Author's note: Happy Easter! Hope you all got baskets full of nice things, and if you feel like it, leave a review!

Sherlock really had changed. He had been more than happy to discuss their affairs before it came to fighting on the day Jim had shot himself, and now he was only bent on destruction.

That was all that went through his head as the bullet hit his shoulder. Sherlock had missed. His hand must have been shaking, he thought with glee, as he threw himself to the side and ran towards the next corner.

Another bullet whipped past his head, and he dived into another, darker corridor, remembering one of Sherlock's connections nearby; a second later he was in a room dedicated to 243 types of tobacco ash and left through the door, losing himself in the corridors rather than using easily-to-follow connections.

Sherlock threw the weapon down on the floor, disgusted with himself. Moriarty had made him so afraid and unsure that his hand had been shaking too much to take accurate aim, and he had lost him. There was no point trying to follow him.

Maybe he should lead Moriarty to him. Leave clues, play a game. The consulting criminal wouldn't be able to resist. But he would have to lead him somewhere Sherlock felt safe, where he could be sure Moriarty hadn't manipulated anything.

He would have to lead Moriarty to his safe room.

It was a high gamble. Moriarty, with the abilities he had gain, could probably change anything in this room as he wished, twist his most treasure memories until nothing was left of the man he was. But if there was a chance to destroy him, destroy Moriarty, rid the world of him, it was worth it. On that day on the rooftop, he had been prepared to die in case all his plans failed; had accepted the possibility of his destruction as long as it assured that of his opponent.

Nothing had changed about that. In fact, if it was possible, he was even more ready to die, because he –

Because, although he hadn't admitted it to himself yet, he couldn't stand the thought of losing his mind. And he was losing it, had partly already lost it, to the consulting criminal. Should he defeat him and find that the damage was irreversible –

He would deal with this problem when it arose. First, he had to find the consulting criminal, or rather, make him come to him.

Maybe he didn't really need to hide clues. Maybe he could just plant a trace in his own subconscious. What Moriarty could do, he could do as well. It was his mind.

He remembered well how he had found a door to his subconscious the first time, but this time he went looking for it. It didn't take him long; everything had become so scrambled that the subconscious was no longer as well hidden as it had once been. He would worry about that after Moriarty was either destroyed or back in a cell there was no escape from.

It was dark, but comforting all the same. Moriarty might have used it, but this was the pure essence of what Sherlock was and had been, and would one day become; he couldn't alter everything, couldn't bend it to his every whim. Sherlock thought of the connections he had found that he had never constructed. Maybe it had been his subconscious way of fighting back, recognizing the enemy in his mind palace.

Among the strains he could feel and see, despite the darkness, he quickly formed and inserted another one. It was dizzying how easily it came to him; it seemed once one had access to the subconscious, granted it was one's own, it was simple to work on it. Or perhaps his mind had become so used to being manipulated it hadn't had any defences left.

For once in his life, he decided to be optimistic when choosing a theory because he needed all his strength in the fight that was to come. He worked on making the thread that would lead to the corridor of his safe room as inconspicuous and faint as possible; Moriarty should believe that he hadn't meant to create it, that he was vulnerable.

Even the consulting criminal should see that he had to use this opportunity. Sherlock had already tried to kill him twice. There was no doubt whatsoever that it was his sole intent to get rid of him instead of playing the games Moriarty had imagined.

He was starting to think that he might have made Moriarty a little too... irrational. His fear of becoming like him, his loneliness in the two years he had been gone had let the consulting criminal transform into a monster when he must have been capable of subtlety and cunning, since he had led a criminal empire without anyone noticing for years.

Somehow, he had made Moriarty more dangerous, yet also reduced him in the process. He wanted fun, games and destruction; but the consulting criminal he had met on the rooftop had been more. He had been cruel as well, cold and calculating. This one was too focused on being distracted. He had allowed Sherlock to escape, had even hoped that he would. He was ready to undergo incredibly risks even though he had miraculously come back to life, just so he could run around and watch Sherlock's reaction to it.

Yes, he was unpredictable. He couldn't deny that. He had always thought Moriarty was so, to a far higher degree than Sherlock or Mycroft, and he still believed it. Whether or not he had made him too unpredictable was a mute point; but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps his wasn't an accurate representation of the consulting criminal at all.

He finished inserting the thread and left, although he wished he could have stayed in the calming environment for longer. There was also a hint of danger here, however; everything subconscious would always carry it with it; and it was probably better to stay away.

He went back to his safe room. Now he simply had to wait.

His fears seemed incredibly exaggerated in the light of day. Sherlock had behaved completely normal, had even looked sorry, and had asked him to accompany him.

John couldn't have been gladder to do so. It was strange that someone had broken into Mycroft's office, not taken anything but left evidence that he had been there; and he still feared that it might be Moriarty. It was certainly the consulting criminal's style, to do something just because he could. He would have left a calling card though, he tried to reason with himself. He would have wanted them to know it was him. When he had broken into the Tower of London, he had sent Sherlock a text. Why should he stay hidden now? If he came back, he would show the world that he had survived in a loud, obnoxious manner.

No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he didn't succeed, however. The fear that Moriarty would come back and endanger Sherlock's life was always there at the back of his mind; he never could shake it off, no matter how often his best friend had assured him that he was dead. If Sherlock could beat death, so could Moriarty. He had opened up Pentonville Prison, played with the Crown jewels and broken into the Tower of London just so he could lay a trap for Sherlock. Anything was possible.

And then, there was –

John didn't really know how to describe it, but something about Sherlock's reaction had been... off. Which was strange, since he had thought it perfectly reasonable at the time.

Maybe it was that –

Sherlock apparently wasn't overly concerned, and that was enough to set the alarm bells ringing. He remembered how he had pushed him away before feigning his suicide, how he had downplayed the danger he was in, how he had used Moriarty's move to get him away.

Not this time. Until he knew what was going on, who had broken into Mycroft's office, he'd stay at Sherlock's side no matter what happened. He would keep an eye on him until he was certain Moriarty had no hand in this.

Deciding that it would do no harm if he went into the living room because Sherlock was in his mind palace and wouldn't notice him enter, he walked down the stairs and saw him lying on the sofa, in the exact same position he'd left him in. As he had predicted, he didn't open his eyes or say anything, and John moved into the kitchen to make.

He had just put the kettle on when he heard it.

Sherlock was groaning his name; it sounded like he was in pain.

He rushed into the living room and found him sitting on the sofa, doubled over, eyes ablaze.

"Sherlock?" he asked, running to his side.

"John" he pressed out, looking like he didn't want to speak at all, "Moriarty – " he stopped, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before continuing.

"Kill me".