A/N: Once again you all are to be indebted to Revella for approving the posting of this chapter. She bled her eyes out so you wouldn't have to suffer anything extra stupid or horrible. LOL! Rape contained within this chapter. Beware.

His voice seemed to carry the weight of the heavens behind it as it passed through his lips and erupted in the universally translated sound of an animal wounded unto death. An older Jim watched from without the mirror as the screaming continued, even when his brother knocked him down. And then when his brother beat him brutally, savagely, upon a ground already covered in dirt and sweat and blood, still he cried out. Even after those other boys pulled James off of him….. It was a surprising reprieve that soon enough revealed itself for the evil that lay behind their intentions…as even then, he continued to scream in denial and loss as they began to grope at him, push him, tear at his clothes. And his brother stood to the side, smiling as the boys raped Jim upon the cold, unyielding stones. There was no stopping them, he was too small, too weak. And so they took him, over and over, until Jim's blood ran through with Tommy's, and his voice quieted. Yet even then, he continued to cry out for his friend…his only, and last, friend…as his face was ground into the dirt and rock of the alley. One jagged stone actually cut a place deep enough high on his forehead to leave a scar. To mark him. Permanently.

Jim stepped back from the mirror, a hand raising to touch the scar, so slight now as to be almost no more than just a small slash of skin that was lighter even than the rest of his pale features. And then, with great care and surprise, he moved the hand from his forehead, to his cheek. And he felt the wetness thereon, pulling his fingers away and staring at it in complete, devastated shock. For one swift moment, James (Jim) Moriarty stood revealed from his carefully constructed armor and façade, the shell falling away to reveal his inner despair and horrified sadness, the likes of which only the truly insane can ever experience…his magnificent madness spun down to its core. And then, he stopped. Stopped watching. Stopped listening. And, just as he had the day after this brutal savagery was visited upon his young body, he stopped caring. Stopped feeling. Stopped…everything. The scene of gross and hedonistic abuse that played on in the surrounding mirrors halted in place, the blood that ran from his young body frozen as if in winter. Everything remained sharply in focus, so much so that Jim could differentiate between the sweat and tears that fell from the younger face pressed roughly to the ground.

His aspect then became a thing terrible to behold as he looked upon the form of his brother, standing off to the side, watching, smiling. Eyes of chocolate brown turned dark as pitch, and his compact frame became rigid with the intensity of the hate he radiated. The largest mirror before him began to quiver as he stared. A vein stood out a bit on his forehead as he focused his rage, his madness, upon the offending object before him. And then, just like that, he let it all fall away and closed his eyes. And keeping them closed, he shrugged his shoulders and did a quick loosening-of-the-body type shuffle and shake-off. He tilted his head from side to side as if to pop the vertebra contained within. And the left side of his mouth slowly edged its way upward in what could be deemed a smile, a snarl, and a sneer all in one. And he opened his eyes again at last.

The mirror rebounded backwards against the wall as the weight of his gaze made contact, the bottom corner of it cracked deeply, and frost bloomed from within the revealed gap. It was quiet for a few seconds after. Then, more slices spread throughout its silvery surface, all with an undertone of wintry frost behind them. The sparkling slivers all converged on the center of the great mirror as he watched. And when they met, suddenly, all activity across the mirror's face ceased. Jim practically strolled up to the mirror, quite in keeping with the word 'nonchalant.' And he stroked a hand down his chin slowly as if deep in thought when he paused a mere two feet from the object. His hand dropped to his side, and he took a deep, calming breath, lastly blowing a strawberry at the scene displayed within its reflective depths, before he pulled back the other arm and smashed his fist straight through it, finishing what the inner frosted decay had started. Glittering shards tumbled to the ground around his feet. He looked down on them in disinterest, and then stepped on the largest pile, grinding it further into the floor as he pivoted on it and began walking away. He whistled an old children's tune as he rounded a corner just a short ways down from the destruction he had just caused and disappeared into another section of his Hall.

