A/N: Once again thanks to those who hold on for this ride. I know it's a lot of Sheriarty, but that's a lot of focus now. The fic has extended beyond what I had originally planned because all of these funny ideas keep popping into my head about situations I want Jim and Sherlock to encounter together because I want to explore the depth of their intense addiction to each other's presence. Also, thanks again to Revella, who keeps me sane enough to think my crap is post-worthy.

Jim's proposition shattered his concentration on that issue for now, though, as the other man spoke, "Let's play…..deductions…"

Sherlock watched, intrigued, as James strolled over to the lounger and practically fell backwards into a seated position on it. He leaned forward toward the detective, elbows to knees and hands clasped under his chin while facing the taller man. And the criminal smiled, "What do you say, enemy mine? Match skills against me?" His voice lowered a bit as he finished, with a slight almost-sneer, "Up for it, are you?"

The detective appraised the man before him, already beginning the evaluation and deduction of his person, which Jim promptly noticed. His brown hair shifted as he tilted his head with a light snarling lift of one side of his upper lip, as if an animal meeting a challenger, "A yes then, is it? Be caaaaaaareful…." he lilted. "You could never hide anything from me, Sherlock." He stood, motioning for the detective come sit, "I'll make it easy for you. I'll go first, putting myself at the disadvantage." He approached and then guided the taller man by the shoulders and onto the couch, pushing him down abruptly and then leaning over to whisper in his ear, "Wouldn't be a very good host if I…took advantage…of my guest, now, would I?" And as he pulled back to stand fully, he thought he detected just the most minute of movements from the taller man….a tilt in his direction, perhaps? As if the other fought an urge to turn the brief moment of closeness into something even more…..hmmmm… Most likely unconscious on his part…

Sherlock stared up at Jim, distrust once again evident in his smooth countenance. However, interest was there as well, intrigued by such an opportunity as this. Moriarty knew exactly how to play the man. Like a child who knows his favorite toy is only a hand's span away, the dark haired man before Jim was full of coiled energy at the thought of this kind of contest of intellect. The detective's eyes narrowed as he asked, "Limits?" And Jim just raised an eyebrow as if to remind him of his earlier promise of no limits while they were together. Sherlock nodded to himself as his mind began to rush information about the criminal forth to him. It flew before his eyes in blurs of light and color, until he found his face grabbed by the chin and pulled up. The images burst before him, and he found a pair of brown eyes replacing them. Annoyed brown eyes. The hand let go, and the detective sat back against the couch.

"My. Turn," Jim said with a dark finality as he began to stroll around, eyes never leaving the detective's form as he repeatedly changed position in the room. He spoke, hands clasped behind his back, eyes burning. He began deductions…

"Sherlock Holmes. World's only consulting detective. Self-appointed. Self-titled." He sneered, "Self-absorbed." The detective remained impassive before him as he continued. "Why, though? Such intelligence surely belongs more in alignment with a career in science, or…government. So, what happened? Is it because you're a sociopath? A self-proclaimed one? Hmm. I think not. I think you may be along the lines of something similar, but not that. We both know there are real emotions in you. Buried deep, but there." He paused as if examining his nails, "Seen a bit of them myself, haven't I?" he leered. "Perhaps you're more of a barely graded Asperger's? Mmm. Fits better, I think. Explains the intelligence…and the lack of emotive capabilities and connections. But even so, that doesn't answer the question of…why. Why detective work? What happened to force your hand into such a mundane, humanitarian, profession?"

Jim continued to pace the room, keeping eye contact as much as possible while he was reading the lines and angles of the man seated so near. Every breath and gesture observed was a Cliff's Note on the detective's past. The criminal's eyes narrowed in thought, Past….yes, that's it. The past, and all its inconveniences….like relatives…blood… "So, everything comes down to family. Doesn't it, Sherlock? No major genetic flaws evidenced, so it's not Nature. But Nurture….there we are!" he cried out as if at a surprise party, throwing both arms in the air. "Born to a married couple who had already had one…no no…no two…boys prior to yourself." Moriarty's eyebrows lifted at this conclusion. "Hmmm. I know Mycroft….the other?" Sherlock's face revealed nothing. At least, it wouldn't have to anyone else. Jim shrugged as he looked him over. "No matter. He's dead anyway, isn't he? Your clear lack of response for him confirmed for me how this is a family secret. Let go over the years. Thought forgotten. So…he's dead. Hmmmmm. Yes. Dead. Of what? Nevermind; it's of little consequence. As I was saying, a married couple. Father…mmmm….somewhat overbearing, but not unusually so? Yes. Nothing there to be indicating a rough relationship exactly. So where does this," he waved his hand circularly as if to encompass the detective's frame, "stem from? Not the father, sooooooo….."

