This one's pretty much Jim-centric.

No Molly today, sorry... :(

But we do have flashbacks!

You would think 'just a child' wouldn't understand what was happening when the coos of "ah, you're so lucky he's not a colicky baby" and "he seems so content, serene…thoughtful, even" turned to exclamations of "does he never cry, not even when he's hungry, not at all?" and "what's wrong with him?".

And you would be right.

'Just a child' did not understand.

And so, he asked.

"What's wrong with me?" Jimmy asked, five years old and standing cautiously in the doorway, just behind the threshold to his parents' bedroom, at his mother who was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

But she was with her Numbers again, staring at the ceiling but not seeing it and not seeing Jimmy, rocking back and forth, counting.

When she reached a certain number (no one in the family, not even his father, knew what it was) she would stand up, make the bed perfectly without a wrinkle, and set about cleaning and organizing the small house (room by room always in the same particular order) until it was satisfactory.

This usually took all day and all her effort and so when she was finished she went back to her bedroom and back to bed.

Jimmy and James both looked just like their mother, brown hair and brown eyes, and so they were both named for their red-haired, blue eyed father (-as if to make sure he knew that they were truly his children).

When father was here, mother didn't act this way; father simply wouldn't stand for it.

And so mother acted normally.

She'd smile, laugh, sing and dance for Jimmy (who'd try to join in) and James (who was now too old and grown-up for this and so would watch, trying to conceal his smile and tapping foot) and father (who would nod approvingly and even smile himself).

They'd all go out as a family, as a normal family, and eat at restaurants (when they could afford) and go to the park (when they couldn't).

This was where people would usually ask.

Ask why little Jimmy wasn't playing like the other kids on the playground (he didn't cry when he fell down and skinned his knee, he didn't laugh when pushed on the swing, he didn't cry when another kid hit him, he didn't cry when pushed off the swing onto the woodchips, he didn't cry) and instead stared, expressionless, scaring the other children (and their parents).

"Why is he doing that?"

"Why is he looking at us like that?"

"What's wrong with him?"

Mother wouldn't know what to say, she didn't know how to talk to people who weren't father or James or Jimmy and so she didn't (couldn't) answer…

…and father would much rather 'talk with his hands' and answer with his fists (not appropriate park behavior)…

…and so James would answer "he's just a child" and leave it at that, forgetting the fact that he was only just sixteen and so, too, 'just a child' himself.

But father was not here (where he was, mother did not know and James would not tell) and so they did not go out like a family, a normal family.

Jimmy stood in the doorframe (angular, rectangular and empty like most everything else in the house) and watched his mother rock back and forth for a few more seconds before finding James.

James always had the answers; it was just a matter of making him tell.

"Why is the sky blue?"

"Because of gas density, and different elements and light. You wouldn't understand."

"Where is daddy?"

"You know that he's out working."

"When'll he come back?"

"When he does."

"What happened to the other James? Not you or me or dad but the other one? The one that was bigger than me, but smaller than you who used to live with us awhile ago. What happened to him, where did he go? Where is he now?"

"Gone."

James's knowing things was a burden he resented and yet kept all to himself like it was the only thing he owned.

(Because knowing things made you grown-up; knowing things made you a god.)

Jimmy found James downstairs at the chipped kitchen table, also with his Numbers (math homework).

"What's wrong with me?" he asked him.

James looked up from the textbook and down at Jimmy who stood staring up at him with his usual (lack of) expression.

"Nothing." He told him, "You're just a child."

"No, tell me the truth." Jimmy demanded.

"Why are you asking this?"

"Because people ask it."

"Do you care what these people think?"

"I dunno."

"Why would you ask, if you didn't?"

"I dunno."

"You should care. It's normal to care what people think."

"Okay. Then I care."

James sighed and closed his textbook, turning in his chair to face Jimmy directly.

"It doesn't work like that, you know."

"No I don't. I don't know things… you know things."

"People laugh when they're happy, they cry when they're sad…"

"You don't."

"I know that. But people do."