But the past is never so easy to escape, even within the confines of one's own mind. And as he searched out his answer in this different section, he found himself once again coming upon flashes of that same dreadful day. And finally, with an exaggerated expulsion of wind from his lungs, and a dramatic roll of his eyes, he stepped up to one large, body-length mirror, tucked a leg behind himself, and sat upon the floor, his keen mind sifting through the possibilities that these scenes of his past held. And before him, the past was recreated, and lived again.

The bloodied young boy named Jim lay unconscious in that back corner alley for hours. The sun was going down when he finally cracked open bloodshot eyes, one of which was swollen mostly shut. His throat rasped when he sucked in air, painful as razor blades as it flowed down his trachea. He rolled onto his back, causing all manner of hell on earth within his defeated frame, and he took stock of his injuries. After a cursory moving of all of his extremities, he found himself considering his luck at no as-yet-detected fractures. He had taken worse from James alone in the past, not to mention their shared father. And though his 'backside' was painful, tender, and likely to cause him to limp for a few days, he concluded that the blood had probably served as an adequate enough lubricant to prevent further, er, frictional damage. So all in all, not as bad as one might have figured from all the blood present.

Of course, it wasn't all his blood, though…..and his hands began to shake as he remembered. All of it. The hot wetness of his friend's life flowing out over his fingers. The tiny, perhaps imagined, thrum and vibration along the blade that he took to be the heart in its last convulsions of attempted existence. The lifeless tipping forward of Tommy's head as the sack was finally removed. He lay there trembling for some time as the sun sank ever lower before finally deciding to get up. And the pain elicited from his left side told him that maybe he had been wrong about the whole no-broken-bones thing. He placed a hand over the area as he stood. Fingertips traced the outline of his ribcage, and…there! Oh! Don't do that again! Yes, definitely a few fractures there, though they didn't seem to be displaced, so he should be fine to walk. There was no sign of Tommy's body anywhere, and he so he chose to go to the only place he could think of: home.

When he reached the street whereon rested their pitiful shack, he calmed himself once more before approaching fully. He didn't want to frighten his mother any more than she already would be. But as he limped slowly to the door, he noticed an 'off' feel to the place. The door was cracked, and he heard banging and a grunt from within. He staggered up the steps, heart jumping into his throat as he opened the door and found a vision that would haunt him into his adulthood.

The scene in the mirror paused into still life as an older Jim stood up from his seated position on the floor and approached. He passed through the mirror's surface easily as smoke, and suddenly stood within the doorway of the sad little dwelling. His younger self stood frozen behind him, beholding the macabre tableau that he had entered to see closer. Two figures in the darker back half of the abode were standing locked together as if wrestling. The single chair lay broken to bits across the dirt floor, and other pieces of crockery and housewares lay scattered about as well. Only two candles and the last particles of daylight lit the room, making these things somewhat difficult to decipher. But his eyes were for one thing only.

His mother lay tumbled down on her back, turned slightly on her side. Her skin, always so pale, was now even more so. Legs were splayed as if she had been in flight, and her arms were flung out, with one obviously broken from its odd angle. Jim crouched down beside her, reaching out to touch her face lightly, but drawing his hand back at the last second and clenching it into a fist. Her eyes, those brown eyes that he inherited, were open and staring into a place where he could not follow. Her face seemed blurred to his memory here, with only her eyes remaining clear. The bruising on her neck gave the conclusive evidence of the cause of her death. And he traced those finger marks with his eyes. Then, he blinked.

The figure of himself in the doorway stumbled in and stopped, the horror of what lay before him too much. And the figures of his father and brother fighting in the back resumed their battle as Jim sat crouched among his memories. He watched as his brother yelled curses at their father, accusatory and condemning. And he also watched, with not just a small amount of satisfaction, as his brother finally managed to grab a hand sickle from the corner, twist the older man around so that his back faced James, and eviscerated their father from behind.