Jim paused his diatribe, eyes widening slightly as he hit on it. "…the mother…." he breathed. Sherlock's form didn't flinch…not to normal eyes. Jim's eyes, though, saw everything…even thought, seemingly. His smile returned as he continued. "Mother dearest," he cooed. "So. Like. Your. Mother. Aren't you?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and came to stand right in front of Sherlock.

"Mmmmm…yes. Not….very nurturing, was she?" Sherlock shifted to lean back further into the couch, every motion catalogued and scribed within Jim's mind as he continued on. "Oh….yes. She was bad, but not in the usual sense of the word." He made a face of mock sympathy, "Not such a good mother when the cancer got hold of her, was she? Of the brain, was it? Causes all sorts of nasty side effects, such as removing your reasoning and emotional attachments. Not something a child is likely to have understood. She was highly intelligent, too, wasn't she? Before? And your father didn't know what to do with children while his wife was quickly becoming a stranger." Jim smiled cruelly. "Poor Sherlock. Left with no one but two other children to help you through the early time of your own socially stunted condition; and one them most certainly was affected the same way as well. Mycroft. Hmmm. How ever did you two make it through childhood and maintain enough social skills to function in the world? And the other….what of him, Sherlock?"

The detective stared coldly back at Moriarty, which only gave him further answers. The criminal grasped a theory as it grew within his imagination. "You and Mycroft weren't alone in your suffering were you? He had it, too, didn't he? The other?" His voice lowered as his eyes traced every shred and particle of Sherlock's body language, the lines of his face, the cast of his eyes; he remembered the way he spoke in the mornings, his need to control every aspect of his own life, his near anorexic state of nutritional stability….and he nearly fell over with the logical conclusion that came to him in a rush. The brother. Always the brother! And then he cooled somewhat quickly. Isn't it, though? he thought to himself darkly. He walked to Sherlock and knelt before him, reaching a hand out to trace a few faint lines at the corner of those pale lips; then he took the other man's arms, rolling sleeves up to track the almost-invisible scars that screamed of a history of addiction recently abandoned. They weren't what he hunted.

But there! There it was! In the midst of all the negligible, was the evidence he sought. He let go of the arms, and he grabbed the taller man's shirt, lifting it to also gaze at the pale abdomen, now taut with anticipated violence. And there again was the sought after information. If one didn't know to look, then it wasn't apparent. Light burns and healed shallow cuts. Only visible at certain angles in the light as being skin somewhat shinier than the rest. He dropped the fabric and stared up into the detective's eyes as he threw out his final deduction, "Torture. As a child. By a child." He stood. "Your own brother, locked in his own cage of demons, his only way of coping to bring pain and hold control over the only other person weak enough for him to have the advantage over." He paused in consideration. "Mycroft is several years older than yourself. This one was older than he. The eldest Holmes. So it would have been easy for him to catch you. Control you." James paused again, whispering, "And he did, didn't he? Control you?"

Jim noted that Sherlock's frame might have developed a slight tremor, as if holding back something deep and dark within. Or, it could just be himself, reacting to Holmes' past. So similar… He shook off that train off thought, picking up where he left off, "But he's dead. For many years, I think. So how…?" He had his fingers over his lips, thinking. "Oh! I see. Mycroft. Perfect." He came back to kneel again in front of the detective, who gazed as if into nothing at this point. "Perfect." He looked into those eyes, dark gray now, with secrets shifting amongst them. "Mother dies. Father becomes estranged. Brother tortures brother. And…..a brother kills a brother." And then he laughed, standing quickly. "That was fun." He threw himself loftily onto the other end of the couch, which bounced Sherlock out of his reverie. The detective started, looking around and then finding Jim there next to him. He blinked a few times and then looked innocently over at Jim, asking, "I'm sorry. What? I drifted off."

