A/N: A tribute to a dear friend and collaborator is captured within this chapter. Revella has graciously allowed me to utilize excerpts of her own fic, 'Forever Yours, Sherlock,' in order for me to have a bit of fun at the end of the chapter. Y'all really should check out her entire work for yourselves afterward. Soooo excellent! At any rate, I did have a bit of fun near the end of this chapter, in which I feel I am bordering on breaking out of character with James. I do apologize for this, as I generally try to stay as close to 'in-character' as possible. But I just couldn't resist paying homage to a fabulous fellow author and also getting in a good laugh with Jimlock in the mix. After that part, I will return to my previous manner of writing. As I said, it's not terribly OOC, but I believe it at least borders on it. Though, who can really say they know what James Moriarty would do at any given time? So maybe I'm not too far off base after all? We'll see…. Enjoy!

One week later…

James Moriarty threw wide the doors of his mansion before the men guarding it could open it for him, bursting with energy on his arrival home. He had been away for almost a week on 'business' in France, and he was very much eager to return to his little home-grown experiment. France was wonderful in the late summer, but he had more interesting things going on at home right now than international smuggling rings. After throwing his coat randomly through the air, and it being caught by a scrambling henchman, he turned toward the guest wing, wanting his first stop to be Sherlock. He flicked on a light irritably as he went through a hallway. It was early evening, with barely any of the soft sunlight still breaching the windows. It took several minutes of wending through hallways to get there. Have to move him closer, he considered as he reached the doorway finally. He paused next to a man stationed on the wing of this large building, looking him over as though a piece of furniture. In reality, he was taking the time to compose himself as though this wasn't really his first stop upon his return. No need in looking like a kid with a crush.

He concluded his death-ray stare and walked through the door…..and Sherlock wasn't there. The room looked as if it hadn't even been used…in a week. He stalked to the doorway and glared his question at the man in the hallway, who promptly paled at Jim's words.

"He's. Not. Here," Jim said through gritted teeth.

"He's been in the…in the study. Almost the whole week. Boss," the man piped out, sputtering under Jim's scrutiny.

"And he's eaten? You've made sure that he's eaten?" The man paled further, not wanting to incur the wrath of the coldhearted bastard, but unable to successfully lie to someone as perceptive as the man before him.

"I've…I've tried…. But he's…he… When I brought the food to him….he just….. I did, Boss. Bring him food, I mean. But he barely touched it, he…" Moriarty stopped listening. He remembered hearing Dr. Watson fretting several times over Sherlock's sparse feeding habits. The man truly was a detriment to his own health. Experiments, cutting himself, anorexia…and all within the same package as that marvelous brain! So complex and dysfunctional! Much more interesting than normal people. But so much more fragile for all of it, he mused. But he smiled soon after. And I've broken him; and I will put him back together, he thought with an evil delight. Then he realized, That idiot's still talking, isn't he? The man near him was rapidly spouting out the various trials he went through to attempt to trick the detective into eating something, anything, when suddenly Jim's dagger-filled scowl froze him against the wall. The criminal rolled his neck about and shook his shoulders as if sloughing off the stupidity of those around him; and he smiled coldly as he spoke.

"Weren't you going to do something just now?"

"Um…I don't…I…" the man stammered.

"Mmm, yes. I believe you were going to…Shut. Up."

"Yes! Yes, sir." Jim's eyes narrowed at the additional comment.

"So do it. To the best of your limited abilities." He turned to walk in the direction of the grand staircase that would take him to the floor with his study on it, calling out behind him as he went, "And be happy I left my gun in the car, as it has a much simpler way of silencing fools."

Sherlock had spent an unquantifiable amount of time within his Mind Palace searching for his missing link, the loose connection, the hole in his memories. Yet every time he neared enlightenment, he came up against a mental defense such as he had never been aware he possessed. Whatever had been blocked from him was of utmost secrecy and most likely potential harm. But like a child with a scab, he couldn't stop picking… I need to know, he thought. What is real, and what is fictional? How can I make a deduction of this magnitude when I have not all the available data? It swirled before him, the answer, like a mist that shimmered in teasing jest. He could reach out…and it was gone. In its place, Mycroft or some other personified obstruction to his investigation would hover. Moriarty is more unstable than I had originally thought him to be. I need to resolve this before it costs me something I am not even aware of. He….brings out something within me…something…new…different…dark. He found himself not just a little attracted to the idea, though, and that bothered him deeply. And he will make his move. Soon. He will not be put off forever. Thus far, he has tolerated my independence and rebellion against him, choosing to see it as amusing rather than for what it is meant to be. His body on the couch shifted its shoulders around, with him completely unaware of having done so. It will begin very soon, he concluded. And will I care? He considered this turn of thought for a moment. Does it matter? Really matter, what I choose?