The man's body dropped like a wet sack, as did the sickle from James' hand. A few gurgling sounds issued forth from the dying man before silence reigned in the Moriarty household. The younger sibling looked across the room at Jim, who was still standing in shock by their mother's body. The sudden shift in James' attention, though, caught Jim's eye and put him on alert. James was wounded, he noted, as the other boy slowly lowered himself to the floor. Jim felt himself going cold all over. Tommy: dead. Mother: dead. Father: dead. All in one day. And all linked in some way to one individual, who was currently staring across a candlelit room at him curiously. Jim took a step back, and his brother grunted in what might have been a laugh.

"What? No help for me?" An arm waved in dismissal. "No, not from you. Go ahead then, Jimmy. Run."

And at the sound of James' voice, Jim was shot through with a multitude of emotions, paralyzing his mind momentarily and making it hard to breath. His pulse, already racing from depleted blood reserves he had left in the alleyway, sped up even more. He took another step back and made sure the door was still open behind him with a glance to his rear. His brother's voice continued.

"I'll come for you. One day. And I'll own these streets." A short laugh at his own commentary. "And you'll owe me allegiance. Cuz I'm your brother, Jimmy. Your blood." He chuckled darkly, "And you can't run from blood."

But Jim did. He stumbled out of the doorway and into the waiting arms of the now freshly descended night. His brother's laughter followed him upon the cool air. His eyes swung back and forth. Where to go? Then his mind caught up with him. What does it matter? And he limped off quickly into the gloom, never to return to his hometown. Jim watched all of this impassively as his younger self had retreated through the door. The scene inside the home froze once his past self's viewpoint was removed; and he stood. He gave one last look at his mother's eyes, and then turned to leave the memory, stepping from the mirror with a face now cold as glacial bedrock. No more tears.

He remembered running, haphazardly, to the edge of town. He also remembered how oddly out of breath he had been just before he passed out. And when he had woken again, he found himself in a dry cellar beneath a middle class home. A small girl saw him wake and squealed before running off. Soon after, an older man came in to check on him, bringing water and bread, which he consumed greedily. He thanked the man hastily afterwards, but refused to say anything about the state he was in, seeking only further escape from his brother's reach. And so it wasn't too much later that he set out from the home. But he did so with a pair of used boots that the man had been going to throw out. They were a size too big, but as they were the first real pair of footwear Jimmy had ever owned, he didn't care. He also left with a few trinkets nicked from the house itself, figuring he could sell them off when he got to wherever he was going. He had heard that if you were smart, if you were clever, you could make something of yourself in the underground of England. Perhaps that would be far enough from Ireland? If not, then America for sure. And so it had been that James Moriarty had arrived a few weeks later at the edge of a new country, wearing borrowed boots, a stolen hat, and clothed in a mismatch of fabrics that told anyone who looked exactly what kind of a station he was born from.

Jim walked away from the mirror, away from his shame, away from his childhood. He would seek out other memories to peruse, safer ones, ones that didn't make him feel the need to kill…now. It seemed Sherlock had contaminated even his Hall, his own mind, going by how little information he seemed to be gathering from his internal examinations. So he set off to an area his mind had yet to suggest, figuring to disturb its pattern and gain answers in a different manner. Anger followed him like a plague as he passed mirror after mirror, each one seeming to look more and more like the rest. Yes, they were, he finally acknowledged as he passed yet another odd-shaped one. They were almost like…very large tombstones. That was it. How decidedly…me, he thought to himself. And as he was thinking, something moved out of sync with him in these depths of murk. What? He spun towards it…..but nothing was there. Only reflections of his own malice greeted him along the walls, and so he turned and continued on.

But it happened again as he walked through yet another corridor, this one with walls low enough that he could easily jump and see over to the next hallway in his maze. A flash of something where his reflection should been. It seemed to happen every few mirrors. But it was there and gone too quickly for identifying. And so he slowed his pace, counting the mirrors to his left.

1…..

2…..

3…..

4…..

