Something to Return to Chapter 6, a sherlock fanfic

He'll come back. There can't possibly be anything on the end of the phone line that can interest him as much as staying high and having a suicide orgy with me. This is how we end. We decided. He always comes back to me.

Jim felt a release of pressure on his wrists, looked up, and saw that his hands were free. Sherlock was no longer concentrating on him hard enough to maintain that fiction. He listened carefully, but couldn't make out what was happening. Sherlock wasn't storing the information here. Jim pulled on his trousers and flung open the door, taking off down the hall at a full run. He was going by instinct, his heartbeat pounding in his ears until something inside told him to stop at a door. He pushed it open and heard Sherlock and Mycroft speaking.

"SHERLOCK!" Jim shrieked. He began pacing the room, smacking his hands to his head, pulling at his hair.

"As it turns out, you're needed," Mycroft's voice echoed.

"For god's sake, make up your mind," came Sherlock's voice, disgusted. "Who needs me this time?"

"Sherlock …" Jim whispered.

And then his world exploded. The walls began to shake and crumble. Jim leaped out of the way to avoid a disintegrating column, then rolled to take shelter under a sturdy table. A siren sounded so loudly that it felt like it was inside his head.

Or maybe it is. Our head. I'm of him and he is of me.

NEW INPUT

This was big. A new room would be built for whatever Sherlock was learning right now. Maybe a wing. Jim pressed his head into the floor and wailed in despair. And then, over the din, he heard the voice. Distorted, synthetic, veering in pitch between high and squeaky and low and demented. And then he peeked out from under the table and saw a huge projection on the only wall that was still intact.

Did you miss me?

And his face.

"No," Jim muttered, crawling out from under the table and getting to his feet, no longer caring about falling debris. "It's not possible." He screamed furiously, clenching his fists. "IT'S NOT POSSIBLE!"

"Not impossible, just improbable," Sherlock said, having appeared back in the room as quickly as he left. He was fully dressed now, the collar popped on the Belstaff and his shoes polished to a high sheen. His working uniform. His armour. "And you know what I say about the improbable."

Jim turned, chest heaving, glaring at Sherlock. "It's not fair!" he spat.

"Don't be a child," Sherlock chided, stepping over a broken chair. "What do you care about fair play?"

"Bollocks, Sherlock. I've always played fair with you. Made it so you had a fighting chance with that brain of yours. Always gave you just enough time to come up with something clever. Maybe that was my mistake. Needing to watch you dance. That gave me a bigger hard-on than anything else you had to offer. And this isn't fair."

Sherlock angled his head, looking back at the projection on the wall. "You want to talk fair? You've been trying manipulate me into killing myself for the past week. And I was going to, but this is far more interesting than dying. And Jim … James Moriarty …" Sherlock pointed to the portrait "… that is you."

Jim shook his head, looking up at Sherlock with hooded eyes. "No, it's not. Not really. And you know it."

"But it will be you," Sherlock whispered, stepping closer and cradling Jim's chin in his palm of his hand. "I thought your file was closed, but no … there's more. And I'm going to find it. If I don't OD first. But I reckon I should land in time for John to tend to me." Sherlock's face lit up with delight. "And I can't leave you running loose. So … off you pop."

Jim looked at Sherlock, stricken, and backed away. "No … no, Sherlock … not that …"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Please," Jim whispered desperately, falling to his knees.

Sherlock closed his eyes. And everything faded to black.

Jim started screaming before he even opened his eyes. He felt the weight of the collar and chain around his neck and he knew exactly where he was. His arms bound by the straitjacket. He thrashed and flailed, bellowing Sherlock's name until he was exhausted and lay in a limp heap, gasping for air, his face dripping with sweat. After a few minutes he got his feet under him and began to pace the room as he often did, as far as the length of chain permitted. Over time Jim began to mutter to himself in a compulsive manner. "S'all right. S'fine. He always comes back to me in the end. Mmm-hmm, always comes back. Always always always. Mmm-hmm."

Time passed. Hours. Possibly days. Jim was never quite sure. Sherlock placed little value on the concept of time in the Mind Palace. But Jim stopped and leaned against the padded wall, his long eyelashes fluttering as he closed his eyes, thinking for a moment. And then he started to giggle. And the giggle turned into a belly laugh. Which evolved into something far more maniacal. He collapsed to the floor, rolling in laughter until he finally he gasped aloud. "Oh, good heavens, what did I get up to this time? YOU BETTER FIND OUT, SEXY!"

I'm not finished yet, apparently.