He wandered through his Mind Palace and into his flat at Baker Street, rendered as an exact copy of the way it was when he had last seen it. Everything, from knick-knacks to trash to furniture placement was flawlessly captured within this playback mode. He had caught this still-shot right before his kidnapping; even the dust motes hung in their respective places. He walked the perimeter of the living area and stopped at the mantelpiece, surveying everything, noting placement and alterations, arranging everything just so within his mental perspective. He whirled to his side. The skull! His eyes caught the anomaly, and he approached quickly, reaching out a hand to lay upon it. The skull was always replaced by himself at a very precise angle after every use, unfailingly. And it was shifted! Slightly, yes, but noticeably. He touched it, wondering. Mrs. Hudson? he shook his head in the negative. No, the depth of dust and previous patterns of polishing underneath it indicate that she hasn't dusted in here for at least a week; and I had noted its placement within this given timeframe as being normal since then. Then he spun back to the room, scanning again, and considering a different option. Someone else then?

His eyes ceased their searching when he caught sight of the desk. There was an unfamiliar laptop open on it. What? He approached slowly, wondering if maybe Mycroft had dropped by at some point and left it for him to review case files from. But no, Mycroft wouldn't do that. Wouldn't leave protected government access wide open here on a table in a London flat.

The screen was facing away from him as he approached. It was an older model laptop, not great, but not bad. Many dings and scratches to the outer shell. One large dent on the corner gave him a funny feeling in his stomach. His head spun for a second as he thought he heard a voice yelling, "Sherlock, no!" and the image of his shoe stepping on the computer while trying to reach the ceiling blossomed in his mind…as did the subsequent toppling of the table and himself. He looked all around himself. Who had yelled at him? He blinked, hard. No one there. And he could find no other source of his auditory hallucination. He refocused, and turned his attention back to the laptop. He ran his hand softly over the back of the screen and began to walk around to view what it was left open on. But as he came to the front, the small computer began to blur, and he felt a certain 'give' under his hand. His eyes locked in astonishment as it then melted away beneath his fingertips. He snatched back his hand. What is this?! Mind reeling, he was unused to such inconsistency within the secret sanctity of his mind. Then he felt it…a hand at the back of his neck and shoulder, soft in its honest communication of friendship. It gave him a certain sense of déjà vu as it rested there on him. Hairs stood on end as he whirled to face its source….only to find…nothing.

He began to breathe faster, pulse rate picking up. Even a bit of nausea was settling in. This had never, ever, happened in the controlled environment of his Mind Palace, where he was the master, the creator, the power that was. He felt dizzy, weak. He turned in a slow circle, the rest of the room now feeling 'off' to him, though he couldn't put his finger on quite why. Then, he felt a movement of air against his cheek, and he turned into it, facing a line of light given off by one of the lamps, dust motes sparkled in their halted paths. They shimmered, as if….no, wait…they were moving! The air shifted again, as if time was beginning to pick up from where he was holding it still.

His eyes were frantic as they sought out the borders of the room. And there it was, the source of his vertigo. The walls were bowing inwards! This memory was losing its form, deleting itself. No! He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth; willing it to stop, forcing it to stop. And then…what was that..…? He stilled as it happened again, faltering in his efforts, feeling almost as if something inside himself had shifted. There it was again! Oh! he exclaimed in recognition. He had just felt it push back! The memory was fighting him! No! He struggled, battling harder, arms held out to his sides with clenched fists facing down and slowly lowering, as if pushing against something immense. His muscles strained against the nothing, eyes still closed and face set in a grimace as he fought his own mind for control of this memory. He felt a sort of tension twisting within himself as he did this, seeking weakness, seeking fear, seeking..seeking…

With one violent downward thrust, bending forward under the effort, he threw all he had into it, yelling out his defiance at being obstructed by his own intellect. All was quiet for the space of a breath as the dark and twisted tension left him just as suddenly as it had settled minutes before. Quiet, calm, he stood up straight…..and the windows burst outwards, shards of deadly rain flying outward into the 'night.' A rough wind whipped through the flat and past him, following the glass remains. He panted as he watched the room bend back sluggishly, the air slowing, vertigo lessening. The tension within was gone now as he slowly regained and rebuilt control of his own memories and projections. If this had been reality, he would be physically exhausted, such was the effort expended.

