Moriarty raged as he stormed through Sherlock's mind, searching for his erstwhile captive. How, how, HOW could he have hidden himself away so thoroughly? Every nook and cranny of that brain should be his playground, with no corner unknown and no secret undiscovered.

So where the hell was Sherlock, then?

He must have made some sort of noise, because the cab driver was glancing at him in the rearview mirror, face and voice both concerned as he asked, "You all right back there?"

"Fine," Moriarty spat out, although no, he wasn't fine, he was the furthest thing from fine at the moment. This was wrong, this wasn't how it was supposed to go! He was supposed to be in control, Sherlock was supposed to be dancing to his tune, watching and raging helplessly while Moriarty dismantled his life, one precious friendship at a time.

They were nearly to Lestrade's suburban residence, and Moriarty found himself with an unpleasant choice; go on as planned, with the possibility that Sherlock might somehow have either fled his own body or was possibly working on a way to reveal himself at the most inopportune moment – or tell the cabbie to go to one of Jim's own boltholes, someplace safe where he could dedicate every ounce of his considerable mental energy to rooting Sherlock out of whatever obscure hiding place he'd found within his mind and force him back into the prison Moriarty had concocted for him.

Neither choice was appealing at the moment; yes, he could certainly do a great deal of damage to Sherlock's friendship with the DI, but if Sherlock managed to somehow sabotage it, give the idiot a reason to suspect something was wrong, then the game might be up before it could be concluded. And time, time was such a precious commodity; he could feel it ticking away, his awareness that no matter how he fought to retain his hold on Sherlock's mind, eventually – sooner rather than later – he would find himself cast out, once again trapped within the boundaries of St. Bart's no matter how far he managed to flee while occupying human form.

"FUCK," he snarled, not caring if the cabbie heard him or not. Well, of course the man heard him, he'd almost shouted the word. "Change of plans, take me back to London, I just remembered an appointment I can't miss," he snarled, giving out the address of one of his roomier boltholes and waving a wad of cash at the driver when he grumbled about people changing their minds. That shut the man up well enough, although it might also have been because of the less-than-sane expression on 'Sherlock's' face as he sank back into the seat, fingers tapping anxiously (no, not anxiously, never anxiously, it was simply an excess of energy, that was all) on his thighs for the remainder of the ride.

oOo

It took three phone calls for John to convince his sister – who was apparently deep in the depths of a massive 'poor me pity me' tear – to surrender Clara's mobile number. Apparently when the two split up Clara had told Harry it was all right to call her any time, for any reason, and John wondered wearily if his sister even understood how important that was. Did she not get how much Clara loved her, how much it had hurt her to break up with her when Harry couldn't control her drinking?

He doubted it. Harry could be spectacularly self-involved even sober.

Still, his sister wasn't the issue at hand, Sherlock was, and although he hesitated before dialing the number Harry had mumbled at the conclusion of their third conversation – he'd made her repeat it twice to make sure he understood her through the sniffles and occasional sobs he forced himself to ignore, knowing them for the ploys for pity that they were – he did it. Maybe Clara could help, maybe she couldn't, but it was at least a starting point, something to do besides wait to see what other horrible things Jim Moriarty planned to do while pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.

Of course John had attempted to ring him up, but the calls had gone immediately to voice mail, which meant either the battery was dead (Sherlock never let the battery go dead, ever, it was the one mundane chore he never neglected) or Moriarty had switched it off. Molly had disagreed violently when John tentatively suggested contacting Mycroft or Lestrade, for pretty much the same reason. "Mycroft will just call it a 'danger night' and round him up for rehab, and Greg will have someone search his flat for drugs; you know neither one of them will believe us, John," she'd said, voice trembling and fingers nervously playing with the lower buttons on the frilly blouse Mrs. Hudson had lent her. "It'll take too long, John, trying to convince them of something you know they won't believe."

He'd been forced to agree with her; neither man seemed the type to hold any sort of belief in the supernatural. Hell, he himself wasn't the kind, but the evidence Molly had presented him, the things Sherlock had said and done today…it really was the only explanation that made sense. On the other hand, he knew Molly was right, that others wouldn't necessarily see it that way.

So here he was, dialing his former sister-in-law at eight o'clock at night, hoping she would be willing to talk to him and be able to help them figure this out.

Voice mail. Damn. He hesitated before leaving a message, asking her to call him back and telling her it was urgent but had nothing to do with Harry. He saw the disappointment in Molly's face and did his best to reassure her that Clara was very good about returning calls…and hoped he was right. He hadn't had any reason to contact the woman since her and Harry's breakup nearly four years ago, and just hoped she would willing to help after all this time.

If, of course, her interest in the occult hadn't just been some passing fad she'd long since left behind – and had been serious enough in the first place to merit his disturbing her after all this time with a matter any sane person would dismiss as the delusions of people desperate to excuse their friend's inexplicable behavior.

A half hour later two things happened: Mary showed up, looking wan and nervous, and his mobile rang.