"Mummy doesn't, daddy doesn't…"

"Father does. He's just learned to pretend that he doesn't."

"Why?"

"So that he can take care of us. Because we don't…"

"Mum, too?"

"Yes. Mother, especially. And in exchange for that, for him pretending that he doesn't laugh and doesn't cry… she's learned to pretend that she does."

"What does 'in exchange' mean?"

"Making a deal. They each give each other something of equal value."

"Oh…so mummy's just pretending?"

"She-well….she's doing the best she can…. Does that make you sad?"

"…I dunno..."

"…You're going to be going to school next year. You're going to have to be around people. You're going to have to learn how to pretend."

"Okay."

"Not just 'okay'. Show me. Show me that you know how to pretend…"

"What should I do?"

"Show me happy."

Jimmy looked up at his brother, deliberately pushing the sides of his mouth upwards into a smile.

"See, I'm smiling" he said, "I'm happy."

"It's alright…but you'll need to work on it. Open your mouth when you do it-"

Jimmy opened his mouth wide.

"Like this?"

"Keep you teeth together."

Jim gritted his teeth and grinned.

He tried to say 'like this' but it didn't get past the white wall, missing just one brick he had lost the week before.

"Yes. That's good." James approved, "Now show me sad…"

"Do I have to cry?"

"That's what people do, when they're sad."

"…I can't."

Jimmy's grin had fallen and for a seconds James thought he saw the beginnings of sadness caused by his younger brother's inability to 'cry on cue', but no tears came and his normal, blank face returned.

"That's alright. You still have time to practice. I can help you."

"Do you pretend?"

"In public, yes, I have to... it's the polite thing to do. "

"Show me?"

"No."

"…then how will you help me?"

"The same way I just did with the smile. I'll tell you how to pretend and you do what I say."

"Okay. But when I go to school…how will I know when I should do what?"

"There are good things and bad things. When a good thing happens, you smile and when a bad thing happens, you cry. Okay?"

"Okay…but how will I know which is a good thing and which is a bad thing?"

"People just know."

"I don't know."

"Then you watch what people are doing and do what they do. That's how you'll know. And they'll never know the difference."

"But why should I pretend? Why do we all have to pretend?"

"Don't you want to be normal?"

"I dunno."

"Well whether you do or you don't, you still have to be normal. You have to be normal because it's the only way to survive."

"What does 'survive' mean?"

"Live."

"Oh."

"It's what people do, not just normal people, all people. We have to live."

"Why? Why do we have to live?"

"I don't-We just do."

"Okay."

"And we have to pretend to live?"

"Yes."

"But isn't pretending…kind of like lying?"

"It is lying."

"And isn't lying 'bad'?"

"No. It's not. In fact, it's what all people do to survive—to live."

"Oh. Okay."

And now Jimmy knew.

But he did not understand.

After all, he was 'just a child'.

Every seat, in rows of two and two columns, was filled except for one.

The one next to Jim was empty.

He didn't look around the train car at the black suited people, all holding weapons (come concealed, some not), and sitting orderly in their seats.

The empty seat (the odd number) would bother some…

…but it didn't bother Jim because Jim saw that it was not an odd number and he did have someone sitting next to him.

He wasn't alone.

The train was going through a long, dark tunnel.

Jim stared out the window into the eyes of his own reflection.

He wasn't alone.

When Jimmy was ten they weren't poor anymore.

And this was a good thing.

It was also a good thing, moving to London.

But 'they' wasn't four anymore, 'they' was now only two.

(Mother didn't (couldn't) go. She didn't like (couldn't handle) cities, too dirty too much to clean, too much to count. And she had vowed never to return to the country of her birth-)

(-She had vowed this to father, who would not set foot anywhere in England (not because he would be arrested, since that could happen anywhere, but because he would not leave the country of his birth ever again) and so also didn't (wouldn't) go.)

Despite this, James still had said it was a good thing, moving to London.

And so he took Jimmy with him when he went for good (vowing never to set foot in the country of his birth again).

