Author's note: Shoutout to ijustsigneduptofollow, who pointed out a rather embarrassing mistake to me! Thank you.
It was a pleasant surprise to stumble upon Sherlock. He hadn't known he was in the palace. He must have gone to investigate his behaviour. It was goo he was here; Jim was starting to feel bored.
He grinned brightly and asked him how he'd done. It might have been a boring case, but at least he would like to know how Sherlock felt about him fooling everyone. It was a pity he'd been unconscious; he'd been such a good actor.
Sherlock didn't answer, which he considered unfair. If he didn't answer, how were they supposed to hold a conversation?
The consulting detective didn't even look at him, electing to ignore him. That was just childish.
"Sherlock" he whined. "We share the same mind, we might as well get on". It was a completely sound observation – and it was Sherlock's fault he was here to begin with, really – and at least it caused Sherlock to look at him.
"It's not your mind" he spat, and Jim shrugged.
"It depends how you look at it. And don't forget that I have already made a few changes..." he trailed off as Sherlock stepped closer. He looked at his hands, but he wasn't carrying a weapon. Could he even have weapons? Would they work? And could he even be killed? It was unlikely. Ideas stayed in one's mind, continuing to fester; it was the same with memories and recreations of one's personalities. Sherlock had let him in once. He had already tried to delete him and it hadn't worked.
And then, of course, there was the other possibility he hadn't considered much up until this point.
He might not be James Moriarty at all.
He certainly felt like himself, but the real Jim Moriarty had shot himself on a rooftop. He was what Sherlock considered the consulting criminal to have been – possibly madder, more dangerous and clever than he had ever been – and he might not even be that. He might not be a mirage, but an aspect of Sherlock's personality. Sherlock was human. And one couldn't be human and destroy a web by killing and torturing when it was necessary and he couldn't trust the police without beginning to loathe oneself. And he might already have hated himself because of what he did to John and his other friends when he faked his death. So Jim could be a part of him that had grown until it took on a life of its own. Sherlock might simply be mad.
An interesting question to ponder when he had nothing else to do, but in the end not important. He was here and he was out to have fun, so why care whether he was just a part of Sherlock who felt he should be destroyed or if he was really a mirage of the consulting criminal? He felt comfortable being Jim Moriarty, so that was what he was. He could see doubt in Sherlock's eyes and smiled. Apparently Sherlock was concerned for his sanity. He should be. He was the one with the madman in his mind. Whether it was himself or not.
"What did you do?" Sherlock asked calmly.
"If I told you it wouldn't be a game, would it? But I have to say, poor Mrs. Hudson. She looked rather upset when you were so cold with her..."
He was pressed against a wall, Sherlock's arm against his neck. He was having trouble breathing, which he found hilarious. He shouldn't feel the need to breathe at all. Sherlock must have been very motivated to make him as real as possible when he created him. Or didn't create him. Maybe he just thought he created him...
This was going nowhere, but he was just waiting and entertaining himself while Sherlock calmed down.
"Feeling better?" he pressed out.
"You are insane" Sherlock stated, bringing to mind another scene where he had used exactly the same words. Jim hoped he wouldn't start repeating himself. He was looking at him for distraction, not for more of the same.
"You are one to talk" he admonished him. "I thought you were so adamant about this being all yours. So who put me here?"
Sherlock let go as if the fight had gone out of him and he took a deep breath.
"What did you do?" Sherlock repeated himself again and he sighed warily.
"I told you. What would be the point of you knowing everything I could do? You used to enjoy our games".
Sherlock didn't answer. He looked... almost ashamed. He was not the consulting detective Jim had first met. When Sherlock had begun to inconvenience him, he had been delighted. For once someone who could be a worthy opponent. True, in the end Sherlock had turned out to be ordinary, but he hadn't known until much later, until he realized that Sherlock's valued his friends' safety more than the cases he provided him with. He should have been delighted in the challenge of Rich Brook, but he had fallen for his trap because he wanted everything to be clever and everything to have a happy ending where he returned to Baker Street and lived happily ever after with his pet, and it had been one more factor for him to go through with his decision to commit suicide. If he didn't even have a partner-in-game anymore, what was the point? He'd really hoped his absence would have made an impact. Crime in London couldn't be that interesting anymore after he had left. In fact, he had just seen that it wasn't. So why had Sherlock been content until he came along? It would never make sense to him.
"We can hardly call it playing a game if you don't wait when it is my turn" Sherlock eventually said. At least he was arguing now. Jim counted it as progress.
"But you don't do anything".
"How can you know? Yes, you are here. But my mind palace is vast".
"I've noticed. You should really build some more connections..."
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to defend his construction, but thought better of it. Jim, while he admitted that it looked nice, didn't really admire the plan of the mind palace. It was both too little and too impractical for his taste. First of all, it should look much grander – he would have thought Sherlock had more style – and second of all, the connections were really few and far between. Not at all what he would have done.
But he had to work with what he had, and what he had was not the worst. It would have been dreadful to wake up in a mind like John Watson's. He was sure there was nothing there but chaos, a devotion to Sherlock that bordered on obsession, and the ability to make at least fifty cups of tea in one day. He might not even have been able to bundle enough of John Watson to trap him. And the doctor would just have assumed he was mad and have himself committed. No, he was glad he was here.
"You have to wait for my turn" Sherlock said slowly. It was adorable that he was trying to talk sense into him.
He thought it best if he agreed. At least for the time being. Sherlock might do something mildly entertaining after all.
"Okay" he whined. "But you better do something soon. You know how dull it can be to just – "
He never got to complete his sentence because Sherlock decided to attack him. He was a little disappointed. Why would he attack him now?
At the very least, Sherlock suddenly had a gun in his hand. He must have made a connection to one of the rooms about weaponry after all – Jim hadn't found it yet but had entertained himself one afternoon with looking at the different swords, guns, poisons and more Sherlock had collected over the years.
The bullet passed through him, to neither of their surprise. He had a moment to wonder what would become of the bullet – could it cause damage? Before Sherlock jumped right at him and they were rolling around on the floor.
He recognized some of the moves – Sherlock was using baritsu, which he had always considered overrated, but if the consulting detective found it useful, who was he to judge – and quickly tried to keep him under control while looking around for the gun. Sherlock had thrown it away.
After all, it was his turn again now.
He managed to roll over and grab it. Sherlock didn't seem concerned. He stood up slowly.
"It doesn't do anything here. I think I have established that".
"I know" he said simply, "But I am not going to shoot you".
"Then what?" Sherlock inquired.
"I think" he began slowly, "It's time to step up the game".
With three quick steps, he was in front of Sherlock and brought the gun down on his skull. He figured since he could touch it, it would have more of an effect.
He was right. Sherlock collapsed.
He prepared himself to drag him into his old cell.
If Sherlock didn't want to play, he had to be Sherlock for longer. Easy.