When the room resettled in its proper manner, dust finally swirling to return to its frozen state, he sighed in relief. Steadying himself with deep breaths, he began once more to observe. He could still yet feel an underlying tremor here and there within the memory itself, as if it were still waiting just below the surface…. And it terrified him. Had he really done this to himself? Or was this a result of what Jim had done to him? And what exactly did the criminal do? Drugs. Shock therapy. Painful stimulus deterrents. Outright torture. But these were all things that Sherlock had willingly undergone on his own in the past, self-inflicted even, whether through experiments or otherwise. So how could it have wrought such profound changes over him without his full and willing participation? The most logical conclusion, therefore, was that he had done this to himself. Or at the least, he had allowed it to happen. Right? But James Moriarty was sly, and oh..so..subtle…. And then his thoughts focused more fully on James. Is this all part of your plan to sway my decision? Change my mind? To bring me into your fold? He pondered what he felt toward the other man, curiously finding that he no longer felt animosity. He felt nothing at all really, other than a vague attraction that he couldn't properly explain. You wouldn't have needed all this, he concluded. He stopped his pondering for a moment to scan his surroundings one more fruitless time. Would that anger you? Wasting all of this effort when it was unnecessary? He smiled…..fondly. Probably.

Jim entered the study sometime shortly thereafter to find the detective stretched out along a lounging couch, for once impeccably dressed in the provided clothing rather than a sheet, or toilet paper, or…whatever else the infuriatingly odd man could wrap about himself. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped over his abdomen. He'd probably been this way most of the week, if his past actions were used to judge. Artistic, his body was. Though not in the traditional sense that today's pop culture deemed worthy. Pale, long of limb, and lithe, with angular features that gave the detective an almost alien caste at times…..exotic, to Jim's mind. The consulting criminal continued observing for a long moment, taking in the scene, maybe even…admiring…..until the deep, sarcastic, baritone split the air.

"Why don't you take a picture? Oh wait. You already have." The taller man's eyes remained closed, unaware of the delicate moment he had interrupted. Jim smirked at the intended slight but said nothing and began to circle behind the lounger, taking his time, finally stopping as he came to the side where the detective's head and shoulders were resting slightly elevated against the arm. He stared silently down at the creature below him. And on a whim, he swept his hand lightly over the dark mop of hair…testing, testing…. Not a flinch, not a flicker, nothing. Retreated back within himself again? So quickly? Impressive. He took a step forward and then sat on the arm of the couch as if on a saddle, looking all around and then up at the ceiling as if he weren't paying any attention at all to his actions; as if his thoughts were too deep to merit being aware of the reality around him. He even let out a short whistled tune as he waited for the detective's body to grow aware of, and used to, their new proximity.

After a few short minutes, he threw his arms out to the side and up, mimicking a long stretch toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes. Just minding his own business….nothing to see…. He then utilized his outside leg to push off the floor and slide himself down the arm and in between Sherlock and the lounger's back, landing flush between the other man and the furniture, both his arms still out wide. Jim cracked open one eye, and then the other, as his arms slowly lowered to settle with one on the arm of the couch and the other across its back; the detective effectively lying up against his side and chest. The reclined man's hair tickled his chin as it shifted under him, the beatific face turning upward to peer at him, one solitary silver eye cracked open to see what all the jostling and fuss was about. It searched his visage all over, and the eye shut once more, head settling back down to bring the curls and their tickling back to their original placement.

