Sherlock woke up in Moriarty's cell. He knew immediately where he was; he had built it so carefully, made sure that he would never get out –
Really, it didn't make sense in hindsight, since he would never have believed his escape possible. But it made everything more difficult now.
He had to get out. Moriarty had knocked him unconscious, which meant he had control over his body; and when he had that –
John. Mrs. Hudson. At least the doctor was meeting Greg, but their landlady –
Sherlock looked around frantically. At least Moriarty hadn't out him in a straight jacket, like he had done to the consulting criminal. Maybe he considered it unfair. Maybe he wanted him to break out. Maybe he had already devised a way that led to another obstacle once Sherlock managed to escape the room.
All in all, there were too many variables to even limit the number of theories he came up with, and he concentrated on getting out. He had to drag Moriarty back into the mind palace quickly and attempt to destroy him, once and for all. The bullet had had no effect but, if Moriarty could knock him out and they could fight, there must be something that could harm him.
But first of all, he had to break out. Moriarty had done it –
And apparently changed the room a little. He was sure he had left a handle on the door, even if it had been locked. He had been so irresponsible. Why had he ever allowed him to get loose? Why had he ever locked him away as a whole person to begin with?
Again the fear that he was insane gripped him, but he shook it off. He would worry later; he would draw consequences later, when his friends were safe. He didn't know how much time had passed. He could have been locked up for days before awakening; he had never paid attention to how time passed in his mind palace, which had led to John shaking him more than once, demanding that he eat dinner because he had spent the whole day there.
He should have known how to measure time. It was another mistake that could cost him dearly. He wondered if Moriarty knew, but perhaps not. He might have enjoyed the uncertainty.
The room was circular, the walls white and soft, the door didn't have a handle.
But it still had a key hole.
Most likely Moriarty wanted him to have a chance, he reflected, to play. At least he hopes so; if he still wanted a distraction, he would allow Sherlock to try and be one. Which meant he had not yet cut the room off of every connection completely.
Or he just wanted to make him think that. But he couldn't afford the time to analyze every possibility. He had to act and run into the battle blindly – Mycroft would have been appalled, he reflected with wry smile as he stopped to look at the key hole.
There was nothing to see behind it, but his mind palace had grown so dark that this wasn't surprising. If he could find something, anything...
The walls. In every wall, there had to be something that held it up. He hadn't constructed them especially, had allowed his subconscious to build parts and being content with Moriarty being shoved in a cell, and he was grateful for it. Otherwise he might have made sure that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could be done with them and he would have been lost.
He started clawing at the walls. It hurt; soon his fingernails were broken, the tips of his fingers bleeding, making his palms slip as he tried to get through the material, find a nail or at least a piece of metal...
He occasionally stopped to wipe his hands on his trousers, wondering when he had become so corporeal. He had never felt hunger or pain in his mind palace; he had always been a simple projection of the body that was in the outside world, reclining on the sofa or standing in the lab at St. Bart's. Moriarty had managed to throw him in the cell and he felt everything.
Why? he wasn't flesh and blood; neither was the consulting criminal; and yet they had wrestled and Moriarty had knocked him unconscious. This was far more direct than the approach he had taken before, when he had simply installed fear in his mind, sent him nightmares, changed his palace. But why would he –
Because the fear had led Sherlock's mind to strike back. Unconsciously, it had bundled its remaining strength, which meant that he was far more real than the mirage that normally moved through the corridors in search of information. And Moriarty must have grown stronger and more physical because he had gained strength while Sherlock had weakened.
But if Moriarty had become corporeal – or more corporeal – than it must be possible to harm him. The bullet might have been simply a poor imitation; Sherlock had memorized information on many weapons, but since he had never expected to use them in his mind palace, he had been content with the rare details without envisioning them properly. The bullet hadn't existed on the same level as he and Moriarty; but the gun, whose make and model he had carefully recreated so he could recognize it immediately, had been strong enough to incapacitate him.
He had to visualize a weapon, store it in his mind palace, use it against Moriarty. He had to get to the room he had protected; to the room where he kept his memories of first meetings and important turning points in his life; but first of all –
He was still bleeding and it was getting difficult to keep working through the pain, but he impatiently bit down on his lower lip and tore at the wall with greater determination. He had to get out. He had to.
A nail. Just a small steel nail, but a nail. Sherlock needed some time to extract him from the wall, his hands slippers no matter how often he wiped them, his broken and bloody fingertips screaming in agony, but he finally held it in his hands and went to work on the door.
He had a plan. Sherlock didn't want to play like he had imagined he did, so he would have to force him. No murder; not yet. But something more subtle, something Sherlock would find interesting.
He was going to break into his big brother's office. That had to get his attention. Mycroft would be sure to give Sherlock the case, since finding a burglar who potentially held secrets that would risk the nation's safety involved legwork, and Sherlock would be looking for himself, unable to tell anyone.
There was another reason to make it a case about Mycroft, rather than a simple murder. Jim would enjoy interacting with the British Government. He hadn't seen the Ice Man since he had set him free. He wondered if Mycroft had ever regretted his decision, but he didn't seem like someone who would regret anything. He made his decision based on what he considered best for the country.
Jim pondered the question when this had happened. When he had chosen this path. The brother he had seen in Sherlock's childhood memories had always been open and affectionate towards Sherlock; they had been close, and he was ready to believe that if he had had such a family as the consulting detective, he might have ended up normal and boring after all. It wasn't important, of course, but when had Mycroft decided to sacrifice a fulfilling emotional life for his career? And yet he still had surveillance on his younger brother. He still cared. He must have felt something when Sherlock went underground and spent two years alone. Even if he didn't visit him unless he had to force him to take a case, even if they didn't really speak to one another, he was used to seeing him on screens, was used to following his movements. It must have been difficult to know him in danger. At least it would have been for anyone else. The Ice Man was a mystery, even to Jim.
And that was part of the fun. He wanted to experience Sherlock's and Mycroft's interactions. He wanted to see just how much Sherlock meant to him, how far he would be willing to go to save his brother. He had certainly gone along with Sherlock's scheme of faking his death.
Would he try to save him or do everything necessary to stop Jim once and for all? Would he be able to pull the trigger himself? Jim was almost ready to die again to know. Not yet, though. Now was the time to act, to set things in motion; now was the time to force Sherlock's hand; now was the time to have fun.
Now was the time for a break-in.