It was around two am when he left; John must have returned and went to bed while he and Sherlock had been talking and fighting. It must have taken longer than he had realized; sadly, Sherlock had not put any clocks in his mind palace or ever bothered to see how much time passed while he was there. One of the many details the consulting detective never paid attention to because they were too ordinary. He had called him out on his biggest mistake – he wanted everything to be clever, so he tended to avoid the commonplace – and yet he was still committing it over and over again.
It was definitely time to step up the game.
He knew where the security cameras around Baker Street had been located before his death; when he had left to solve the case with John, he hadn't looked for others because he had been concentrating on staying in control as long as possible. With Sherlock safely locked away, he could take his time.
Of course he hadn't locked him away without any hope of escape. It wouldn't be a game if he had. The key hole was still there, and if Sherlock succeeded in finding something to pick the door, he could get out and challenge him. It would take him a while, though, long enough to break into Mycroft's office.
He evaded the cameras he had known about, as well as a few others that had been put up by the jewellery and the bank farther down the road. Apparently Mycroft was content with the amount of security; there were no new cameras put up by the British Government. Either that or he had decided to trust his brother after his return. If so, this would be even more fun than Jim had believed.
He had pondered the idea of breaking into the office when he had still been alive and in possession of his own body, but then there had been nothing there that had interested him, and there still wasn't, but thankfully there was a new dimension to it now. Plus he was curious about Mycroft's security measures. Big Brother would have thought carefully about what to do, and there were arguments both for guarding the true place of power in the UK with all they had at their disposal as for downplaying it. Sherlock, of course, would have chosen the second option, believing himself to be clever enough to convince everyone that there was no reason to break in his office. But this was Mycroft, the man who had decided to distance himself from a happy family life just to run the country, which couldn't be much fun, Jim thought. So there could be surprises there.
He happily made his way to the inconspicuous building Mycroft worked in. He knew that his office was more lavishly furnished because no Holmes would ever be able to completely fight his taste for the grand or dramatic, but until one stood within, one would never have guessed the power he held. And even then, most people failed to realize the importance of someone occupying a minor position in the British Government having a luxurious and big office. People were idiots.
The night watchman was there, and he would recognize Jim as the younger brother of Mr. Holmes; but he had no intention of being recognized. He wanted to be given the case after all, and he couldn't work on it if it was clear he had been the culprit.
The window it was, then.
Sherlock was fit, even more so after the two years he had spent more or less running around the world; it was surprisingly easy to reach the third floor, where Mycroft's office lay. He remembered being surprised when he had first learned that Mycroft hadn't taken the highest room in the building as his abode; but the elder Holmes probably wanted to show once more how humble his position was. Jim rolled his eyes as he opened the window and saw the mahogany table. In that case, he should have bought less conspicuous furniture.
He didn't spend long in the office; after he had pressed against the wall until he had been able to reach the hidden camera on the top of a book shelf and disable it, he moved a few files – unimportant ones, since Mycroft wouldn't have allowed them to lie on his desk over night otherwise – from right to left, put his chair on the other side of the desk and laid a pen exactly in the middle of the tabletop. Then he heard the watchman – probably, and alarm had been triggered somewhere – and left the way he had come.
Mycroft wouldn't know who had done it, and he would be puzzled why the perpetrator had been content with moving around and disturbing his order. He would have to ask Sherlock for help, Jim reflected gleefully on the way home.
He didn't know yet how long he would be able to play. Sherlock might already have broken out; he wouldn't know until he looked into the mind palace, and he'd wait until he got home. It was his home now as well; he might pull down the periodic table from the wall. He had never liked chemistry much. It was too predictable how certain substances would behave themselves under certain circumstances. He had always preferred humans. They could surprise one, at least.
All was silent as he made his way to the flat. John was still asleep, hadn't noticed his absence, and he would never know. Tomorrow he would apologize to Mrs. Hudson to remove all suspicion from himself and wait for Mycroft. He suspected that he would be sent for sooner rather than later.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Time to see what Sherlock was up to.
Much as he wanted to repossess his body, he decided against it for the time being. He was aware of the risk he was taking, but if gained control now, it left Moriarty roaming free, ready to strike at every moment. He had to get to his safe room, secure it against any intrusion; he had to think of a weapon he had studied well enough that it would work against him, and then, when Moriarty returned to gloat, because he was sure to, he had to attack him, destroy him once and for all. Once John and the others were safe, he could reveal what had happened. Although he doubted that anyone would believe him.
So he closed the door of the cell, quickly locking it again with the nail. His hands were burning, but he doubted he could get an infection; he might feel pain, but he was still only a projection of his consciousness. He didn't pay attention to the blood still oozing from his torn fingertips, other than wiping his hands again so no trail of drops would be left behind.
The cell being locked would hopefully gain him a few extra moments when Moriarty returned; in the mean time, he had to reach his safe room.
He used every connection he had made, every shortcut he remembered, every room he had ever built simply so it would be easier to get to another, and finally he was standing in front of the one that held his memories about the first time he had met John, the first case he had solved with Greg, the first time Mycroft had read Treasure Island to him.
It was still as he had left it when he'd last entered it months ago, still as light and big as it was supposed to be; Moriarty hadn't found it. Sherlock had made the door look especially boring and small out of instinct; he couldn't say what instinct, but he was glad he had even then felt the need to make it even more secure.
He closed the door behind him with a feeling of freedom he hadn't experienced since Moriarty had first broken out.
He happily went to the cell, almost jumping a little, whistling to himself. Sherlock would enjoy hearing about what he had done. After all, he hadn't killed anyone, he had barely done anything illegal, and now they just had to wait how Big Brother reacted.
From a distance, he could see that the cell door was closed, and he was disappointed that apparently Sherlock hadn't attempted to escape. Then he saw the small read smear under the key hole. Blood.
He opened the cell and found it empty. One part of the wall was torn down, dirty with blood, and it wasn't until he saw the steel nails under the covering that he realized how Sherlock had taken flight.
And yet he hadn't tried to regain control. Interesting.
It was a new move. And entirely unexpected one.
Sherlock had finally started to play.
Jim turned around and left the cell. It was only after four am; he had a few hours to look for Sherlock before he was summoned to help the Ice Man.
Once more whistling, he skipped down the corridor.