And it was a good thing, the private school and the uniform James forced Jimmy into, as well.

"Smile, Jim." James told him, "It's your first day; you have to make a good impression. You have to smile."

So he did.

And from then on Jimmy was Jim, since he was now a full decade old and so a bit more grown-up.

(The middle 'James' brother had been 'Jim', first, but he was gone…

… And before that had happened, James had once been both 'Jimmy' and 'Jim', at a time…

…But he was grown-up as soon as he saw his mother cry (not pretending) and his father not cry (also not pretending) at the same time, for the first time, and so went by 'James'.)

Jim already knew 'happy' he knew how to smile.

(However, he was still unable to figure out 'sad' and how to cry.)

But soon Jim learned other expressions (emotions) to make (try to feel).

Angry (furrowed eyebrows, frown).

Scared/Nervous (darting eyes, grimace, furrowed brows again).

Cruel (like happy and angry at the same time, interesting…).

Laughter (squinting eyes, open and smiling mouth, more extreme version of happy).

Surprise/Shock (wide eyes, wide mouth, raised eyebrows, more extreme version of scared (it was his favorite)).

He learned these, he understood these…

…but he did not know these.

All of these emotions were just expressions on his face, mimicked from watching other people.

(Mirrors don't have feelings.)

Jim wanted to know…he wanted to feel.

(And James thought this was beyond stupid; if one could survive by pretending, there was no need to make it real and suffer.)

But Jim wanted to be like his big brother James, he wanted to know things, he wanted to be a god…

Was Jim going to talk to himself now?

Address his own reflection, to keep himself from going crazy of boredom while unnerving the other passengers in the car?

What would their facial expressions be when they heard him muttering to the window?

Surprise/Shock…? (That was always his favorite.)

Confusion...?

Scared/Nervous…?

What facial expression would Jim make to his reflection?

Would he himself have a reaction upon seeing it?

Would his reflection?

(Mirrors don't have feelings.)

Jim gazed blankly at Jim.

No expression.

Nothing.

No, Jim was not going to talk to himself now.

He was going to be quiet and be alone.

"I warned you!"

James was angry and he was not pretending.

But Jim was.

He was just doing what James had told him to do.

Pretend.

"But I had to do it!" Jim tried to explain, "I had to get expression right, fear. Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

He was trying to look as Scared/Nervous (an expression which he had just perfected that morning) as possible, that usually made the angry on people's faces soften to pity.

But it didn't work on James.

James (who always would be taller and older and smarter than Jim no matter how grown-up Jim got) seemed to practically loom above Jim as he glared down angrily at his younger brother.

They had just returned to James' tidy, spacious (although minimalisticly decorated) London flat from the private school.

Twelve years old, Jim had just been suspended from school.

And James had just mustered all his resolve to not slam the door behind them (after that long, silent car ride) and not shout.

"That is not what I wanted you to do and you know it." James stated, "You trapped that boy in that closet for over four hours! He's claustrophobic; he hyperventilated and had panic attack. He could have died. You could have been arrested!"

"I let him out of there, didn't I?" Jim reminded, folding his arms indignantly.

And he mustered all his resolve to not laugh at the fact that the boy in question had also wet himself while inside the locked closet.

"You shouldn't have put him in there in the first place!" James countered, still not shouting.

"I had to!" Jim repeated, opening his arms for emphasis like he has seen some of his teachers do, "I had to see fear. I learned fear… Isn't that what you're supposed to do at school? Learn?...I learned, James, I learned fear. I also learned relief; I saw relief when he got out of the closet! Isn't that what you want me to do?"

James shook his head in disgust.

"Jim…" he sighed, finally, "There are rules…"

"The rules are I have to pretend to survive." Jim nodded, "So I had to see fear! I had to know. And see, now I can do afraid, look!"

Jim stared up at James, eyes wide and darting, taking shallow breaths in quick succession from his mouth.

James stared down at Jim, seeing what he knew the boy trapped in the closet's panic attack must have looked like.

