Author's note: A huge thank you to all my new subscribers! Seeing all these emails saying people actually enjoy my story is what keeps me going and writing this. We see but a glimpse of Moriarty's mind here, but I have some things planned that I'm really excited for. Just as a heads up, I'm looking at this being at least a 15 chapter fic, so I'll be shooting for that and maybe even beyond. Again, thank you so so much for all your reviews and subscriptions/faves.

"There can never be a man so lost as one who is lost in the vast and intricate corridors of his own lonely mind, where none may reach and none may save." Isaac Asimov

"Hold on, no prepping? No briefings? This isn't some petty thief we're talking about here." John's eyes darted between Sherlock's and Mycroft's as he spoke, his voice clearly expressing his surprise.

Mycroft shrugged and gestured to the attendant, who still stood patiently by the door. "Lucas has spoken with the young scientist in charge of prepping Moriarty, and he assures me everything's set to go."

Neither John nor Mycroft could tell why younger Holmes had chuckled at that, but they didn't pay much attention to it, either. Sherlock was nothing if he wasn't secretive, and when you lived with Sherlock Holmes you learned to get used to that. All three men took the hint when Lucas cleared his throat and opened the door, allowing them to leave the office before he closed it again and headed back towards the elevator. Mycroft, on the other hand, led his brother and John through a different set of stainless steel doors and into a room bustling with scientists in lab coats. Yet another pair of doors opened to reveal a darkly lit observation room, one wall a corkboard filled with newspaper clippings, and the opposite a two-way mirror giving them visual of the man on the other side.

John slowly went up to the window and took in the sight; three white beds – ends meeting to form a triangle – were placed in the center of the room, all with monitors attached in order to keep tabs on the occupants' vital signs. A swivel chair sat next to one of the beds, and a medical table with a number of colored vials was placed in between them. But what really caught John's attention was the dark-haired man already asleep on a bed, the white clothing in stark contrast with the bright blue liquid flowing through the IV tube attached to his arm. Even in his drug-induced sleeping state, the man's demeanor gave off a sense of sly genius, and it put John on edge. He jumped ever so slightly as the observation room door opened and a young woman stepped in and placed two clipboards on the table.

"Ah yes, this is Nora Clarke, our chemist," Mycroft moved to stand next to the brown-haired woman and directed his attention towards the two men peering into the extraction room. "She was in charge of looking over Moriarty's file and prepping him for extraction. Nora, my brother Sherlock Holmes, and his partner Dr. John Watson."

John extended his hand towards Nora and gave her a small smile and a brief nod. Sherlock just smirked once more and looked her up and down.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Nora glared at Sherlock, her tone all business.

"Mm, pleasure's all ours, Ms. Clarke. But I'm sure young Lucas could say the same. How is our young intern treating you?"

Nora gave Sherlock a wide, mocking grin and replied without missing a beat, "Much better than you could, I assure you. Now are we here to exchange lovely banter or get down to business?"

Sherlock smiled back, only half genuine, and finally extended his hand as well. "Business it is. Mycroft, don't go through the trouble of firing Ms. Clarke for her little office romance, you won't come out even."

Mycroft gave Nora a sideways glance that would've withered weaker individuals, but the chemist simply cleared her throat and slid the clipboards closer to John and Sherlock. "Release forms. Just in case you go under and don't come back out." John looked up at that, confusion written all over his face. "Don't worry," she continued, "we haven't had any trouble so far. But, you know, safety precautions and all that." A wink sent in his direction was all it took for John to whip his head back down and start signing the form. Sherlock flipped through the papers, eyes sweeping back and forth over the text, and finally signed his name as well. He collected John's clipboard and handed both back to Nora, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair.

"Well, let's get started, shall we?"

The Exactor and his Point man followed Nora out of the door, through the mass of scientists still sliding along the floors on chairs and typing away at computers, until they finally reached the white extraction room. John subconsciously looked up at where he knew Mycroft was watching from the observation deck, but only saw his own reflection staring back at him. He saw Sherlock in the mirror as well, situating himself on the bed to the right of Moriarty and closest to where Nora sat fiddling with the brightly colored vials. John took his place on the only bed left empty. From where he was laying, he could see Nora inserting the IV into Sherlock's vein, taping it down before she reached up and turned the valve to allow a green liquid to flow through. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and his arm went limp as he fell into the land of dreams. Nora slid her chair over to John's bedside and gave his arm a pat, holding her hand expectantly. He gingerly rested his arm in that hand and winced at the sharp pinch of the needle piercing skin. Reaching up to turn the valve, Nora half-smiled. "Ready?"