There it was! He almost fell forward when he tried to stop, but pulled up short at the shock of what he believed he had just seen. The mirror was empty now, though, save for his own form. He turned and began walking again, a bit faster now, heart pounding in his chest as he did. A fear thought long forgotten was rising within him. He had left that insanity, that uncontrollable madness, behind him in his early 20's, conquering it as he had conquered England's criminal networks, and then farther… His self-hatred, powerful intelligence, and awe-inspiring determination to never be a victim again propelled him higher than his brother would ever be able to climb. He was safe, he believed. And none would ever get close to him again, touch him, bring him weakness. He had found soon after his escape from Ireland that he could no longer abide the touch of another human being. It made his skin crawl, made him nauseated, made him…dangerous. And those beneath him learned this, or they disappeared. And the only evidence left of the disastrous mental instability he had suffered were his ever-shifting, intemperate, and unpredictable moods.

Shit! There it was again. He spun, but still he missed it. Sure now that he had been brought into contact with his long ago madness, he began to think that it was perhaps time to leave and then regroup for a later excursion. Yet still he walked on, unconsciously counting the mirrors as he passed. And when he came to the fifth mirror this time, he pivoted to a stop before it; and truly, the look of surprise written across his features would have surely pleased the sensibilities of the consulting detective…..who stared back at him with the same expression of utter disbelief.

Jim raised his hand and watched as his Sherlock-reflection performed an identical action. He waved it around, watching with growing worry as his "reflection" did it, too. He shook his head, but then became uncomfortable as the detective synced with him. He stepped back and then turned, walking quickly on and trying not to glance in the mirrors to either side of himself. Yes, it was time to go. Surely here he had reached an edge of his madness as yet unexplored, and he wanted it to remain that way. But no matter how he tried not to look, to glance, to peek, his peripheral vision still caught bits as he went along. And he registered them semi-consciously as he went by, noting every time the reflection changed.

Jim…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sher… "Gaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" His voice carried through the passageways as he turned on the last mirror he had passed.

He stared into the detective's (his) angry and scowling countenance, approaching so that they were right in front of each other, each man an echo of the other. Eye to eye, they stared, only a small part of Jim recognizing that he was still merely battling himself at this point. Two men, of seemingly equal intelligence and potential, arising from different classes yet from strikingly similar emotional circumstances..…far apart…yet, oh, so close. And in the distance…in some small portion of Jim's subconscious…a voice whispered a question. It was soft, barely noticed, and innocently offered, but powerful in its implications: What is our difference? Jim's eyes, and his counterpart's, narrowed dangerously. He turned the question over and over in his mind, seeking a solution as much by feeling as by logic at this point. It was intuition, and a knowing of one's self, that brought him solutions. He found it. And he answered the question…with violence. The heel of his hand crashed into the mirror and shattered it in glittering shards that soon littered the ground at his feet, as broken as the criminal's soul. That…felt good…very good, he thought as he appreciated the mess he had made. Until he noticed that now there were literally hundreds of mimicry Sherlock's observing him in turn from their new tiny vantage points.

Disgusted, he moved on, noting that the mirrors he passed now had nothing within them but swirling gray. Good. He aimed for a more central location so he could focus and leave his Hall on his own terms rather than abruptly, which always left him feeling ill. And behind him, unnoticed, the gray swirled and churned, first slowly and then picking up intensity. And behind his exiting form, silvery mist poured forth from the mirrors and flowed sinuously after his steps.

He noticed it as a feeling a first, whirling to face the thing that caused the fine hairs at the base of his skull to raise. And he watched as the mist curled its path around the entryway to the chamber he was passing through. Rather large, and lined with mirrors barely feet apart on all sides, it also had several exits…unfortunately, every one of these was also spewing forth the creeping mist. And so he positioned himself in the center of the room…and waited. It would start soon, and he closed his eyes to wait for it. It didn't take long. As the first tendril of silver caressed the leg of his trousers, he heard it. His brother.

"Hi, Jimmy."

"Go. Away," he said through gritted teeth.

"Why? We're brothers, Jimmy. Blood. We can never be separated."

"I've done it once before."

"So you think."

"I know…"

"I'll come for you."

"No."

"One day."

"No!" His anger, and not a small bit of fear, was rising.

"Cuz I'm your brother, Jimmy."

