It all started the night his plane turned around and flew back toward John. Shock and confusion was replaced by more shock and confusion, as Jim's face flashed on the in-flight movie screen. Don't get him wrong, Sherlock was so grateful to go back home to his family, even though they had only been separated by exile for four minutes. He could see John and Mary be happy together and watch the future baby grow up. No more assigned missions. He could pick his own cases. Most of all, the weight of loneliness had been lifted off his shoulders.
The following morning, however, dread, fear, and anger filled Sherlock to the brim. This man had hurt John and killed countless others. To an extent, Sherlock hated how in Jim's scheme of things, Sherlock was always going to get John hurt.
Sherlock had explained in the briefest terms to John why he couldn't go in his mind palace. Pure fear of the man who was inside, stored away. Knowing it was a bad idea and stuck with not the slightest clue of what would happen, Sherlock entered his mind palace.
The set of winding stairs led down to a room even Sherlock was too scared to go. He had put Moriarty in there, deleting the room, but the spider kept coming back. When Sherlock had gone into shock, while shot, the thin wall protecting him from the monster broke. Pure evil oozed out and encouraged Sherlock to live. John and hope kept him alive and he almost lost both.
No. He had to focus. Where would a clue to finding a psychopath be? Unfortunately, Sherlock knew the answer.
Down the stairs he went, taking unsteady breaths. He entered the cage. A circular padded room sat bear with a single set of chains limp on the floor. Sherlock froze in shock.
Moriarty had escaped.
Not only in the real world, but in the Mind Palace, too. Jim could be shaping Sherlock's thoughts, placing panic and terror in place of other things. Sherlock realized he could never search his whole Mind Palace. Even when deleting, piles upon piles of everything stacked up. Finding Jim would be like finding a mouse in downtown New York City. Sherlock was unresponsive for the rest of the day. All concentration and attention were needed to hunt down the rogue. Libraries and observatories and forests were searched high and low. Honestly, Sherlock didn't know how he would capture Jim once he saw him, but that didn't matter at the moment. He just had to be found.
Once the lights dimmed in the forests, Sherlock knew it was night outside his head. He was alone. The detective was suddenly aware that John wasn't there. He couldn't hear . This was no place to be-not at a time like this. Jim Moriarty fed off of alone.
Somehow, Sherlock found his way to Molly's lab. Waiting for her to show up for work, he fell into a rubber ball bouncing routine.
Hours later and no Moriarty in sight. Sherlock had found clues like Jim had left before: bread crumbs and a foot print. They were false trails. Maniacal laughter could be heard in one direction, but change in an instant. You could be chasing the noise north, but then in less than a second, it could be coming from the south.
Once again, Sherlock found himself at the spiral stairs. The laugh echoed, but not from down...from above. Sherlock's happy memories. His loves, hopes, dreams. They all lied on the above floors. Almost sure the direction of the voice wouldn't change, Holmes bounded up the stairs. He ran past grand oak doors and silver gates, but he knew he had to keep moving up. Suddenly, the stairs stopped. The last door. It was obvious what stood behind the golden threshold.
The haunting laugh came from inside the doors. In his mind, Sherlock could feel happiness draining and fear rising. Slowly, he pressed his palm against the golden doors…