SPOILERS: for dialogues from season 2 from part 7 onwards.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.

Summary:An AU, where John is Jim Moriarty's fiancé. He finds out about Jim's job and agrees to testify against him, and is put into protective custody as a result, under the alias Victor Trevor. Sherlock meets Victor, sparks fly. Written for a truly unique prompt on the shkinkmeme; so credit for inspiration goes to the OP.

Author's notes:This was something I was working on before Reichenbach happened and temporarily derailed it. The story is now on the verge of completion. This will be a multi-chaptered fic and I will be posting atleast one part weekly. My first real attempt at S/J, so please be gentle.


Lestrade studied the building across the road. It looked like any other over-priced block of flats, but Kitty had been emphatic that this was where Sherlock had been 'taken' to. He sighed as he recalled the details. She had been waiting in the tunnels at Blackfriars as per the written instructions Sherlock had left. She had followed Sherlock at a distance, as instructed, and then seen him get into a big black car which had been waiting for him. He had been frisked by a masked man before being driven away but she hadn't seen any weapons or any other method of coercion used on Sherlock. So the supposed 'abduction' had been completely voluntary.

Sherlock's written instructions to her had been very thorough though. Kitty had recruited Eddie using the phone Sherlock had given her. Eddie was an ex-homeless cabbie Sherlock knew well and Eddie had tailed the car to the gate of the building that Lestrade was now standing in front of. The homeless network had taken turns to keep an eye on the place since then. By their reckoning, Sherlock was still inside.

As much as Lestrade would have loved to call the story far-fetched, there were too many suggestions to the contrary. Sherlock never went anywhere without his phone, but this time he had left it at Baker Street. No one had been able to trace John Watson at all and, worryingly, this was classic Sherlock; going off to tackle a homicidal bomber on his own.

But this was central London; not exactly an inconspicuous place to whisk off kidnapped victims to. Besides, he had asked Donovan to check up on the owners. The building was an exclusive residential complex. He had tried to enter the building but had been politely asked to come back with a warrant. It was a legitimate though awkward request. He had asked Sally to start background checks on the residents, without revealing his suspicions. His team would be the first to scoff at him if he did. Sherlock had been supposedly missing for less than twelve hours and there was nothing to indicate foul play other than the word of a homeless girl. Kitty had understandably refused to get any more involved with the investigation after sharing the information with Lestrade. At the end of the day, Sherlock could be perfectly fine and he could be wasting his time.

But years of detective work had honed his instincts; the same instincts which had once told him that Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary junkie. His phone buzzed.

"Tell me that you have something for me, Donovan."

"Squeaky clean Sir; five-figure apartments on each floor. It's all bankers, city-boys and minor TV personalities. I spoke directly with the lettings company for every unit, except on the top one. That's privately owned by an investment company which sub-lets the apartment to its Executives. A very polite butler informed me that it's unoccupied at the moment."

"What's the name of the outfit?"

"Uh…" he could hear her rifling through the papers as she searched. "It's called Rim Majority Investments, Sir. The owner on record is someone called Richard Brooke. Did a quick search. No prior convictions, or at least none that show up on record."

"What, not even a parking ticket?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing, Sir."

The vague sensation of unease in Lestrade's gut solidified into a dead weight that made his stomach sink rapidly. His voice remained calm as he fired rapid orders. "Donovan, we are putting this building under round the clock surveillance as of this moment. Send Peters and Fielding down here to relieve me. By the time I reach the office, I want every bit of paper-work you can dig up on Rim Majority, Mr Brooke and this flat. And I mean every bit: contact information, client list- hell, call the Thames Water and The National Grid and pull up their water and power-bills for this place.

Sally's voice was suitably confused, "What exactly am I looking for, Sir?"

"Anything," Lestrade couldn't keep the agitation out of his voice any longer. "Any discrepancy that would justify us getting a search warrant for the top floor."

"For an investment company apartment?" came the incredulous query.

"Rim Majority is an anagram. I think this is the real thing, Donovan. This is Moriarty's Headquarters."


"I want to play black this time, Mycroft. You always make me play white. Bet I'll beat you if I play black."

"Patience, Sherlock. Playing the white pieces is an advantage. When you make the first move, you get a chance to control the game from the beginning. You dictate the game. You need to learn that first. Playing the black side is a lot harder as that requires you to be able to foresee your opponent's plan. But before that you need to master the game when you can start it on your own terms. I'll make you a deal. If you defeat me while playing white, I'll let you play black the next time."

Sherlock had never earned the chance to play the black pieces against Mycroft.

Sherlock tried not to dwell on that as he showered in the en-suite bathroom. His memories of Mycroft were tinged with too much bitterness. Try as he might he had never been able to delete them either, which was probably fortunate considering the present situation.