This was greeted by a tense look of anger crossed with violence, but only momentarily. Jim had to remember against whom he was playing. Sherlock was nothing if not an accomplished manipulator of others' emotions. And the other man spoke through his thoughts. "After such a lengthy discourse on what I can only assume was the beginning and ending of time, I thought I wouldn't still be expected to perform," Sherlock snarked, pushing up from the couch only to take up a spot closer to the criminal. "Mine shall not take near as long," he said in criticism of Jim's lengthy break down. "There is less meaning to your life, I think." And James raised an eyebrow at the insult but kept silent, making a motion with his hand as if to allow the detective to continue. His past had been erased all those years ago, and his carefully cultivated mannerisms and identity were those of a different person now. Deliberately so. The detective would hit on some (he was brilliant after all, else this wouldn't be worth the effort). Jim was confident, however, that he would barely breach anything of import. It all might seem an exercise in futility, but, he had gotten the other man to engage with him, hadn't he? He could barely keep his smile from spreading to the outside world.

Sherlock's entire demeanor changed in an instant; any kind of joking or kindness vanished in a blink. At once, he was the cold and rational entity that James had sought out originally. And the detective focused all his skills now against the man before him, making Jim unconsciously perform an inner-self squirm. No matter his surety and confidence at his own abilities, this was Sherlock, after all. The only person he considered a match for himself. Maybe. On a sick day. Jim erased all memory of his own history from his mind for now, blanking it, letting his eyes go vacant and unrevealing, his affect flat. Never offer advantage. Give nothing away except that which you wish others to think. Now, try me…..

The detective began, interrupting these thoughts of self-assurance, taking his time to explain his analysis instead of his usual rush, "Not a loved and cherished boy here. No. Hardly at all, really…. You were but an…accident." Hmmmm. Yes. A product of the rape of your mother…..by her later-to-be husband, your father. How…..chivalrous." Sherlock nodded to himself and proceeded. "And no other geniuses to your family name... Just you. All alone, and oh, so, bright. A regular young scholar you could have been, if given the opportunity. Then it wouldn't have mattered that you were wearing little but tatty rags wrapped round your feet in place of shoes; your shirt a multitude of patched together potato sacks; your skin full of cuts and sores festering from lack of proper care; and your body reedy and frail from growing up on a diet of thin cabbage soup - all she could afford while your father was out drinking rather than working."

"Your intelligence could carry you where your lack of affluence couldn't. I imagine that made you very popular where you grew up….. Oh yes. I know what you come from, James. It's written in everything you do, everything you try to cover up. Nails, overfiled from an obsession to promote your meterosexual image to the world. That, as well as your well-tailored suits, sparkling dentition, and sleek hairstyles worn only by rich prats who want those around them to know just how much they have; what they possess. Your eyebrows have been shaped to the same perfect purpose. No flaws. No weakness. Even the colors you choose to wear are often somber and foreboding because this is the image you wish others to take away with them. Because you would never want them to know what used to happen to you….. You often stand leaning slightly to the left, this being a result of some violent injury in childhood that prevented the femur from extending that last centimeter in the final growth phase. Yet you attempt to play it as a jaunty stance to further persuade those around you of how in control you are, how unbothered by the world and its problems because you have solved all of your own. You need to exude control. Of everything. That cultured accent of yours? Mmmm…" Sherlock sneered, "I can still hear the ghetto underneath it, no matter how hard you try. But why hide it? Why so desperate to not be associated with your past?" Sherlock spoke aloud to himself for a moment, looking down with chin in hand, "You hate those born to a perceived privilege…such as…myself… So why then make yourself into one of them? What does it hide you from…protect you from?" Jim's mask stayed in place, remarkably unmoving as the detective's piercing gaze burned through him. The criminal's body was rigid, carved of stone and ice. His eyes, though….. To Sherlock, they told a story as long and wretched as the River Styx itself.

The detective's eyes narrowed in his study of the man before him. "Our past defines us, marks us…but it doesn't become us, make us…if we don't allow it. But you seem inordinately afraid of this…" Sherlock saw Jim's miniscule flinch and decided to change tact as new data flowed to him from this deceitful motion. "I do not feel anything for my past. It is…troublesome, but nothing in the end. It is there. That is all. Yet you…you hide your past in every action. And I start to wonder…. Are you hiding it? Or are you hiding from it? What have you to fear? James Moriarty, self-made criminal mastermind; taker of everything he so desires. The only man I know more powerful than Mycroft. Fear? Bah! Everything you are now has been built upon foundations you yourself poured, what you have created. There is a kind of simple poetry in it, owning your present and future. But…." The detective's face lit as he connected everything, mouth falling open a bit and eyebrows rising towards his hairline; he stood to position himself before James, and he began to speak slightly faster now.

