"
After a moment of looking around, Sherlock came to a realization…
"We're in my mind palace…"
"Bingo!" Moriarty declared. "Let's see if the great Sherlock Holmes can figure this out!"
Sherlock took a deep breath, then sighed, "I was hit by a car, taken to St Barts… I must be in a coma…But, what are you doing in my mind palace? And how do I get out?"
Moriarty let out a laugh and sat back down in Sherlock's chair, folding his hands in his lap. "Let's play a game, Sherlock."
"What type of sick, twisted game could you have possibly come up with?" Sherlock inquired. Moriarty was known for his elaborate mind games, and Sherlock knew that he could outsmart him, but they were in his head. Moriarty had somehow cemented himself in Sherlock's subconscious mind. How could Sherlock outsmart someone who was inside his thoughts?
"Oh don't worry Sherlock, the game is fairly simple. You must make choices. Make the wrong choice, and your physical health declines. You mustn't make too many incorrect choices, wouldn't want to leave poor John all alone. How about we make things a bit more interesting? Let's make it a race." Moriarty stated, his voice oddly giddy for a man who was threatening Sherlock's life. Sherlock knew he had no other choice…
"The game is on…"
To be continued...