"This isn't lunch," Jim complained. "This is breakfast."

Sherlock glanced down at the meal Mrs Hudson had prepared for them – or rather, for him. While his own plate held a delightful combination of sausages, mashed potatoes and buttered crumpets for him to pick at, Jim's vegetarian tastes had troubled the landlady, who had replaced the sausages with some basic scrambled eggs.

"I'm going to die of malnutrition," Moriarty continued to lament. "I don't have enough protein. I knew we should have gone to Angelo's."

Sherlock ignored him. The criminal wasn't being serious and there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"As for Moran…" he began instead.

Jim froze for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened, the joking tone gone. "Yes?"

Sherlock pushed his plate away. Eating and digesting would only slow down his thought processes. "What do we do about him?"

"We find him," Jim replied simply. His own plate remained untouched; neither of them had eaten a morsel.

"How?"

Jim shrugged, but his stance was still defensive. "We'll find a way. It'll have to be pretty spectacular."

"That's not the point," Sherlock dismissed. "What do we do once we find him?"

Moriarty remained silent, staring down at his full plate. Sherlock leaned back in his armchair and waited.

"I'll talk to him," the criminal replied at last, still not meeting his eyes.

"Then what?" Sherlock allowed exasperation into his tone. "Do we hand him over to the police?"

"Of course not!" Jim looked amused by the idea, but the light in his eyes quickly dimmed. "I'll… deal with him."

"Deal with him how?" The detective pressed further, ignoring Moriarty's obvious discomfort.

"When the time comes, we'll both see," Jim declared firmly. His tone was final: the discussion was closed.

Silence fell.

Sherlock's mind travelled back to Charles Adamson, and he relived the strange moments he'd witnessed: Moriarty taking the man's hand in his own; trailing his fingertips down his cheek; the soft look in his eyes and the comforting words he'd uttered.

Jim flitted through so many personalities. Watching him filled Sherlock with a strange fascination.

Everything's just a game to him. For the millionth time, he remembered their kiss – Jim's hand on his jawline, their lips crushed together, their tongues against each other. He did that to shock John – but it wasn't just that, was it? Sherlock's pulse rose a little. It was an experiment. To show me what he could give me and see how I would react. And my reaction surprised us both a little.

But again his mind settled on the question: what does he really want?

Jim was a murderer, a psychopath, destructive and bored. His sole purpose was to mess with people's minds. He cared about no-one, not even himself. He felt nothing: everything was just a game.

The different personas were just another way for him to have fun.

Or were they?

What if the personalities were more than just that?

A horrible thought occurred to him. What if I'm wrong? What if the psychopath is the fake one?

And, like an unstoppable force, a whole catalogue of scenarios unfolded in his mind. Jim's excessive expressiveness from the very first moment they'd met. The way he'd seemed to genuinely care about Molly when playing Jim from IT, and about Kitty when playing Richard Brook. The way he'd flinched at being called a psychopath. The way he'd overreacted when he'd been called James. The careful lack of emotion when discussing Sebastian; the tenderness with which he'd comforted Charles. And above all, the tears in the night.

Not even Moriarty could fake that range of emotions so well.

We're just alike, you and I.

A sudden wave of determination crashed through Sherlock.

You've days ahead of you which you'll need to spend with him. Capturing Moran would be even harder than expected, and other obstacles would soon lie in the way – other cases, New Year's Eve, John and Mary – not to mention his brother calling on him to resolve the panic Moriarty had caused. You're allowing him to manipulate you, and you're doing nothing but panicking. He wants your attention, so you know what? He allowed a grin to stretch across his face. Give it to him. It's time to make your own moves: two can play his game.

"What is it?"

Jim looked up with a curious smile, clearly wondering what Sherlock could be grinning about. The detective met his gaze with a touch of defiance.

If he shocks you, shock him back. Make him feel vulnerable; make him feel confused.

Starting from now.

"Nothing," he said aloud, a gleam in his eye. "Absolutely nothing at all."

Raising a perfect eyebrow, Moriarty leaned back, crossing his legs. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrest, presumably something by Bach.

"What do you want, then, Jim?" Sherlock asked blatantly.

Jim blinked, and then – as the detective had predicted – his infuriating, mysterious demeanour was back. "I want you to admit it to yourself."

"Admit what?" Sherlock played along, forcing a hint of annoyance into his tone to make it convincing.

Moriarty laughed quietly. "Now that, Sherlock, would be telling."

Here goes.

"And what if I gave it to you?"

There it was, what he'd been aiming for – a brief flash of bewilderment in Jim's eyes. It was only there for a split second, but it was enough.

That's it. Surprise him. He suppressed another smile. I'm enjoying this.

"What do you mean?" Jim's sceptical, winning smirk didn't fade. He probably considered Sherlock's response a minor miscalculation, certainly not a game-changer.

"Why do you do it?" the detective fired at him quickly, pointedly ignoring his question.

