Author's note: Review? Please?
He had to act fast. The game was on, exhilaration razing through his veins. Sherlock was awake. He seemed not to want to play for some reason, so he'd have to make him. First and foremost, he couldn't allow him to warn anyone. Sherlock being taken away and locked up would run everything. He would live in a prison inside a prison. He couldn't have that.
So he left the darkness of the subconscious and concentrated. He had found access to Sherlock's eyes several times; there had to be one for Sherlock's mouth as well. If he could gain control...
Sherlock all but sprang out of the bed and razed up the stairs. He had to tell John – he needed the doctor to leave and take Mrs. Hudson with him, as well as alert Mycroft. He would not take any risks.
There it was – Sherlock was running up the stairs. He could see it through his eyes.
Moriarty was already trying to take control. He felt someone behind him again as he ran, knowing that no one was there; someone was in his head. He should have made the connection sooner, but he had never considered the possibility. He had been a fool. He had always prided himself on including theories in his thought processes that others called far-fetched or absurd; had always taken care to come up with even stranger ones than those he had already had so he wouldn't be surprised. But when it came to this, he hadn't even come up with it. He had never wondered if Moriarty could break out, if he could try to play games.
He had felt safe, superior, and he was paying the prize.
He flung the door open and stood at John's bed with two steps. The doctor awoke immediately, pointing the gun from his bedside table at him. He blinked, recognized him and let the weapon sink, clicking on the safety.
"How often have I told you to knock?" he asked with the resigned manner of a man who knew it was never going to happen. He looked at Sherlock and frowned.
"What's wrong?"
He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He tried to form the words, tried to warn John, tried to scream that Moriarty was back, was trying to destroy him through his own mind, but he couldn't. Something was making it impossible –
No, not something. Someone. The feeling of a presence behind him was stronger than ever.
It wasn't him who was controlling his mouth, it was Moriarty. He attempted to clamp it shut, in case the consulting criminal managed to make him speak, but just as he feared it, it happened.
"I think that some sulphuric acid would work better on the experiment I am conducting" he said excitedly. No, he didn't say it. Moriarty was saying it. He could feel his lips moving, he could hear his voice, but he had no control over anything, not even his limbs. He couldn't even use gestures to communicate.
John shook his head, but he was smiling. Sherlock watched with horror as Moriarty's trick worked and his friend didn't see his rushing into his room as anything else than a rather eccentric outburst of joy.
"Do what you have to do" he said, "but keep away from my shelf".
"Considering the fridge belongs to us both, it is ridiculous to talk about certain shelves being "yours"" Moriarty answered condescendingly and Sherlock was shocked at how well he could imitate him – he must have learned a lot about him while he had been roaming free.
He struggled, but to no avail. He couldn't even enter his mind palace. He could only watch and hope that Moriarty wouldn't attack John.
If he did – John was a soldier. But he wouldn't hurt him, even if his life was on the line. He knew it like he knew that would never hurt John. Moriarty could kill his best friend.
The consulting criminal had to feel his desperation, and he was undoubtedly enjoying it. Sherlock forced himself to relax. Struggling was not accomplishing anything; he had to calm down and think. Moriarty wanted to play. It was unlikely that he would kill John the first time he encountered him. Then again, the most dangerous quality about him had always been his unpredictability. He might kill him just to show Sherlock what he could do.
Still, the favour was in him keeping John alive simply so he had something to toy with. Sherlock would have swallowed if he had been able to as the consulting criminal continued to try and get John interested in the experiment, as he would have done, and the doctor was firmly pushing him towards the door because "Some people need rest".
Finally, he was standing in front of a closed door. At least John was alive.
This was... better than anything else he had ever done. It was delicious. It was exciting. It was thrilling. Maybe he had needed the extra incentive of Sherlock trying to warn John, but now he had his body under control. For the first time since he had died, he spoke and saw and felt. The doctor kept his room cool while he slept; the air drifting in from the windows caressed his skin.
No, not his skin. Sherlock's skin. Even as he assured John that nothing was wrong, he could feel Sherlock fighting, but he was –
It was difficult to describe, but apparently he had, almost as if by instinct, put the consulting detective in some sort of limbo. He was not in his mind palace, as far as he knew. He couldn't explain how he did. He could explain little. But he had managed to take control over his limbs, and it was providing him with enough distractions, especially since he could feel Sherlock trying to claw his way back into his own mind – the part he usually was in, that was. The temptation to kill John Watson this very moment was strong, but he resisted. It might be fun to show Sherlock that he was just as spontaneous as he had always been, but what then? He would have to hide the body, make sure Sherlock wasn't arrested for it, or he would be locked up. Again.
So he allowed John to push him out of the room. He walked down the stairs slowly and retired to Sherlock's bedroom, closing the door behind him.
He knew he probably didn't have much time. Sherlock would continue to struggle, and while he had access to his sensory organs for the moment, it was difficult to keep it. He was not used to this body, and he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel, to hear, to smell. It was much more... direct than his walks through the palace, than being in one Sherlock's memories. Already he was starting to get a headache, whether because of Sherlock's fight against him or his being where he had no reason or place to be and the subconscious reacting to it was impossible to determine, but he would not be able to walk and talk around much longer. It was frustrating, but what he had done once he could do again.
Just as he realized this, Sherlock won. He was back in the mind palace, lying on his back – or, to be precise, the back of his imagined body.
He needed to talk to Sherlock. He had to tell him while all these silly little ideas about telling people would not do. He wondered if he would have to wait for Sherlock to fall asleep, but it didn't matter. The consulting detective would come to him, one way or the other. He must have noticed by now that he couldn't put him back in his cell or delete him, so he must necessarily also be anxious to speak with him.
Sherlock managed to throw Moriarty back into his mind, but sadly he could not say how he had done it. He breathed heavily, leaning against his door.
He could have called Mycroft, but the first attempt to contact someone had led to Moriarty taking over, and he didn't want to cause a repeat so soon after the first experience.
There was only one thing to do.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, accessing his mind palace.
It was in a dreadful state. The floor was dirty and cracked at times, some doors hang from their hinges. He walked slowly as he tried to find out where Moriarty was.
He had not yet found his secret memory rooms. Of that he was certain. He had protected them to well. But as to the other rooms –
Then he realized. It was simple, really.
The water cast flickering lights on the ceiling. Moriarty was standing next to the pool, just like he had all these years ago.
He was smiling, happy to have his adversary back.
"I wanted to explain the rules before, but you ran off on me".