Author's note: I don't want to resort to begging, but is anyone still reading this?

Something was missing. He was standing in a large, airy room, full of sunshine and, to be frank, rather cliché and boring happiness. It was Sherlock's room on John. He rolled his eyes as he found yet another moment in which John Watson had stared contemptuously at someone who had called Sherlock a freak. He was starting to think that their relationship was unhealthy. Surely a man who had seen the battlefield shouldn't worship a consulting detective so much, even if he was the only one in the world. And said genius should not memorize every single thing the doctor had ever done.

That was it, he suddenly realized. That was what was missing – he wasn't looking at everything the doctor had ever done. That would include meeting Sherlock, and the memory was missing.

Sherlock must have made a special room for it. Maybe he had a special room for all memories that were important to him. If there was such a room, it would be deeply hidden; it would contain everything Sherlock treasure most.

He smiled. Looking for the room was certainly one way to distract himself while he waited for Sherlock's next move.

Proving that he wasn't mad was not as calming as he had thought it would be. Because it meant that Moriarty was indeed in his mind, and he couldn't delete him. If he could sever all the ties that linked him to the memories in his mind palace... But that was impossible. He had done many impossible things, but he doubted that he could accomplish that. It would involve too many risks, would rip too great a hole in his life. He had worked so long on the case that he might very well just delete whole years. And he didn't know what that would cost him. He had changed since he the day he had first learned about the consulting criminal. His friendship with John – his relationship with Greg, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft – had evolved, become stronger. He would kill the man he had become.

He would have been ready to pay the prize if he had been assured that it would destroy Moriarty once and for all; but he wasn't. He couldn't be. And if Moriarty survived, how would he fight someone he didn't recognize?

He was aware that, in Moriarty's game, it was his turn; but he had no idea what the next move was. First, he had to create a safe place, he decided. He would have to go to his room of treasured memories, make it into even more of a fortress than it already was. Create an access code. Make sure he was the only one who remembered it –

It sounded impossible. But since he had the most dangerous man he had ever met in his head, he decided that the word had become all but meaningless.

He would admit that John being arrested because he hit the Chief Superintendent was a funny sight. Even at the time, he hadn't believed that the doctor would turn against Sherlock like the public had, although he had included the possibility in his plans. But soldiers were loyal, and he was an adrenaline junkie; not to mention that Sherlock had saved his life – he had looked into John Watson, just like he'd looked into Sherlock when he had first learned of their existence, and it wasn't difficult to read between the lines of his therapist's reports and realize where he had been headed. He would never have betrayed him. He would never have believed the lies, no matter how well constructed they were. He was still proud of his Rich Brook idea. It was a pity no one but Sherlock had got the joke.

But back to the memory at hand. Or, rather, memories. He had not yet figured out how they ran into one another, how they were connected. It might be that it was one of those secrets the mind would never reveal to him. It would be a pity, but he would accept that explanation. A little unpredictability was always good. It kept things refreshing.

It was remarkable that Sherlock had managed to build a mind palace at all. He was familiar with the technique and knew it was meant to help store information; but Sherlock had put a hold on his whole conscious, put it in boxes, constructed a house around it. Anyone who thought Sherlock was a crazy, spontaneous madman should take a look. He was borderline compulsive. Jim had always preferred to keep his mind the mess it was. It was much more fun that way. But Sherlock? He had controlled it like he had controlled everything in his life – even his drug use, if the memories were any indication.

He smiled. Not anymore. He didn't control his own mind anymore. He wished he could actually hear his thoughts, but for whatever reason, that seemed to be impossible.

He could, of course, take control over him again. For a short while. Maybe he was working a case. It would be nice to see that DI again, and John... solve a murder...

Having made his decision, he quickly strolled out of the room and retraced the steps he had taken when Sherlock had tried to warn John.

Since he had learned who was behind it, the feeling that someone was standing too close to him had never left him. As he trudged up the stairs, he felt it grow stronger, but dismissed it as his imagination; he was still too emotional. He had to calm down and think. He knew he wasn't mad. He knew Moriarty was in his head. What now?

It was his last thought before suddenly everything went black.

There was no struggling Sherlock this time. He had moved slowly, instead of frantically as before, and as a result had taken control so completely that Sherlock had blacked out.

Interesting. Maybe Sherlock was lying unconscious in the mind palace; maybe he could have found him; but he didn't see why he should look for him. Not yet, at least. If he trapped him now... That would just go against all the rules. He had to wait for Sherlock to make his move.

That didn't mean he couldn't have fun in the meantime, however. And it was much easier to move when Sherlock was unconscious. He strolled up the stairs, imitating the consulting detective's steps. John was in the living room, drinking tea. This time, it was even more exhilarating than last night. Then he had only been trying to save the game. He just wanted to amuse himself now.

The doctor looked up and smiled at him – at Sherlock. He quickly nodded at him, like he had seen Sherlock do countless times when he had still been collecting information on him and had watched him much like his bog brother would, through security cameras.

"Where were you?"

"Library" he said simply. "I needed to do some research on toxins".

John nodded. "And the experiment?"

His lie last night. He had almost forgotten about it, but he answered "I decided that knowing about neurotoxins would..."

It wasn't necessary to explain more because apparently John was satisfied as he stood up and moved to the kitchen to make tea. Sometimes it seemed like this was all he ever did when they were in the flat and he was awake.

He was somewhat taken aback when John offered him the cup. It had been so long since he had held something real and hot, and he almost shuddered as Sherlock's hands warmed.

"Is everything alright?" John asked, frowning, and he nodded as he took a sip and forced himself not to wince. He would have thought Sherlock would have better taste. This was much too bitter. He'd get used to it.

He couldn't suppress a smirk as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Sherlock Holmes, having tea with his best friend in their flat. A madman in a good man's body. Everything he could do... the possibilities were endless.

Speaking of possibilities, someone rang the bell and he heard Mrs. Hudson shuffle out of her flat to open the door. Ah, the good landlady. It was more than probable that someone wanted to see Sherlock, but she still would open the door and greet every newcomer politely. He supposed it served well to calm them before the whirlwind that were Sherlock's deductions swept over them.

He recognized the footsteps and his heart beat faster, exhilaration racing through his veins. Soon enough Lestrade came in and greeted them before explaining there was a case.

On his very first day he could hold on for longer in Sherlock's body, he could go to a crime scene, full of policeman who had sworn to protect their great city, unknowing that their greatest enemy walked among them.

It was delicious, just delicious.

If John noticed his enthusiasm as they left, he took it as Sherlock being excited because they hadn't had a case in a week.