Moriarty frowned. He knew for sure now that something was up. "Do what?"

Sherlock leaned forwards. "Pretend."

"I don't pretend," Jim scoffed, dismissively. His fingers had stopped tapping the rhythm. He's tense. He doesn't want to show it but I can tell.

"Yes you do," Sherlock countered swiftly. "You pretend you're a psychopath who doesn't care about anything, not even himself. You pretend you're invincible. You do everything you can to play with people's minds, claiming it's because you're bored." A tense, deliberate pause. "…But we both know that's not quite true."

Stunned, Jim stared at him – but only for a moment.

"What makes you think it's all pretending?" he demanded, his tone slightly icy, but he forced out another laugh. "All those ordinary people are so funny, but eventually, I run out of things to do with them. What's wrong with a little destruction?" He, too, leaned forwards now. "It's either them or me."

"Them or you?" Sherlock pointed out immediately, seizing the opportunity. "What? So in the end, killing them is just a distraction to keep you from killing yourself?"

Moriarty tried to interrupt, but Sherlock cut him off. "A true psychopath wouldn't care about any of that. He wouldn't seek something other than self-destruction if, like you, it was what he really wanted." He smirked at his opponent, before mimicking his sing-song style: "Caught yooou."

Jim's jaw was clenched tight. "There's nothing stopping me from killing you–"

"Oh, but there is. There is," Sherlock contradicted, his heart racing – he was on a roll. Moriarty was well and truly under his control now. "You're not a psychopath, you just want to be one. That would stop you from caring. That'd stop all the nightmares." Jim's eyes widened with horror that Sherlock knew about them, but the detective pressed on. "I'm not the one who needs you. I'm your hope. You came to me when you needed help the most, when you were hurting the most, because you were hoping I could save you."

Moriarty was speechless.

Sherlock felt fantastic.

"It's time to stop stalling, James." Sure enough, Jim flinched at the name. "Stop with the taunting, and start playing the game."

Moriarty sat there, wide-eyed, taking everything in – and then, to Sherlock's surprise, a slow, mocking smile spread across his features.

"So is this how it's going to be?" He sounded almost... amused. "We both just… give in?"

"What do you mean, give in?" Sherlock's sense of victory was beginning to crumble. Have I missed something?

Jim shrugged. "Like you said – you've caught me. Now what do you intend to do?"

The detective felt a twinge of doubt. What do I intend to do?

"If I hadn't… 'caught' you," Sherlock asked, his voice losing some of its strength, "What would you have done?"

The criminal sighed. "Oh, Sherlock, we both know what I want from you." He stretched his neck, keeping his intelligent gaze locked onto his enemy's. "The question is, do you want the same from me?"

He's bluffing, Sherlock knew. He doesn't expect me to do anything – if he did, he wouldn't say these things.

His heart began to beat a little faster.

But if he can mess with my emotions, why can't I do the same with his?

He stood up, having made his decision. If it's just a game, then it's time for me to win.

As he'd half-expected him to, Jim also leapt to his feet. "Going anywhere?" he challenged, tauntingly.

With determination, Sherlock strode right over to him, only stopping when their faces were mere inches apart. His voice lowered into a snarl. "I don't know what I want, Jim, and I doubt you do either."

Moriarty was clearly startled at the uncharacteristic invasion of space. He felt the armchair digging into his calves behind him as he craned his neck, meeting the detective's hostile gaze. "Then what are you going to do?" He paused, the dangerous next words on the tip of his tongue, before daring to say them aloud: "I'm not John."

And those words filled Sherlock with a burning red fury.

"This has nothing to do with John," he hissed, face leering over his enemy's. "Absolutely nothing to do with him."

"It has everything to do with him," Moriarty whispered back. A cold, calculated amusement lay in his eyes. "You're spiralling into depression because he never really loved you back. He left you, and you're–"

"I don't care about John anymore!" Sherlock was shouting now, his hands slamming roughly onto the criminal's shoulders and nearly pushing him over. Jim clenched at his sleeves to keep himself from falling. "Shut up about John! This is about you and me–"

"And his memory standing in the way!" Jim yelled back. His own rage was beginning to appear. "And you refuse to see beyond that–"

"Oh, for GOD'S SAKE!" Sherlock roared, reaching forward, grabbing his nemesis and smashing their lips together.

Jim froze for a moment in shock, eyes wide, but the detective sank his teeth into his lower lip, forcing the criminal's mouth open. Sherlock pressed himself savagely against him, making the smaller man stumble and fall back into the armchair; but still he refused to break away, shoving Jim hard against the backrest while working his tongue into his mouth. It was messy, brutal and overpowering; Sherlock knew Moriarty's jaw must be aching beneath his iron grip, yet he continued nonetheless. Jim had recovered enough to start kissing him back, and both closed their eyes tight, crushing their tongues against each other with brutal, fury-driven force, driven by days – no, months, years of pent-up frustrations.