John hesitated; it'd been two years since he'd messed with DIs, much less entered the dream state. But one thought of Sherlock and what might happen if he were left unattended was what made him nod his head decisively. The valve was flipped, and blackness clouded John's vision, pulling him in deeper and deeper until the slow beeping of the heart rate monitors and the blinding white light were no more than memories. Though he was sleeping on the outside, John was still completely aware of the entire process, and when the faint pulling sensation had dissipated, he took a deep breath before opening his eyes once more.

Gone was the agonizingly clean extraction room; the white walls were replaced with the view of a long abandoned city, the smell of industrial smoke erasing the smell of ammonia. John spun around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock amidst the ruins, but the extractor was nowhere to be seen. What he did see, though, was a large, six story, white building about 50 yards away. Dammit, Sherlock, why do you always have to go rushing in without me.

Trudging through the rubble of broken down buildings, John perused his surroundings. It looked like it had once been a normal industrial city, with skyscrapers and parking garages littering the streets, until time or disaster had claimed it as its victim. He put his money on the latter, due to the charring he could see on the sides of buildings still left standing, and shivered to think what was in store if he and Sherlock delved deeper and deeper into Moriarty's mind. He'd assisted Sherlock with many an extraction, too many to count, and on more than one occasion that had meant diving into the mind of a criminal. But nothing he had seen could match the destruction that lay around him, and no criminal could match the genius that was Moriarty.

He was met with a red double door once he reached the building, and further investigation revealed that the padlock had already been picked and thrown aside. What happened to not disrupting the dream environment as much as possible, Sherlock? John bent down and picked up the padlock, hanging it through the handle and slowly opening the door until he could comfortably slip through. Once inside, the only light visible was the light streaming through the crack in the door, but even then John could tell that this floor was as bare as could be. Only a small staircase could be seen, and that led up to the much more promising second floor. John let the door shut behind him and waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before starting up the flight of stairs. As soon as his feet hit the second floor threshold, a blinding light met John's eyes and he threw his hands up instinctively; Sherlock stood at the other side of the building, hand resting on a light switch and eyes flashing deviously.

"What took you so long, John? I've already checked this floor, nothing of use to us," Sherlock shouted. He tapped his foot impatiently as John closed the distance between them, looking him over when he came to stop just feet away. "Not exactly what you'd expect from a criminal mastermind," – he gestured to the room around him – "almost too organized. Too clean. Your mind can only be as clean as your thoughts."

John took a look around, now that he could actually see his surroundings; all of the walls had rows of file cabinets built into them, running down the length and almost to the top, only leaving room for their owner to reach in. A rolling ladder was attached to both walls as well. "Wha-"

"Crimes," Sherlock interrupted, "or rather crimes in the making. These are just ideas – concepts really – hardly worth our time. It'll take him years to plan all of these."

"But don't you think this is exactly what Mycroft wanted us to extract in the first place?"

Sherlock grinned like a kid in a candy shop. "Oh, undoubtedly. But it's not what Moriarty wants us to extract."

John licked his lips and crossed his arms, staring Sherlock straight in the eyes, before saying, "No. Sherlock, I know I didn't say anything about it before, and I probably should've done, but you're in no state to be doing this. What if we stumble across the wrong information and just to happen to trigger a danger point? It'll either send us back to the surface or send Moriarty to us, and frankly not either of those is a preferable option."

A scoff emitted from the taller man. "Please. Moriarty already knows exactly where we are. Honestly, John, don't be so naïve. You're beginning to sound like my brother."

"Sher-"

John quieted when Sherlock lifted a finger and tapped his ear. John heard it too; the faint creak of a rusty door being closed as carefully as was possible. John's eyes met Sherlock's with a silent question, and was answered with a slight shake of the head. Not Moriarty. Instead of asking how in the world Sherlock could know, he simply followed as the extractor glided along the floor towards the unknown intruder. Sherlock finally lowered his hand and glanced up at the roof. "That came from the floor above us. And no, it's not Moriarty, because he wouldn't care if he alerted us. He wants us to find him. No, someone else is here, John." Without a word, Sherlock opened the door to the next staircase and beckoned John through. The smell of rust and mold wafted towards them and caused the two to cover their mouths and noses with their sleeves. Dirty water dripped from the walls and collected in bacteria filled puddles on the floor.

Sherlock smirked and muttered, "Mind's not as clean as you want us to think, is it?"