"Your violent temperament isn't solely your own, is it? It comes from the deep, the dark, the blackest depths of sin…and from such an early age of introduction." The detective could see miniscule signals of Moriarty's insanity uncoiling, but gave no sign that he took any notice. The other man's fingers were twisted tightly into the couch's fabric. His respiratory rate had elevated to about four to six more breaths per minute than Sherlock was used to seeing. And the depths added to his eyes drew the detective's gaze into the soul of his nemesis, and beyond. So very open, those keyholes; unguarded. Sherlock whispered, "Your mother."

Jim recoiled in a manner noticeable only to those who were studied in detecting these things. And Sherlock absorbed each detail easily. "She is the catalyst. She was killed before you….violently. Senselessly. And not in some freak accident. No. She was murdered…by your father." The detective closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if playing something through his mind. Then, his head snapped back with intent focus, eyes once more locking gazes. "And your father, such a brute of man, wasn't he? Not well-liked, or well-loved, by anyone. He wouldn't be missed when he was…when you…no…when he...was killed…..by….." Before he could finish with his accusation of patricide, a flash of understanding came soaring forth from the depths of his Mind Palace. There for all to see, but invisible all the same. Hidden away in plain sight. The way Jim dressed, the facade he put on, the way he held himself, his attention to detail, his hair parted just so in order to cover the scar right at the hairline, his violent emotional shifts…. 'I'm sooooooo changeable'…. "Oh!" The detective couldn't believe his own deduction for once. "…when he..was…killed by….your…..brother…..a brother…" Sherlock breathed out the last word twice. And this time the criminal did cringe visibly, his mouth drawing down at the corners and his eyes bitter. "You were raised then…" Sherlock continued, peering curiously, seeking his answers in Jim's every line, curve, and silent bit of communication, "…by your brother…." The detective's voice dropped very low as he leaned down into the face of the criminal, placing both hands to the couch back, one on either side of Jim's head. "…your brother raised you….and he…." Sherlock almost felt…something….shift…as he spoke with an almost inaudible whisper, "…was very cruel…" His silver-blue eyes shifted to glow with an almost morbid curiosity as he finished with, "Where…is he?"

Something inside of Jim snapped. The closeness he had recently sought from Sherlock shattered by mention of his brother. What felt like eons of emotions boiled to the surface, and all of his pent up irrationality took over as his body reacted to the perceived threat looming above him. His fist struck out, knocking Sherlock backwards and to the side to stumble and trip beside the couch. Jim was on him in a heartbeat, his ever present knife out and against the neck of the man he loved to hate most in the world.

Sherlock stared up at him, his hands having grasped the knife-wielding arm too late, now they just loosely clung to the forearm, waiting to see if this would finally be it. Moriarty's breathing was harsh and feral, his frame shook with slight tremors of rage at having been in such a position of vulnerability. His eyes held nothing but madness as the detective reached up to the blade at his own neck, lightly sliding his hand along the other man's wrist to end up softly covering the hand holding his life at bay from spilling out. Time seemed suspended for them as they each fought their own demons. James, a scared little boy of a poverty stricken Irish slum still haunted by family terrors. Sherlock, a man who once lived for the Work, now bereft of his life's purpose, seeking and finding nothing but a sudden interest in oblivion.

The detective's grip suddenly tightened on the knife hand, and he pulled it more forcefully against the side of his throat, the abrupt jerk waking a somewhat more sensible portion of James' own mind. "Do it," Sherlock whispered to him. He was ready, he could feel it. There was nothing for him in this world anyway. But Jim retracted his arm, leaving only a small cut that barely did him the favor of bleeding. And the man stared at the blade in his hand in an odd mixture of curiosity and anger before tossing it to the side. Sherlock looked up at him to speak. "Or not," sounded off a now mortally bored detective.

Jim pushed off of the man he straddled, standing in a lurch. He looked down at Sherlock one last time, shaking his head. "The shit you do…." he began as he drew his hands back through his hair, pulling the skin of his face taut for a moment and then releasing. He blew out a huff of air between pursed lips before turning abruptly to leave the study. His every move bespoke deep conflict within himself. And he paused right before passing through the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at the still supine form of the taller man, and tried again, "The shit you do to me." And with that, he left.

Sherlock lay there with his head craned up, looking at the doorway for several moments before setting his head back down against the floor. His gaze took in the ceiling as his mind once more flew down some lengthy corridors of his Mind Palace long since fallen into almost disrepair due to lack of use. These areas were labeled for deletion at some future point. But his mind soon became distracted at the revelations this night had brought. And he sat himself up, propped on bent elbows, as he stared after where James had exited. He smiled, somewhat sadly, but a smile nonetheless, and softly said, "Check."