"I will kill you! Destroy you!" He began to feel the helplessness, the weakness.

"Your blood."

"You will never find me. And I will strangle you with your own intestines; you will vomit up your lungs, and I will sow them full of salt!" he screamed back at the voice.

"And you can't run from blood."

"You cannot reach me, hurt me, any more James. I am better than you, now. Stronger. And I will end you."

There was a pause in their exchange, as if the owner of the voice was actually contemplating Jim's threatening words. And then a sighing, soft chuckle issued forth, followed by words…and crippling pain that shot all through Jim's body. And the worst part, almost lost on him in his red haze of ripping pain, was that it was his own voice, pitched high and mocking, following him down to the floor where the mist surrounded and engulfed him.

"No you won't!"

He woke sitting straight up in bed, one leg slung over the side as if about to leave. Breath heaved in his lungs, and once again, he was covered in sweat. But of a much different kind this time. Cold and sickening, it clung to him as if a disease. His hand rested beneath his pillow, grasping his Beretta 92FS. He pulled it from beneath its shelter, looking at it questioningly. And then he whipped it towards his wardrobe as he heard it. A whisper.

"Jimmy." A pause. "Hey there little brother. Did you miss me?"

Jim's breathing picked up tempo again as he realized that the voice was coming from within his own head. As with all those years ago, it was independent of his own thoughts and completely random and uncontrollable. And…maddening.

"What's that you've got there, Jimmy? Beretta? Niiiiiice. Why don't we go target shooting, you and me, and….Sherlock?"

"Shut. Up!" Jim yelled, screwing his eyes closed and placing hands on his head as if he could shake the presence from his skull.

"Oh no, I won't be going anywhere. Nope. Not until you've solved your little problem."

"What?" Jim's eyes flew open, wildly searching for what could never be seen.

"Oh yes, Jimmy. I live in here, remember? You've got a problem…and I've got the solution."

"No. You're not here. You're dead to me. Dead!"

"It's simple, Jimmy….. Kill. Him."

"No. No, I will kill him when I am ready. When I choose. I have planned this for years, and you won't be the one to ruin it for me!" He swiped his hand to the side, gesturing in negation.

"Oh, I think differently. Just think about it, Jimmy. All you need to do to get rid of me is…kill him."

"Aaaggghhh!" Jim screamed in sheer frustration.

"Kill him."

"No!"

"Kill him. Kill him! He must die; he must. Otherwise, you are weak again, Jimmy. You. Are. Nothing. So kill him. Kill him."

The voice rose and fell in his head, as real as if the owner were standing before him. And with each syllable, each hate filled suggestion, Moriarty could feel himself reverting, becoming more and more open to the proposition. As he had been one other time in his life, when he had nothing to lose. The years he fought against it had been some of the worst of his life. A constant inner struggle that left him strung out, sleepless, and nearly incoherent at times. But the fear of him by that time kept others from acting against him. Now…now, he was unprepared for this sudden assault of his senses and sanity. Over and over his brother's voice bid him to commit murder. And why shouldn't he, he began asking himself. It's not like he ever had any qualms over it in the past. But this is Sherlock, he thought against himself. Sherlock, whom I've planned for so long to..… No. He groaned aloud and fell sideways across the bed as if to grapple with himself. The voice kept on, growing in force, its volume nearly drowning out everything else, barring the very forefront of Jim's thoughts. He felt himself retch, once, twice. He rolled to the right and vomited over the side of his bed, face pale and sickly, sweat continuing to pour from him as though in a fever.

Still, the voice kept on. His every thought and action became an echo of those words. Kill him. Kill Sherlock. You are weakened by him. You are nothing. Kill him. He could feel it, the dizzily sickening clarity of the hate filled psychosis he was being wrapped in. And he started to believe…he started to listen… Yes. Yes. Kill him. He should die. He should. By my hand alone. My hand. And then…and then…myself… He smiled, and his brother's voice continued pounding through his skull, making it difficult to find his balance when he finally stood. His hand tightened on the Beretta, feeling the security of the chrome finish beneath his fingers.

