"Who says I am interested in playing a game? My reaction would suggest that I am not" Sherlock said calmly. All the panic he had felt before seeing Moriarty had vanished. The pool, the consulting criminal wanting to be distracted... it was familiar ground. He wasn't going to tremble with fear, even if he was alive in his mind.
"You don't have a choice" Moriarty answered flatly, apparently disappointed at Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm. "And why wouldn't you be? It must have been dreadfully dull without me... All these petty criminals with their easy-to-solve crimes... You must have been bored out of your skull".
In a certain way, it was true. He had had little demanding cases since he had returned, but most of his work had been satisfying none the less. Mysteries did not have to be complex to be interesting, and after two years of nothing but excitement, Sherlock appreciated the easier things in life like he hadn't been able to before. That didn't mean that he hadn't been bored. He had been, sometimes dreadfully so and then, just like in the old days, he had done experiments that sent John to the pub or made screeching noises on his violin until the doctor all but screamed down from his room that he needed rest. But he had learned to appreciate boredom. He would choose it over Moriarty's games any day. A few years ago, this would have been unthinkable.
"I am done playing games" he answered simply.
"As I said, you don't have a choice. Don't make me repeat myself. I hate that."
He heard the threat in his voice, but he didn't care. He meant it. Acting like he wanted to play had no advantages, especially since it was possible that Moriarty could read his thoughts.
"What are the rules?" he asked. He would have to play, but that didn't mean that he had to follow them. If he stayed strong, if he kept him away from his mouth and hands and eyes, Moriarty could do nothing, could threaten no one but Sherlock himself. And he didn't care if he lost his mind as long as he destroyed the consulting criminal in doing so. As long as the last remains of Moriarty were well and truly gone.
Moriarty pouted before his face became a blank mask. "Fine. Have it your way. You are not to alert anyone to what is happening".
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I can't have you running around telling the world. You would be locked up. I don't enjoy being locked up".
Sherlock waited for him to continue. He would not give him the satisfaction of trying to argue with him. The silence lasted until Moriarty huffed and threw his hands up in the air.
"Don't think you can trick me. You saw what happened when you tried to talk to John. What I have done once I can do again. And I will. But as long as you don't tell anyone, your friends are safe. I won't harm them".
"And others?"
"You can choose. Either you attempt to warn someone, and I will hurt those you care about, or you don't, and we play games. I'm too fast. Even if you were to tell, I would take control the second after and attack John. Or Big Brother. Or your dear landlady. Or anyone else who happens to be in the vicinity".
"You wouldn't know" Sherlock tried to object, but Moriarty simply smiled.
"Don't you think that I know your mind palace well enough by now to recognize what happens in the outside world simply by the mood changes. They are noticeable. I assume you didn't know – so proud of your clear mind, aren't you? But really, it's all about these emotions. They were what made you so ordinary in the first place". He looked sad, but was soon smiling again. "But this isn't ordinary".
Sherlock could only agree with him; and he had to abide by the rules, at least for now. Moriarty was right. He had taken control in the short amount of time Sherlock had run up the stairs. He could have hurt John then. Sherlock didn't know if he had truly won, or if Moriarty had decided that he wanted to play and had retreated into the palace. He didn't know what the consulting criminal could do. Or how long he had been doing it. Not to agree to anything he said at this stage would be dangerous. He had to carefully go over his mind palace, over every room, see what had changed. And he had to be careful not to let his friends worry about him. As soon as John said something... Sherlock swallowed. Moriarty was right about his emotions. He'd been panicked and nervous as he ran to John, and the consulting criminal had used it to his advantage. But he couldn't control his emotions. He had never been able to. He wasn't Mycroft.
He knew what he had to do as soon as he opened his eyes. He had to destroy Moriarty. If he couldn't warn anyone, he had to make sure he was gone, and there was only one way he could.
Death had not scared him for a long time. It didn't now. He simply had to keep Moriarty talking until he could leave.
"And what is the game, exactly?" he inquired. "You have not told me".
"And here I thought we understood one another..." Moriarty almost whined. "It's about this". His hand made a sweeping gesture.
He wanted to play to see who would control Sherlock, mind and body. He wanted to destroy him and take over completely.
Or – no, not destroy. Moriarty was too clever to risk his complete annihilation. He had committed suicide once. Doing it again would bore him. He would lock him up like he had done with him when he first created him.
"Finally. Really, you should be glad I'm back. You have been slacking".
He ignored the jibe, instead waiting patiently. Either Moriarty would attack, or he would let him go for now.
Moriarty was no fool. He never had been. He just preferred risk to safety, new sensations to boredom, and here lay the potential of an eternity of entertainment. He could tell what Sherlock was thinking; not because he could read his thoughts – he was glad about that, it would have been awfully boring otherwise – but because Sherlock would have jumped off that roof with or without a plan to save his friends, he felt certain. He had seen it in his eyes. Sherlock was, and always would be, bound by the fact that he had a heart underneath the persona he had chosen to craft around himself.
He would try to protect them. And since he couldn't warn them, he would try something else. He would try to destroy them both.
He was prepared, of course.
For a while, he had been working on feeding suggestions into Sherlock's subconscious; finally, he had started to see through what was not really darkness but small trails of thoughts and memories interweaving. He hadn't seen anything but black when he had found Sherlock, but that had probably to do with the light the consulting detective had conjured up.
The very first suggestion he had carefully merged into the stream that was constantly moving about him had been one that Sherlock would encounter very soon. He smiled.
"This has been a very fascinating conversation, but I have to go. Remember the rules, Sherlock".
He turned around and left, wondering if maybe he should attempt to make it impossible to Sherlock to speak about this to his friends. He might have to eventually, but for now it was too enjoyable to feel him squirm as he couldn't because he wasn't allowed to rather than because it was impossible.
Sherlock wasted no time. The minute Moriarty's back was turned, he opened his eyes and sat up on his bed.
He had to act fast.
He didn't fear death, but he feared what it would do to John. To Mrs. Hudson. Greg. He was tempted to leave an explanation, but who would believe him? He was vain enough not to want to be remembered as crazy. His friends would have to live with his death; that was quite enough.
He took his gun out of his bedside drawer. His thoughts kept returning to John, but he tightened his grip on the handle. He couldn't dwell. He had to get rid of Moriarty, and this was the only way he could be certain.
He raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
A moment later he realized he was still alive, the gun still pressed against his temple.
Another moment later, he noticed that he had never pressed the trigger. His finger was frozen. He couldn't press the trigger.
He let the gun sink, unloaded the gun and attempted to press the trigger while he was holding a safe gun against his temple.
He could.
When he let the gun drop, his hands trembled.
He couldn't kill himself. He was physically incapable of it.
Moriarty had won the first round.