True to his word, Jim had complied with his every demand when Sherlock had outlined his plan. Climbing out of the shower, he dressed in a new suit that someone had laid out for him and warily prodded the bruise on his chin, hoping it wouldn't show up too clearly on the CCTV cameras. That would be counter-productive in convincing Mycroft about his willing participation. Though in the long run, it really didn't matter.

It had come as no surprise to him that his megalomaniacal brother had chosen to keep the highly classified data hidden away in his own house- if you could call a place with life-size chess pieces for décor, a house. He would have loved to find out exactly how Jim had uncovered Mycroft's exact role in the Government, but that would have involved letting Jim know that he was at least marginally impressed.

His brother had unfortunately made the right decision in having the information taken off the M.O.D. database and the wrong decision in not having it destroyed. Those experiments had been a drastic failure, and that was before you even got to the morally questionable nature of the research. Had even a journalist or a run-of-the-mill hacker got his hands on the data, it would have still been a huge debacle for the Government. It was just the worst luck that they had Jim Moriarty to contend with instead.

In retrospect, he now regretted leaving a trail for Lestrade with the homeless network. Though he was well aware that he would have to be gone for at least 48 hours before being officially considered 'missing', he also knew that the Detective Inspector was more intelligent and intuitive than Sherlock often gave him credit for. But Lestrade also was under his brother's surveillance and any suspicious activity on his part would alert Mycroft. Hopefully Lestrade would not believe Kitty (unlikely) or be too slow to catch on (even more improbable) or even if he did, he wouldn't reveal his suspicions about Sherlock's supposed abduction to his team. It wouldn't do to have Mycroft warned of his compromised status. The last thing he wanted at this juncture was his brother attempting a ham-handed rescue. Or even worse, moving the information somewhere else so that Sherlock would lose his advantage, thereby making his deal with Jim null and void. Because Mycroft would know, and probably already knew exactly who was attempting to steal the data. He would prefer to see Sherlock dead than being used as a pawn by Jim Moriarty.

And Sherlock had no illusions about what would happen if he was caught during the attempt. Given a glimpse of the data he was supposed to steal, brother or not, Sherlock could simply not be allowed to escape with the information. Mycroft wouldn't hesitate using any means necessary in order to stop him. If the stakes hadn't been so high, he would have sabotaged the plan by tipping Mycroft off. But Jim had been tiresomely aware of that possibility. Sherlock seemed to have everything to lose.

Even if the theft was successful… especially if it was successful, Mycroft would know that Sherlock was involved. Jim was counting on it. Sherlock would have to run. He wouldn't have a choice. Returning back to 221B and his old life would be completely out of the question.

He tried not to be distracted by the memory of John's stoic face and expressive eyes as he had been marched out, still handcuffed. He was about to forfeit his work, his reputation, his family and probably his life for John Watson. But this was a calculation he had already considered and accepted. He smirked as he pulled on the jacket, fully aware of the camera trained on him. He wished he had been trying to outwit his brother under different circumstances. Being offered an opportunity to do so was the only silver lining in all of this mess. He took a deep breath as he safely locked away the memory of his last kiss in the treasure room inside his mind-palace. Then he turned to another part of the room and began sifting through his memories of Mycroft.


"You look so worried," Jim's voice was challenging but there was a tinge of fondness as he regarded his right hand man across the room. Jim was swivelling carelessly as he lounged in his console chair. "You wouldn't want me to think that you are scared of John Watson, would you?"

Once upon a time, Sebastian would have bristled at the implications of that statement. But months of working with Jim had left him considerably thick-skinned. He knew and accepted for a fact that just like Holmes the man had no brain-to-mouth filter. Oddly enough this was one of the reasons Sebastian had stayed on while his predecessors had failed to. They were in an ugly business and Jim never bothered to sugar-coat it. Just like Sebastian, he revelled in the forbidden excitement of it. But in a lot of ways the criminal mastermind was like a child, too easily distracted by the latest novelty. Changeable.

The initial plan had been to use Watson as leverage to get Holmes to steal the information. Once Jim had what he wanted, John could be disposed off at leisure or kept captive if required.

But Jim had changed his mind just like at the pool. And THIS was insane, what Sebastian was about to do. He wasn't scared-far from it. The army had been mundane. The thrill of holding someone's life at the mercy of his trigger finger had eventually become commonplace. He was done with mundane when he had been dishonourably discharged. He wouldn't have known what to do with his life if it hadn't been for Jim. Jim Moriarty, who constantly challenged Sebastian, tested his limits, whose complete lack of moral compunction paralleled his own. He tightened the straps of his bullet-proof vest as he considered Jim's smiling countenance. "As long as you take care of your end, I can manage mine. But if Watson tries anything funny, I need you to tell me that I can take care of it."

To anyone else it would have been imperceptible. The first time ever that Jim Moriarty had hesitated a split second before confirming a kill order.

