Moriarty felt it as Sherlock left his eyes. He had made no attempt to draw him back in the mind palace; he must have another plan. He was glad now that he hadn't tried to sever the connection between his eyes and the room; it had been amusing to feel Sherlock at the back of his own head, incapable of doing anything but watch.

He was taking a big risk. Jim might get bored anytime, and he might just use the good doctor as a distraction. Then again, it was far more entertaining to see him treat Jim like his best friend.

His behaviour had obviously soothed John, who had acted visibly relieved the whole time, so that Mycroft had studied him for longer than necessary. And yet he wouldn't believe if he told him. It was one of the advantages of being in an impossible situation. People did not take kindly to impossible things, and Mycroft Holmes wouldn't consider that something he didn't' take for granted occurred.

The Ice Man had behaved exactly as such, ordering his brother around as if he was an agent, if it hadn't been for the decided warmth in his voice. Well, decided for anyone who knew him. Jim had seen quite a lot of Big Brother in Sherlock's memories, enough to assure him that he still cared and that he had deliberately chosen to distance himself; and that he must have missed Sherlock in those two years. He must have been happy to have a case to give him.

Jim smiled and looked out of the window of the limousine.

"Interesting case" John commented.

The doctor seemed not very concerned considering someone had broken into the office of the British Government; he would have expected more patriotism from a former soldier. But maybe he was too caught up in the excitement. Logical that Sherlock's ordinary human turned out to be an adrenaline junkie. Jim supposed that he wouldn't have managed living with him if he hadn't been.

"Nothing got stolen" he murmured in the tone Sherlock used when he was half-speaking to himself and yet expecting his doctor to listen, "This might mean that they didn't know nothing of value was there to steal. But in this case, they would have been careful to leave the office as they had entered it – anyone who knows who Mycroft is must know that he's capable of noticing the slightest changes to his decor. So whoever did it simply wanted to show that he could. What does that tell us?"

"That they are boasting? Showing off? If I can get into the office of the British Government, I can get anywhere else – " John began before he suddenly stopped. Jim turned his head to look at him and found all colour drained from his face.

He knew what he was thinking as soon as he looked into his panic-stricken eyes, and if he could have danced around the interior of the car without attracting suspicion, he would have.

"You don't think it's Moriarty?" John asked, his voice heavy with fear. Not fear of him, of course; he was certain that John would gladly have laid his hands on him if he could; but fear for Sherlock. The consulting detective had only survived because he and his brother had come up with an ingenious plan. The next time, he might not be as lucky.

He could have calmed John down. He could have let him believe that he was dead. But that wouldn't have been fun. To watch him squirming while the person who was scaring him was sitting right in front of him, pretending to be his best friend, was something else.

"I would like to believe that it is impossible" he answered, "but Moriarty might have faked his death just like I did."

John nodded, colour slowly returning to his cheeks as he remembered his training as a soldier and began thinking about strategy. He could once more see why Sherlock had got himself a live-in human. He was adorable. Always looking out for his friend, even if he would never win against the likes of Jim. Unless he shot him, but even if he should guess the truth, as unbelievable as it was, he would never shoot Sherlock. He would never kill his best friend, whose death had almost driven him to his own grave three years ago.

And for him to be in this situation he would have to believe. And he had easily been led to believe that there was nothing about twice now. Jim was safe for as long as he chose.

He resisted the urge to whistle as he pretended to mull the problem over in his head.

Sherlock had run to the weapons room, itching to use some of the connections he had built, but realizing that it could be dangerous. Moriarty had already done things to his mind palace he would never have thought of; he might have changed the connections so that they would send him into his deepest subconscious or back to his cell. He might have locked them off so that Sherlock was stuck. It was what he would have done in the consulting criminal's place. Then again, Moriarty had proven himself to be as unpredictable as ever, although he couldn't say whether it was a true portrait or just Sherlock's picture of him. It didn't matter.

He still took the long way around, moving fast now that he knew that Moriarty was safely employed, if "safely" was the right word to use under the circumstances. Mycroft was consulting him, John was always at his side. He could strike any minute. He had already stricken – only thankfully he had decided on a break-in in which nothing was stolen. Sherlock had no doubt that the stakes would rise in time if he didn't stop him, so stop him he would.

His room of weapons was untouched. Moriarty hadn't cared to protect himself, it seemed. Or it might be another attempt to give him "a fighting chance". Sherlock bit his lip as he walked down long shelves full of the machinery mankind had invented to kill.

He had a very extensive archive on poisons, but since he hardly knew how his body-in-his-mind worked, he decided against using them. His best bet was a good, old-fashioned bullet; but he had to make sure that he had memorized the weapon as well as the ammunition, that it was strong and real and that Moriarty would be killed if he shot him.

Nothing too big. He needed something light, something that could be concealed on his person until he got close enough.

There was one weapon he knew everything, he had held in his hand countless times because he'd borrowed it or put it in his pocket because the owner had forgotten to.

John's weapon, his illegal one that he had shot Jeff Hope with. He had picked it up, cleaned it, stolen it and having it wrestled out of his hands more often than he could count. It was as familiar to him as his microscope or the skull on the fireplace. It was perfect.

It stood at the end of the row, almost hidden behind a rather large machine gun, as if Sherlock's subconscious had once more decided to protect something that was important to him. He should ahve done more research on the mind; its endless possibilities were incredibly fascnitaing. Sadly, they also meant that Moriarty had been able to escape and do as he chose, which was why he was standing here in the first place.

He took the gun in his hands. It weighed just as much as he remembered and was loaded. Relief floaded through his veins. He might win this after all.

Now he only had to wait for Moriarty.

He couldn't wait to see Sherlock's reaction. He had to go to his mind palace as soon as possible. He had to tell him that John had figured out the culprit. His reaction would be immensely entertaining, he was sure. He might try to kill him – would try to kill him – but he had to find a weapon first. Something he treasured, not something he'd only collected information about. And Sherlock Holmes was not a man to care idly about simple things like weapons.

He decided against apologizing to Mrs. Hudson as soon as they arrived, instead opting to lie down on the sofa and go. John respectfully went up to his room.

He went to Sherlock's cell again, trying to figure out where he would have headed to next.

To his surprise, Sherlock awaited him. He had a hand in the pocket of the coat he always seemed to wear, but Jim wasn't overly concerned.

"Hello, Sherlock" he began, "you will never guess what happened. John figured out it was me – he doesn't know how, of course, and he isn't even sure that I'm alive, but – "

At this moment, Sherlock raised his arm and fired.