He was angry, still, and still not pretending.

But he began to laugh.

A more extreme version of happy (smiling open mouth) but also mixed with angry (furrowed eyebrows)…

…cruel, Jim recognized.

And it had caught him off guard.

James laughed even more when he saw that brief widening of the eyes and mouth and raising of the eyebrows on Jim's face.

…shock…

"You want to learn fear…" James began, dangerously, the cruel still curling with the smirk on his lips, "…You want to know fear…"

Slowly, he advanced closer to Jim, (as always) looming over him.

Instinctively (not pretending) Jim backed away until he felt his back hit the hard wall behind him.

"I already did!" he exclaimed.

"No you didn't." James scoffed, "You only pretended…But I said I'd help you, didn't I? I will teach you…and you will know."

Jim's suspension was for the rest of the week, six days, and the boy had been trapped in the closet for four hours.

6x4=24.

24= 1 day.

It added up perfectly, James just loved math, loved his Numbers…

So for a full twenty-four hours, a full day, Jim was locked in the small, dark hallway-closet of James' rectangular apartment where he learned fear (and claustrophobia).

And from the relieved expression on Jim's face when James finally released him from the prison, James knew that Jim knew fear.

And then everything went black.

In the reflection in the window Jim saw the men come up behind him, one holding him down while the other wrapped a blindfold around his eyes.

From then on, it was just being spun around like a game of pin the tail on the donkey so Jim didn't know which direction he was being dragged it.

The train wasn't moving anymore.

Jim felt himself being taken through car after car (he'd lost count, he was never any good at remembering numbers) and then lowered down into off of the train.

He could smell fresh air.

They were outside, somewhere with grass.

And then they were inside again, somewhere with bleach.

When they removed the blindfold from Jim's face, he was still in darkness.

The only light came from what was obviously a one-way-mirror, another window with Jim's reflection on it.

"Remove your clothes, please." Jim heard the first suited man say.

He couldn't see where exactly the man stood.

"My pleasure." Jim drawled, relying on the intonation in his voice to relay his facial expression since it could not be seen due to lack of lighting.

(Which also meant that once Jim had removed his clothes, no one was going to see him naked which kind of ruined the joke…oh well.)

Jim pulled off the university sweatshirt, revealing one of 'Jim from IT's' v-necks, the white one, tossing it somewhere he couldn't see.

Then he tugged at the heels of 'Jim from IT's' converse with his toes until he could kick off his shoes, which also landed somewhere he couldn't see.

Jim started on his belt buckle but was interrupted. (They left him with his belt? They must have wanted to test if he was suicidal...)

"That's enough, Mr. Moriarty." The suited man stated.

"All you wanted was a tease?" Jim teased, "I still want a tip, though."

Someone cuffed Jim's wrists together behind the back of a cold, metal chair that Jim fell backwards into.

A rectangular stream of light beamed into the room from a door opening, causing Jim to squint (unable to lift a hand to shield his unadjusted eyes).

Through his squinting eyes, Jim watched the two suited men (one carrying his shoes and one, his sweater) start towards the door, where a the silhouette of a woman stood.

"You're just going to leave me here?" Jim called after them, "You're not being very good hosts!"

They ignored his words and the door slammed.

Jim was left alone and immobile in the dark.

If you asked Jim when he 'knew' he was 'gay', he would tell you that it was when he was thirteen and he saw classmate Carl Powers' just-barley muscular physique in a speedo.

(It would be a lie, but that's what he would tell you.)

Carl attended the expensive private school on an athletic scholarship and since he was from a poor background Jim thought that with that in common they perhaps could even be friends (Jim had never had a friend before).

But Jim had underestimated (didn't understand) the social hierarchy among teenagers.

Jocks weren't friends with the creepy loners who sat in the corner, grinning to themselves, or sometimes, trying to cry.

And a Jock on an athletic scholarship, (already in danger of unpopularity because of being poor and his parents not having attended the school), eager to climb the social ladder, didn't even speak to the creepy loner (very recently 'nouveau riche' who's parents also didn't attend the school) who sat in the corner, grinning to him self and sometimes trying to cry.