His door banged open suddenly, and in flooded three of his men who, upon finding their leader standing with a gun in hand and looking as though he was a victim of some deadly internal parasite, ground to a halt. They milled about each other, all seeking shelter from the eyes that seemed to burn from within their pale setting. Finally, one stepped forward to say something that sounded like it might have begun as, "Boss, we thought you were being…" but it was cut off by the bullet that ripped through his throat. He had barely seen the raising and subsequent firing of the gun that had ended him. Yes, James had learned a few things on the streets long ago. His gaze locked onto the remaining two.

"Where. Is. He?" And when they hesitated, he shot another round into the ceiling. "WHERE?!"

They needn't ask who "he" was; they merely indicated behind themselves and down the hall, with one muttering something like, "Still in the study." And Jim swept past them in nothing but his pants; it was a testament to his power and capacity for cruelty that, clad thusly, he still caused urine to pool beneath the feet of one of the men he passed. He moved through the long corridors toward his goal, still accompanied by his brother's screams and intending to put an end to them with the only option presented to him: Kill. Sherlock.

He came upon the study doors, and the screaming inside him staggered his steps as it surged in reaction to the proximity of his quarry. He grunted through the pain, bending forward for a moment, and then straightening upright once again to push roughly through the doors. And what greeted him inside did not surprise him. It did not make him question his sanity, his motivations, or his choices. It did not change anything really. No solutions or further clarifications made themselves known to him. No. The scene did not offer anything of the sort. But when his eyes traced the familiar environment, and then found themselves alighting upon the form of Sherlock Holmes…..his brother's voice, and all of its accompanying emotions, pain, and strife…..ceased to exist. All was quiet. All was empty. And it took the breath from him, hard. He stood in totally stunned silence, with the detective appearing as yet unaware of his presence. He thought it ironic that though he had been unable to think within his brother's constant loud stream of hatred and venom, now he still could find no focus within the newly developed hush that came afterwards. It was destabilizing. Like going from a room of 43 degrees Celsius to another of 6 degrees. It robbed one of all action and intent. Words cannot capture the meaning of this, he thought. Language is a poor communicator for things of this magnitude. He ran a hand back through his sweat dampened hair as he looked on.

Sherlock sat in the open center of the floor with what appeared to be Jim's laptop across his legs. Jacket top had been dismissed to cover the coffee table, and his shoes and socks seemed to be missing in action as well, bare feet were set wide apart with toes partially curled into the thick area rug he sat upon. Jim glanced at the computer desk. Yep. His laptop. Sherlock Holmes…had his…laptop. He took a deep breath within the fragile mental silence he was currently enjoying, and stepped up behind the detective. He looked down over the other man's shoulder and almost laughed aloud, noting the game of Pong Sherlock currently was engaged in. Of course. Because Sherlock Holmes wouldn't show off his breaking into a criminal mastermind's computer by perusing the files and whatnot contained within, possibly deleting and/or moving things around. Oh no. He'd crack the passcode and play Pong.

James felt all of the stress, anger, and hurt fall away from him. It sank through his limbs and leaked out through the floorboards. It drained him in a way that encompassed the mental, the physical, and the spiritual. And he slowly sank to the carpet along with everything else that was leaving his body. He landed right behind the detective. And after a single moment's hesitation, he scooted up behind the taller man, a leg to either side of the detective's own, and snaked his arms about the slender waist, clasping his wrists to hold on. His chin came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, and he closed his eyes at the peace he felt while thus engaged. They sat together like that for perhaps an hour before Jim finally whispered something, breaking the repetitive tapping of the keys.

"You will die…when I say. Sherlock." The detective paused his game. He leaned his head back a bit and angled his face so that he got a partial profile of the man wrapped so closely about him. He took in the wan complexion, the shirtless torso, and the eyes… He quirked an eyebrow and stared into the depths of quieted madness contained therein, feeling an echo of it within his own soul; and then he turned his head back to his progressively faster keyboard tappings, saying only one thing.

"Yes, alright."