Jim took a contented breath and looked around his study for anything broken or missing, running his right hand down over his mouth and chin before laying it back down on the couch. He had left a self-proclaimed bored sociopathic genius home alone for a week, after all. A more thorough inspection was probably warranted, but that could wait. In finding nothing immediately visibly askew, he pursed his lips and let the arm he had stretched along the couch's back slip ever, so, slowly, down, until it had slithered over the other man's chest, rising and falling in tandem with the rhythmic breaths. Hmmm… Now to wonder….was Sherlock really even aware of this? Or was he merely retreated within himself like that night a week before? He wanted to know, but how to do it without disturbing him? He had no idea, but he did know that he didn't want to be bothered to move just yet. It was so comfortable, this kind of closeness he had never shared with anyone else.

Fifteen minutes passed without change, and Jim was just about to either nod off or fall deeply into his own thought patterns, when he suddenly found himself squashed backwards by a ferociously stretching detective. Sherlock arched his back, pushing his feet against the other end of the couch and using his height to singularly crush Jim behind himself as he did so. Once satisfied with his 'stretch,' he let off for a moment, and Jim was about to speak when a flurry of motion ensued. The detective sat up along the couch, then propelled himself back and up with his legs, twisting around to face Jim as he landed on top of him, crushing legs, chest, and abdomen. The detective stared him eye to eye, tension building in the silence. Suddenly, he then launched himself over Jim's body. He climbed the shorter man as if an inanimate obstacle in order to get over the couch, bending Jim's spine backwards in new and awful ways until finally Sherlock was over. Jim sat still after Hurricane Sherlock had passed, aching all over now. Guess there's my answer to the question of awareness, Jim thought to himself.

Sherlock had walked wordlessly over to the window, gazing out at the twilit lawn. He stayed there, motionless, and Jim decided not to push anything just yet. Better to check on a few things at home first, before beginning my 'experiment' again. He pushed gingerly up from his seat, still feeling the 'oomph' that the detective had forced out of his diaphragm, and crossed to his laptop. This was the only thing off limits to the detective, and strangely enough, it looked as if he had actually abided by the ruling. Odd. He clicked through his messages, directing doom and gloom to the appropriate parties, before he began to have his mind wander a bit. He checked Sherlock's position. Still at the window. Weird. And then he brought up a site that he had come across a while back that often surprised and delighted him in its imagination. One of the few things that could get an actual true laugh out of him besides the consulting detective himself.

A few minutes later, Jim giggled a bit, eyes locked on the screen of the laptop before him. It was so uncharacteristically childish a sound to have ever originated from James Moriarty, feared mastermind of world terror organizations far and wide, that Sherlock's attention was immediately caught and held. His head snapped towards the other man, and he began to pace as he attempted deducing the cause from a distance. Another sound…chuckling? He ceased his restless pacing back and forth between the book lined walls and came to stand nearer to Jim, perpendicular, and not quite in view of the screen. He looked down curiously at the other man's face, the deep brown, almost hazel, eyes shining back in mirth at his scrutiny.

"What could possibly be this amusing to you?" came his acerbic probe. In answer of which, Jim's shoulders began to shudder with reigned in laughter. And he answered the detective shortly, barely gasping out breaths to speak in between, "Fans. Of. Yours." The younger man wrinkled his brow in confusion at the strange reply and queried back, "Fans?" And Jim nodded, just beginning to calm himself once more, saying quickly, "Yes. You know…those people who….follow….what you do…." And he began to shake once more with the restrained mirth, waving a hand in the air to signal 'hold on.' He knew the detective would be floored and wanted to be ready to take in the whole scene, play-by-play.

Sherlock, annoyed, stepped and pivoted elegantly to face the screen, leaning down over Jim to see what was so bloody damned funny. His chest pressed against the criminal's back, one hand also on the shoulder opposite of the one he leant over. And the giggling stopped with the suddenness of the contact, a rapid flush spreading fiery arcs of heat straight through Jim's throat and chest. Not that the detective noticed. At all. His eyes were frozen to the screen and getting wider by the second as he read the words contained thereon. He read…and furiously…..