And so Carl turned down Jim's attempts at friendship (mimicked from the business propositions Jim had watched James make to men in suits) with cruel laughter.

Maybe Jim felt sad.

Maybe he did, but he didn't (couldn't) cry.

It was strange, really, how Jim could go from being the class-clown that everybody thought was hilarious and wanted to be friends with, one day…to being the creepy loner who sat in the corner trying to cry, the next.

For weeks, Jim was the funny-guy, always happy with Laughter (squinting eyes, open and smiling mouth) on his face and in his voice, as if Carl's rejection hadn't bothered him.

(And it hadn't, had it? Jim was just pretending to be a sad by pretending not to be sad, right?)

Maybe Jim felt angry.

(How dare Carl not want to be his friend?

He had selected Carl out of all the hundreds of other students; Carl had been the chosen one.

How dare he not choose Jim?)

He wanted to tear that cruel sneer from Carl's mouth, rip that cruel laugh right out of his voice.

Jim didn't want Carl to be sorry.

Sorry/Ashamed (eyes avoiding contact, brows furrowed) meant that Carl would have realized his mistake.

And that (sorry) wasn't good enough.

Jim didn't want Carl to even see what hit him coming.

And he didn't.

It had been too easy sneaking the poison into Carl's eczema medication.

(Looks like Adonis wasn't so perfect, after all. Carl had tried to conceal the condition from his peers but Jim wasn't stupid.)

Jim had watched Carl run track for the school team, always wearing the same shoes (the only good, name-brand shoes he had (could afford))…and no socks.

Jim (who, once in awhile, actually did pay attention in science class) at first had guessed Athlete's Foot, but eczema was close enough.

So, on Carl's big day (the regional swimming competition of the best students from the best schools) Jim had unlocked Carl's locker (the combination was his birthday. Very original) dosed the medicine…

…and, just for the fun of it, took Carl's shoes.

(It's not like he'd need them anymore, anyway…)

Later, just like the rest of the cheering crowd watching the race, Jim was Surprised/Shocked as Carl suddenly started to sputter as he swam, sinking under the chlorinated water.

Then the lifeguard dragged Carl out of the pool, attempting chest-compressions and CPR, and then finally checking for a pulse and then shaking his head sadly, as the onlookers gaped in horror, some screaming, some crying.

Jim had to duck out of the room at this point, because he couldn't pretend to be 'sad'.

Back in the locker-room, Jim looked into in the long mirror, seeing Carl Power's cruel sneer, and hearing Carl Power's cruel laugh, coming from his own reflection.

Suddenly, behind Carl Powers—no, Jim Moriarty's image in the mirror was another young teenage boy, peering out from behind a row of gray lockers.

He was wearing a uniform from one of the schools competing against Jim's.

This boy said nothing.

He just stared at into Jim's (reflection's) eyes with his own ice blue, as if analyzing (understanding (but not knowing)) him with just a look.

If you asked Jim when he 'knew' he was 'gay', he would tell you that it was when he was thirteen and he saw classmate Carl Powers' just-barley muscular physique in a speedo.

(It would be a lie, but that's what he would tell you.)

He wouldn't tell you that it was when he was thirteen and he saw classmate Carl Powers' just-barley muscular physique in a speedo…dead and then a boy about his age with dark and curly hair, pale skin and omniscient blue eyes.

He wouldn't tell you that it was the day that Sherlock Holmes had replaced Carl Powers as Jim Moriarty's reflection in the mirror.

And he wouldn't tell you about the time he 'knew' that he wasn't 'gay' and that nothing was ever so absolute. About the girl that dominated over the dead and could barely handle herself around the living...about the girl who had become the mirror.

(No, he wouldn't tell anyone. He'd never tell anyone, not even himself.)

Jim was never any good at remembering numbers, at remembering dates and keeping track of time.

