Author's note: This is going to have 25 chapters. Enjoy!
Sherlock was building more and more security measures. He hoped that the room would stay hidden from Moriarty for a while longer; he had overlooked it so far; but should he see it, it had to be absolutely impenetrable. He needed a place he could run to when the consulting criminal approached him and he had not yet found a weapon that worked.
He would have to go through every single means of harming someone he had ever memorized, but he was more than ready to. There had to be something he had catalogued carefully enough to kill Moriarty. Whether he was a part of his personality or not.
He was aware that Moriarty's death could bring serious recuperations; but he would rather end up in a mental hospital for the rest of his life than risk him being alive for one more day.
He desperately hoped that Moriarty had not yet used his body to kill anyone. Or set up another elaborate plot. It would be like him to commit a crime and then revel because Sherlock was asked to solve it.
At least he would know. As soon as he saw the crime scene, he would know. But once he did, there was nothing he could do. If he told the truth, no one would believe him. If he begged to be locked up, people would think he had finally gone insane, proving that he had been a freak all along. He could only win in his own mind, and for that, he had to make his safe haven as safe as possible. Moriarty might be strong, but he hadn't lived with his mind for years. Sherlock knew it better than he ever would.
At the very least he had the advantage of having built the mind palace himself. No matter how many details Moriarty altered, the outline would always be the same until Sherlock was destroyed and the consulting criminal could do as he wished. But he would do what he could to prevent this fate. He would fight and fight until he lost, and if he did he had to have faith in his friends because Moriarty would slip. He couldn't pretend to be him forever. John would notice he didn't drink his tea as quickly as he usually did, Greg would see his lack of enthusiasm at crime scenes, Mycroft would hear a discrepancy in the screeching noises he made with his violin.
He had to hold on to this belief, if only so he wouldn't give up hope. Hope was an important factor in every fight. If he hadn't been hoping to one day return to London, he probably would have despaired in the two years he had been unravelling the web. It had been larger and more intricate than even he had supposed.
He built and built wall upon wall and hoped that he still had some time before Moriarty noticed he was missing.
Jim strolled through the mind palace, walking as slowly as he pleased. If he were to be awoken before he could find Sherlock, so be it. At least it would give the consulting detective time to finally do something exciting instead of despairing and allowing himself to be captured. Maybe he was finally playing right, like he had hoped he would.
Sherlock would have to create a safe place for him to rest and think, he decided. Something like 221B in his own mind. Of course he wouldn't make it look like his flat – too obvious. He was looking for something small, something he had perhaps overlooked before, but he was in no hurry to detect it. If he didn't gave him a chance – what was the point, really? He had after all broken in the Ice Man's office to be entertained, not be bored once again because Sherlock was not yet ready.
Perhaps, he reflected, he should have waited to reveal himself a little longer, until Sherlock had succeeded in navigating through his changed mind palace and learned to move with the fear lingering at the back of his mind. The consulting detective needed time to adjust now and then; he had stayed long enough in his flat to get arrested even after Lestrade had warned him. Then again, he might just have wished to prove that the DI had nothing to do with his escape. Emotions. Jim had never really understood them, but they proved to be entertaining from time to time.
He failed to find anything suspicious during the next few hours, but he didn't mind. When he suddenly heard a knock, he understood that he was being called and quickly took control of the body.
He sat up as John opened the door.
"Mycroft is here" he informed him somewhat tensely, and he understood that yesterday had not been forgotten. While he had desired the effect at the time, he had since turned over a new leaf since Sherlock had been too dull to appreciate his efforts, and he quickly greeted him with something that he hoped looked like hidden shame. Apparently it did because John immediately became friendlier.
He quickly dressed himself and entered the living room, meeting the Ice Man for the first time in years. He looked just as he had then, except for a certain haggard look in his eyes. Interesting. Had this to do with his nocturnal visit to his office, or had it appeared after Sherlock had left? Had he missed the little brother he had distanced himself from years ago?
"Mycroft" he said calmly.
"Your usual distractions will have to wait" Mycroft answered, his eyes sweeping to the microscope in the kitchen with the sample Sherlock had been looking at yesterday morning, "I have a case for you".
"Did you lose another one of your agents?" he inquired, flopping down in Sherlock's chair. "Or did more top-secret information get lost?"
"Neither" Mycroft replied with an annoyed smile. "Someone broke into my office".
He raised an eyebrow and brought his hands up so his fingertips met.
"Has something been taken?"
"No".
"Is there anything visible on – "
"If there was, we wouldn't need your expertise" Mycroft came as close to snapping at his brother as he probably ever had in his life, and Jim suppressed a grin. He had unsettled the Ice Man. He hadn't thought it would be so easy, but he could understand; the office was Mycroft's sanctuary as well as his seat of power.
"So you have no idea who did this?" When Mycroft was silent, he pressed on. "There have to be some foreign agents in the city as we speak".
"There are, but few who know about the position I hold, and none who would dare to attempt a break-in".
"Are you sure?"
Mycroft didn't answer. Jim held out Sherlock's hand and he handed him a file.
Jim quickly read through it.
"As you can see, at 3:34 am an alarm was triggered, but the night watchman didn't find anything amiss and concluded it had been a malfunction".
"You disagree".
"I know how I left my office" he replied indignantly. "Not that I expect you to understand. I know you have always been rather... negligent when it comes to your work space".
The opposite was true, but one had to have had a look in Sherlock's mind to realize that he had never been neglectful when it came to things that could be of use to him, so Jim let the comment slide.
He stood up.
"There's a car outside?"
Mycroft nodded.
Jim turned to John, who had been watching the whole scene, and asked self-consciously, "Are you coming?"
John gave him a small smile and replied, "Of course".
He made a point of courteously greeting Mrs. Hudson as they passed her, and when they entered the limousine, he knew he had been forgiven.
Sherlock was reasonably sure that his stronghold was safe. He had severed all connections to it; there was no way in but through the door and he had laid several traps to ensure that only he could get in. He still hoped that Moriarty wouldn't succeed in fighting it. He had to suspect that something like this room existed – if only because he couldn't find Sherlock – and he would come looking for it, but for now –
For now. He couldn't wait anymore, he couldn't risk Moriarty behaving anymore.
He had to get out and see. Spy. Find out what the consulting criminal was up to. He didn't know how long he had been here, what time of day it was, whether hours or weeks had passed. He had to go and see through his own eyes, even if he wasn't in control of them. Moriarty had been able to do it when he hadn't been aware that he was alive yet; Sherlock should be as well. He knew his mind, even in its altered state. It must be possible to sneak in.
He had to know what was going on.