John kissed Sherlock, forgetting where they were, why they were there. He forgot that it was freezing, and the only warmth the man he held. He forgot everything, everything but Sherlock… -[long fingers gripped Jim's shoulder more firmly]- ….He thrust his hips against John, rubbing and grinding, making John pant with lust. -[Sherlock leaned forward further, pushing Jim a bit into the desk as he did so]- There was a growling, stalking, hungering sensation rumbling in his core, a conflagration of love and lust, and John -[head spinning, spinning…]-…He snapped one cuff, -[the grip tightened painfully]- then the other, over the younger man's wrists… "God, Sherlock. You are fucking amazing." -[blue-silver irises nonvisible, pupils dilated]- ….."I've got you all alone, Sherlock. -[breathing quickened]- You're mine. -[pulse racing]-Mine, do you hear me?"… -[eyes wider, and mouth now hanging open]-…

Sherlock pushed back from the screen, staggering a bit in shock. He stared into nothing, overwhelmed. Sherlock Holmes, who beat dead bodies with a riding crop. Sherlock, who looked at the macabre as merely a fascinating bit of data to be filed. Who thought of dismembered body parts as appropriate kitchen stock. Who kept old acquaintances' skulls as home décor…. This very same Sherlock Holmes was speechless at the words before him. And the look on his face had Jim lose every ounce of composure he had ever possessed in his life. It was a mortal blow…as far as humor goes. James Moriarty, world's only consulting criminal…laughed…..guffawed even, as the flabbergasted detective reeled from the descriptive acts he had just been party to reading….of himself! The taller man was almost incoherent as he first began to attempt a re-establishment of communication.

"There's…..not just….and there's…..why….where it's….but then…who….could you try…I don't…I don't….I…don't….." He took a deep breath, reaching deep for strength, closing his eyes and centering himself as Jim laughed on. Quicksilver flashed open once again as he found himself.

"What…is…that?" he asked, needing to add no explanation as to what he referred. And Jim looked at him with eyes watery from such hysterical laughter as he had never experienced before.

"It's…why, it's fiction, Sherlock. About you. By those fans of yours, who follow the work. Your work."

"Must they lie?" He stood rigid, rooted to the floor. "They are lying…correct?! When did these supposed events occur? There's no time frame for…there's just no…" he demanded, carrying on and on, actually frightened now due to his constant awareness of his memory lapses of the 'before' time. And Jim saw through to this fear, acting quickly so as not to further irrationalize the already-barely-qualifying-as-partially-sane detective.

"No, no. Sherlock. It's alright." He tried not to laugh as he explained. "These are people who create adventures based on your personage. It's a kind of…homage…if you will. Though those who spend their time creating this must be of questionable use to the rest of society as a whole…" he trailed of, contemplative of just this thing.

"Well…I just…" Sherlock tried. A deep sigh, and he shook his head, continuing, "Clearly, the person who composed this was insane and bereft of all reason." The detective's mind was flashing around and around the words on the digital page. He walked slowly back up to where Jim sat half-turned in the rolling chair towards him, and he gazed at the letters, letting them run together unseen, lost in thought. Jim was almost at a return of giggling, watching the detective's continued antics as he began to speak again in response.

"I won't argue that. There are very many strange people out there, Sherlock, present company included. But don't you think…"

"Who's John?" The question cut through the air like a silver bullet. And a glacial wave of icy fire burned through Jim to his core as these words spilled from the detective. Shit. He quickly spun back to the screen, slamming his hand down on the laptop, snapping it closed with finality. "No one," he answered. The detective quirked an eyebrow and frowned at the quick response.

"Really? Because it would seem from this person…" he closed his eyes a second, recalling the screenname of the author. "…Revella's writing…that I know the man quite well. You would think I'd remember someone who would ever do that to me." He peered suspiciously at the man seated before him, but Jim played it off easily, now that he was aware of the threat.

"Oh. No. That's just an OC, an original character. They do that. Create their own literary characters in order to indirectly interact with those they idolize. Simple really. You're quite popular apparently." And his gaze was so unwaveringly honest, that Sherlock unwound a bit at the reassurance, tilting his head as if testing the air for untruths. Finding none, he opened his mouth to ask more about this 'OC' when Jim leapt up.

"Ah, enough of this. How about a game, Sherlock?" He spun back to face the detective, "A puzzle." He grinned darkly as he added, "A…..problem." Sherlock stared on, wondering if he should pick up his line of questioning again or just leave it be. He should probably continue, as it seemed obvious James was hiding something… But then the other man proposed something that made him forget all about the strange author's detailed version of highly questionable events…a very detailed version (and highly illogical, surely)…. Jim's proposition shattered his concentration on that issue for now, though, as the other man spoke, "Let's play…..deductions…"