He didn't know how long it had been (hours? days?) that he had been alone in the dark interrogation room when the light returned to further blind him.

Squinting, Jim managed to see a silhouette of a man enter the room.

It was not one of the two black suited men…or the female he had seen earlier.

This was a buff man in a black wife-beater, camouflage pants, and a bald head, who was obviously meant to look very intimidating.

Jim started to snicker.

Was this one of James's Numbers? Somebody his brother had recruited from some defense contractor, or just right out of the military discharge list?

"Mr. Moriarty." The man addressed.

Jim said nothing.

He wasn't going to talk to this nobody (probably not even in James's top ten; probably more like a number fifty or even less…).

If James wanted to capture and interrogate him, then he would have to do better then this 'bruiser' whose IQ was probably inversely proportional to his numerical value of importance.

"Mr. Moriarty." The man repeated.

Jim still refused to speak.

"Where is the code?" The man asked.

Jim didn't answer.

"Where is the code?" the man repeated, angrier.

His brows were furrowed and his mouth was frowning.

Jim kept his expression neutral (aside from a slight smile due to the ridiculousness of this situation).

"Where's the code!" the man shouted, now even more angrier.

Jim knew his breaking point was near.

Jim broadened his grin.

Point broken.

And that's when the punching began.

"Stop, no! Just stop!" Lewis cried, "Why are you torturing me! I haven't done anything! Stop! Let me go!"

He was strapped down to the white table, in the white room, receiving carefully channeled electric shocks to his skull.

This was therapy.

It was 'proven' to alleviate depression by re-wiring the brain.

But Lewis was schizophrenic.

Jim watched from the one-way window, trying to copy the contorted faces that Lewis made as he was shocked.

Pain.

Scared/Nervous.

Pain.

Panic.

Pain.

Anger.

Pain.

Jim wished he was on the other side, where the window was just a black mirror and he would be able to see his reflection, see if he was doing Lewis's expressions correctly.

The doctor, dressed in a white labcoat, pressed the button to administer the next round of shocks.

Pain.

Scared/Nervous.

Pain.

Panic.

Pain.

Anger.

Pain.

Lewis, stripped down to his underwear, was writhing on the table, struggling to break free from the leather restraints.

When the shocks finally subsided Lewis lay still on the table and for a second Jim thought he was dead.

But as the doctor's hand hovered above that little button, Lewis's neck shook as it tried to lift his heavy head, black hair still standing on end from the residual electricity, and turn to his torturer.

"Please…" he begged, in a hoarse whisper, "Please…just stop…"

And the doctor really looked like he was going to.

For a second, he thought he had actually cured Lewis.

But, alas.

"…don't torture me…don't do this to me anymore…" Lewis continued to plead in his almost nonexistent voice, "…whatever you have to do, don't do it to me… for god's sake, please, don't do it to me…do it to Carol, do it to Carol…"

And the doctor pressed the buttons.

As Jim watched Lewis's body jump and jolt with the shocks (now only by reflex as Lewis had passed out), he couldn't help but smile.

"Do it to Carol."

'Do it to Julia.'

Wasn't that part of some book he had read in Literature class or something…?

Lewis wasn't serious; he was just playing with the doctors.

He was just pretending…

Jim liked Lewis.

The nineteen year old was crazy, yes, but he knew how to have fun.

(And wasn't crazy the only way to have fun?)

Now if only Lewis would stop being so damn infatuated with that imaginary girlfriend Carol of his…

…Jim might have considered Lewis a friend.

(Jim wouldn't be 'friends' with anyone he couldn't have completely to himself.)

They knew (although probably didn't understand) each other well enough, their rooms were right beside one another, after all, so they had talked.

And just what was Jim doing in this mental hospital in the first place?

It was another one of James's punishments.

(Apparently killing was a bad thing, against the rules, and something that James's had warned Jim about doing and told him not to do and blah, blah, blah…)

James informed Jim that his stay at the institution was 'for his own good', so Jim would learn his lesson…

…and 'for his own protection', just in case the police did decide to investigate Carl Power's death as a murder.