Unfortunately Sebastian Moran wasn't just anybody. He catalogued the pause and understood that he had gravely underestimated John Watson.


Timing! Everything depended on timing. Mycroft was as set in his habits as concrete. Wednesday afternoons were spent at The Diogenes. There were certain traditions of the archaic club that were too deeply rooted to be ignored, and Mycroft was fortunately a stubborn traditionalist. Sherlock already had the highest clearance needed to enter his brother's home, so entry and exit would not be an issue. All that remained was figuring out the location of the hidden safe and the key-code to open it. He sorted through the memories till he reached the one he wanted-

"You can't go. I still have to build it," his six year old self flopped down on Mycroft's bed and grumbled as the older boy packed.

Mycroft chivvied him off the cushions so that he could get to the stack of neatly pressed uniforms on which Sherlock had been lounging. "Don't be absurd, Sherlock. Only you can build it. It has to be your own place inside your head."

Sherlock swung around the bed-post like a monkey, scattering all the socks that Nanny had neatly piled in a corner. "I don't want mine to be a house. Why does it have to be a house? A house is too small. I want to build something bigger like a huge ship or a palace."

Mycroft took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose before collecting the fallen socks and neatly tucking them one by one into the case. "It can be whatever you want, Sherlock- as big as you want. But of course, it depends on how much space you have inside your head."

This prompted Sherlock to shut the flap of the suitcase and plop himself down on it so that Mycroft couldn't get it open again. "I have lots of space in my head. One day, my head will be bigger than yours and I will have a mind-Palace. It will be much better than your stupid house. You'll see!"

The scolding Mycroft had been about to utter died on his lips as took in Sherlock's determined expression. Sherlock still didn't know what Mycroft had seen in his face but in the next minute the older boy had scooped him up carried him to the windows overlooking the garden and sat him down on the sill.

"What is this really about, Sherlock? You know that I have to go back to school like last year. It's only a few years and then you can come too. I'll be back for the Christmas holidays just like the last time."

Sherlock screwed up his face against the sudden direct sunlight, telling himself that it was the brightness hurting his eyes at the moment. He knew that his big brother would have no patience for crying, snivelling babies. His mouth twisted in a sneer as he hurled back at Mycroft, "Last year, I hadn't known about your mind-house. What if you forget me?"

"What?" Mycroft had never sounded so nonplussed before.

"You only have a house in your head, Mycroft. You'll be learning all new things all the time at school, making new friends and meeting new people and when those things fill up your house, you won't have space for me and if you delete me…" Sherlock suddenly found that he couldn't continue and he screwed his eyes tightly closed against the damned sun.

In the next instant, the red heat which had tinged his eyelids disappeared as Sherlock was held tightly against Mycroft's chest. He could feel his brother laughing and it only served to make him angrier. "It's not funny," he yelled, his voice muffled as he beat his small fist on his brother's shoulder.

When Mycroft pulled back to face him again, there was no trace of humour in his eyes. He looked dead serious. "You're right. That's not funny at all. You were absolutely right to be worried."

"I was?" Sherlock didn't care that his voice slightly trembled.

Mycroft smiled and sat down on the sill, hoisting Sherlock onto his lap. "You were right, but only because you didn't have all the necessary information to know that what you are afraid of couldn't possibly happen. Now you need to listen carefully because what I'm about to tell you is top-secret. I have a special, secret treasure room in my mind-house for the things that are really important to me; things I never want to forget," he paused to tweak the tip of Sherlock's nose and Sherlock felt a ball of warmth curl in his chest at the uncharacteristic gesture. "So my memories of you will always be safe in there. I couldn't possibly forget or replace you."

Sherlock stroked the fingers wrapped around his torso as he considered this. Mycroft had told him about the house in his mind that summer when Sherlock had suffered from one his 'episodes' of information overload as Mummy called them. Mycroft had explained to him how he had constructed it gradually and compartmentalised it over the years. It had helped to know that with practice and planning his mind would not always be the chaotic place it was at present. But he had never mentioned the treasure room before. "Where is it?" he demanded.

"Make a deduction, Sherlock. If you had a house…oh alright, a palace in real life and you wanted to keep something really safe in it so that you wouldn't carelessly rearrange it, where would you put it? It would have to be somewhere your guests wouldn't ordinarily see, or that thieves couldn't get at, and even if your palace was destroyed or set on fire the things most precious to you would have to be protected. Where do you think the treasure room would be?"

A smile lit Sherlock's face as he answered; finally believing that he was one of the things his brother had chosen to treasure. "In the cellar!"

The smile echoed on Mycroft's face as he ruffled his brother's curls affectionately. "Exactly!"

Sherlock calmly got up and walked to the sealed door before knocking three times to let Jim's minions know that he was now ready.