I'm running out of air. Sherlock forced himself to pause for a moment's breath before carrying on with his relentless attack. He was filled with a flaming, all-consuming determination to defeat Moriarty, to destroy him once and for all in the way he'd least expect it; and as he shoved his tongue further into his enemy's mouth, he saw the perfect opportunity and took it. He tore his hands away from Jim's jawline and instead began to tug at his belt.

Jim let out a pained gasp at his clumsy, fumbling efforts. After ripping the belt's clasp undone, Sherlock used one hand to slam against Jim's collarbone, pushing him back against the chair and keeping him there with the sheer force of the kiss. With the other he yanked open Moriarty's zip, displaying the man's underwear.

Moriarty had recovered enough to realise what was going on – and react. With a small noise of discontent, his hands pressed against Sherlock's chest to shove him away, but the detective was too strong – he was now beginning to drag his trousers down, exposing him further. Jim suddenly began to struggle, his feeble movements causing enough discomfort for Sherlock to pause and clamber fully on top of him, placing himself in a stronger position against the resistance. Jim was trying to pull away from the kiss but his opponent wouldn't let him – Sherlock was crushing him, he was powerless, he was helpless. A muffled cry for help rose in his throat but failed to make it past his assaulted mouth. Soon it would be too late – too late –

It was all too much. The panic struck, and memories started coming in flashes now – of him smashed against the floor, of a stronger man on top of him, forcing him down, keeping him down, ignoring his pleas and ripping his defences away–

No–

Sherlock was clawing at his shirt, ripping it upwards to expose his lean, muscular abdomen – while Jim drowned helplessly in the flashbacks that swept over him like a tidal wave–

NO–

The hand pressing down on his collarbone shifted to his throat, starting to choke him – just like all the other times which Jim tried to shove away but couldn't – Sherlock began to use his other hand to fumble at his own jeans, tearing the clasp apart–

NO!

With sudden, insane force, Jim smashed his hands onto Sherlock's shoulders, sending the taller man toppling off-balance. But he knew, with despair, that it wouldn't fend him off for long.

"Sherlock, please!" he screamed while he still had the chance. To his shock, he realised tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Stop it! Please STOP IT!"

Sherlock froze–

–and then, with sudden horror, backed away.

Jim let out a sob at the release, weakly scrabbling into an upright position and fumbling to refasten his trousers. His hands were shaking; he gulped mouthfuls of air, struggling to calm himself down, but the tears wouldn't stop, they wouldn't stop…

"Oh my god," Sherlock gasped, reality crashing back. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry–"

Moriarty blocked out the detective's voice, burying his head in his arms to give into the memories and weep. It was all too much. It was all too much. He tucked his knees up, shaking his head from side to side, trying desperately to clear his mind while he trembled, whimpering.

Sherlock was frozen. He couldn't believe what he'd just done.

Oh my god.

Jim, forgive me…

"I lost my mind. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he repeated, dully. The rage had seeped away, replaced by disbelief and… grief. The sight of Jim's helpless breakdown – which he'd so horribly caused – was breaking his heart. "Please, I would never – oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Jim blocked him out, drawing deep, shuddering breaths amid his crying, searching hopelessly within himself for control. Control. He looked so frail, so broken, that Sherlock felt he would die of guilt.

What have I done?!

He had never felt so tortured, so lost. Tentatively, he crept closer, laying a hand softly on the man's arm. Jim made no reaction, just carried on crying – which only seemed to make it all worse.

"Jim," he whispered. His vision, too, began to blur. "Jim, oh my god, please – I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Jim twisted his head to the side, away from Sherlock, tears still dripping from his tightly closed eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He sat huddled in the corner of the armchair, sucking in sharp lungfuls of air.

"I didn't mean it. You have to believe me," Sherlock desperately continued to try, his own voice trembling. "Please, talk to me. Say something."

No response but the awful sound of Jim's choked, ragged breaths. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready yet.

Sherlock wavered for a moment and then – upon sudden impulse, not caring how aggressively Moriarty might react – wrapped his arms around him, letting the tears fall as he squeezed him tight. Jim stiffened, but otherwise remained unresponsive.

What have I done? How could I? What have I done?!

A thousand thoughts raced through Sherlock's mind as he held Jim in his arms – the man he'd just impulsively, selfishly been about to destroy – but only one tumbled past his lips, over and over, a begging mantra–

"Forgive me."

The rage he'd felt, the power – it made him feel sick. And look what I would've done. Look what I've almost done now. He couldn't believe what he'd been thinking.

"Say something…"

He'd wanted Moriarty – of course he'd wanted him – but not like this. Never like this. What the hell is wrong with me?

What would Jim do now? What could they do?

How could I have done that?

He hated himself then. He loathed what he'd almost done. He had lost all but the slightest glimmer of control and had only one hope left now, which he repeated, again and again. He didn't care if Jim wasn't listening, or didn't hear him. He didn't deserve what he needed but begged for it nonetheless.

"Forgive me…"