It was fun for a while, seeing all the 'crazies' and learning their expressions (emotions).

During group therapy, the counselor had declared that 'you feel an emotion so you make a facial expression…but if you make a facial expression, you also feel that emotion'.

(This, of course, was what Jim had been trying to do since he was Jimmy.

He wondered if it worked for normal people.)

The counselor then followed up his statement with the usual 'so smile, it takes less muscles than frowning' since every single doctor working at the facility seemed to believed that the entire patient population suffered from depression.

Jim sat there in the circle grinning, as if he was the happiest person on the planet.

Violence was easy.

Movement was easy.

Too easy.

Normal.

The mind was the weapon to be respected.

To be feared.

And so Jim said nothing as he was continuously attacked, over and over again, by a number of muscular men demanding 'the code'.

The 'pain' didn't (couldn't) affect him.

Nothing psychical could affect him.

Jim Moriarty was a mind.

And in his mind, he repeated his favorite childhood nursery rhyme:

…'sticks and stones can't break my bones, only clever words can hurt me'…

Over and over again.

But enough of the silence, enough of the darkness…

Jim wanted to talk.

Hours later, or days later, or maybe even weeks later, the light came again, and Jim closed his eyes and smiled, basking in it.

When he opened them, the buff men were gone, replaced by a woman (probably the female figure from earlier) in a black suit, smartphone in hand.

Anthea.

Mycroft Holmes's employee.

So James wasn't the one behind Jim's abduction, it was Mycroft…

Of course!

That explained all the black suits, and all the black cars.

The taxi had been James, but the taxi was only allowed to watch…

…but the black suited men, driving the black cars, they had been Mycroft, and their orders were to capture.

So this meant Mycroft knew about the code.

Which meant that James hadn't used his handy code to block the mass text Jim had sent out to all his contacts from Lewis's phone…

…even though he knew Lewis had been killed by the government, his phone confiscated and his messages available to be read by Mycroft and his men.

So this was James's game.

Have the British government (Mycroft Holmes) do his 'dirty work' for him.

Brilliant, Jim had to admit.

James (who always would be taller and older and smarter than Jim no matter how grown-up Jim got) had 'won this round'.

(But James had just 'won the battle, not the war' and the 'game wasn't over yet', and all those 'nursery rhymes' that Jim kept repeating in his head.)

No, the War was not over.

No, the Game was not over.

(Indeed, it never was.)

Jim closed his eyes again.

"Mr. Moriarty." Anthea began and Jim eyes flew back open and looked up at her.

The lights in the interrogation room were on, now, and Jim realized the room was white.

"Yes, miss…um…what might your name be?" he asked.

Anthea rolled her eyes, almost snorting but not snorting because that wasn't professional and definitely wasn't lady-like.

"I'm here to talk about you today, Mr. Moriarty." She stated, "Not me."

"Enough about me…" Jim cooed, "More about you, so tell me about yourself…"

"The code, Mr. Moriarty." Anthea insisted.

She was a good little solider.

(Properly trained to stay on topic when speaking to psychopaths who would try to distract her, mess with her mind, get her to open up and trust, and then destroy her…)

"Look." Jim said flatly, his face matching his tone, "You're just a nobody. A busy little worker-bee. I'm not talking to you. I want to talk to the queen."

"Excuse me?" Anthea replied, taken aback.

(She had been briefed about Moriarty and his metaphors but her boss had been called a 'queen' far too many times to not be a little bit cautious about this.)

"Okay. Let me make it easy for a drone like you to understand…" Jim said, speaking as if Anthea was an mentally handicapped child fluent only in a foreign language, " Me Moriarty… Me want to talk to your boss."

Anthea sucked her teeth and stared at the ceiling.

"You'll speak to me." She told him.

"No." Jim grinned, shaking his head exaggeratedly, "I'll speak to Mr. Holmes..."

...not filler, I hope lol.

And I'm considering a Mycroft POV for next chapter...hmm...preferences, anyone?