Sherlock left his room and slowly crept along the corridor leading to it. One disadvantage of having severed all connections was that he would always have to leave through the same door, and that Moriarty could be hiding nearby; but it was safe than having them and risking him suddenly standing in his stronghold. If Moriarty was indeed in control of his body at the moment, there was of course no danger of running into him, but Sherlock still stayed in the shadows, making his way towards natural sciences, especially his collected information about eyes. Moriarty had found a connection, enabling him to see.

He would have looked for it and this was the first place to go. Naturally, he might have come across it by accident; Sherlock couldn't help some connections forming, subconsciously, without his permission; but it was unlikely that Moriarty had simply got lucky. It was far more probable that he had found a connection because he had been searching for it. So Sherlock would do the same. The first time, he had acted on pure instinct, panicking because Moriarty had control over his body. This time, he went to look.

He looked around the room. If Moriarty had been here, he hadn't changed anything, he registered with disappointment. Apparently it hadn't been important enough to fill it with fear and shadows.

He concentrated on finding the connection. Moriarty might have obscured or destroyed it, but that would have given him an unfair advantage in the game that at this stage he wouldn't have cherished; at least Sherlock was reasonably sure that the consulting criminal he remembered would have thought so. Of course, if this wasn't Moriarty at all but a part of his –

He concentrated on finding the connection. Nothing else was important. If he found the connection, he might use it to regain control. And at the very least he would know what was going on.

He pushed away all thoughts of looking out of his own eyes only to see John's body. Mrs. Hudson's remains. Greg's corpse. What he would see was not of importance right now; he would focus on seeing anything before he wondered what he would see.

There. He could feel it. A connection. It didn't feel like one he had created, so it had been made subconsciously, as he had supposed; and it felt wrong.

Moriarty had definitely been here. He had been here, had touched and used the connection, and as a result, it felt like an alien substance in Sherlock's mind, dirty and cold.

He didn't care. He simply plunged into it.

And then he found himself in the position Moriarty had been countless times before, looking out of his own eyes as a spectator, unable to move them accordingly. He felt dizzy for a moment; the strange feeling of watching a film rather than what was happening to his body almost too much; but he took a few calming breaths – would have taken, if he had had real lungs – and observed.

Mycroft's office. This was definitely Mycroft's office. He hadn't been there often, but enough times over the years to identify it at first glance. He assumed that Moriarty had somehow inveigled himself there, having invented a reason to call on Mycroft, until he realized that he let his gaze sweep over the room in the way he did when he was deducing something, collecting evidence. He couldn't see anyone else. Had Moriarty killed Mycroft?

The pain he felt at the suspicion was not entirely unexpected, but shocking in its intensity. He hadn't seen his brother in a few weeks because Mycroft was busy and no case had proven to be worthy his attention; he wondered if Mycroft would have noticed something was amiss.

Data. He was theorizing without data again. Why would Moriarty pretend to be deducing if he had committed murder and no one was around?

"As you can see, the perpetrator entered through the window".

He had never believed he would be relieved at the sound of his brother's voice.

Moriarty looked at the window, where Mycroft was standing, and Sherlock fought the urge to scream. It wouldn't do any good; if anything, it would alert Moriarty and he would chase him down. So he watched.

"And nothing was stolen?"

John. He was standing behind him, judging from where his voice came from, and Sherlock noticed that he sounded relaxed, playful almost. So Moriarty had made him forget about his suspicions the night before, because John must have been worried since he had called Greg and went out. Maybe he had already apologized to Mrs. Hudson and no one remembered the incident.

He forced himself to remain calm. He couldn't risk having too strong feelings running through his mind. At this point, he couldn't say what Moriarty was aware of. Maybe he was only playing with him at this very moment, already knowing that he had broken out.

No wonder Sherlock had been nervous and the fear he had planted in his mind palace had grown so quickly, Jim decided. It was a strange feeling, as if someone was standing behind him close enough to feel his breath on his neck. He knew that John stood behind him, but at a distance of several feet. This could only mean one thing: Sherlock was watching. He didn't smile, but he happily doubled his efforts to act like him. He wanted to impress Sherlock.

He went to the window and looked out, studying the wall he had climbed, as well as the windowsill.

"I would have expected greater security measures" he commented. "You had put up more cameras around our flat".

John sniggered and Mycroft shot him a disapproving look before replying, "I decided against raising suspicion. Plus, all sensitive material is locked in a safe under the building or at my house".

Which was so secure that not even he could break in without being noticed. He doubted Sherlock could have.

"Whoever did this must have been disappointed, then" he answered, "I would put another surveillance team in front of your house. Just in case they decided to attempt another break-in".

"I have already ordered a team" Mycroft said indignantly, and Moriarty smirked as Mycroft would have done.

"You are sure no one has been – watching the office in the last few weeks? Memorizing the plan of the building, finding out about the one camera you put up?"

He paused before the word "watching" to make Sherlock understand that he knew. There was no harm in having a little fun with the consulting detective while he was solving his own case.

Of course he knew. It would have been a miracle if he hadn't. He had done this for a long time, possible before Sherlock ever noticed that his mind palace was not as it should have been. And if he felt what Sherlock had felt – the suspicion that he was being watched by someone who was standing just in the corner of his eye – it wouldn't take long for him to figure out why.

Probably Moriarty intended to scare him by letting him know, but the opposite was true. Sherlock felt completely calm. At least they knew where the other one stood.

So Moriarty had broken into Mycroft's office, no doubt leaving enough signs that someone had been there without taking anything since there was nothing of interest kept there over night. Anyone who had a brain would be capable of deducing this within seconds. Mycroft was far too careful to leave any evidence of his position at an easily accessible place, and he would always choose to have his office look inconspicuous for the exact same reason, even if it was furnished somewhat luxuriously. Not even everyone in the building knew that Mycroft was more important than them, believing his usual explanation of his "minor position".

People were idiots.

Moriarty wasn't. He had only done this so he could be called in and revel at Mycroft not knowing who he was, and enjoy Sherlock's discomfort. He would probably seek him out just to gloat later, when he could reasonably claim that he needed to visit his mind palace or to rest, and Sherlock would be ready for him then. He would find a weapon and do what was necessary.

Why didn't Mycroft notice? He thought in a sudden fit of despair as his brother continued to discuss the break-in with Moriarty. He had watched him grow, he had put surveillance on him, Sherlock had never really been able to lie to him. So why didn't he notice?

Because, like Sherlock, he wouldn't think it possible. He wouldn't take into account that it could be Moriarty he was talking to.

He wished he could have balled his hands into fists, his real hands. When he did it with those he had, they stung and reminded him of the time it had taken him to break out of the cell.

He couldn't waste anymore. He needed to find a weapon now.

He left when Moriarty turned around and talked to John.

He had seen enough. He didn't need to see that as well.