...Hey guys lol :)

Mixed feelings about Mycroft...who is here, but so is Molly and Jim and even Sherlock (who also causes mixed feelings-if mixed means negative lol).

So today's just a mixed chapter, it seems lol.

ALSO CONTAING:

-(Lots and lots of) metaphors, of course, as always (I think I'm gonna make some kind of chart detailing all of them and which chapters they appear in-wish me luck!)

-first person POV for the first time (!) that kinda makes fun of my own writing style lol and my choice to add in Mycroft

- A silly pun (that Jim only makes because it's something stupid that I would say lol)

-Lisping (also another tribute to my favorite author; myself. lol. (and the reason I perfer writing to talking out loud))

-Me saying 'lol' too much in the Author's Note (like I always do)

- Almost invisble dabbles into metafiction which we're studying in class right now lol and probably will continue into the next few chapters

- Copious parentheses (however that word is spelled)

-Refrences to Shakespeare (which play?), Mythology, and other random things I'm not even sure why I throw in lol

- And words that I'm pretty sure actually don't exist.

(If you want-you can start a checklist and find them all-if you get bored reading, or something lol)

...Oooookay SHUTTING UP NOW!

Have fun!

(hopefully)

You would think that Sherlock Holmes always was, always has been, the way he is.

A proverbial, 'mathematical constant', one could say.

But you would be wrong.

Sherlock Holmes is fluid.

Dynamic.

Always moving, always changing…even now.

Especially now.

And so before… years before now, Sherlock was… different.

(Well, he's always been 'different', hasn't he?)

But what I mean is…Sherlock, he was…he-

"You're rambling, Mr. Holmes."

"Am I?"

"You're stalling…get to the point."

"All in good time, all in good time…but all good stories need a good prologues, some exposition…something to set the mood—"

"It was a dark and stormy night...Crash! Lightning. Boom! Thunder. Oooh, mummy, I'm scared!….There. Exposition. Now get on with it."

"Really, Mr. Moriarty, I don't see why you're in such a hurry. It's not as if you're going anywhere, now is it? In fact, I believe I have you as my 'captive audience'…"

"Stalling again! And you're losing me…You're not very good at this, are you? This storytelling thing? Bet little Sherlock didn't like that. A word of advice, Mr. Holmes…get. to. the. point."

"Oh, Alright..."

Alright.

Sherlock was only fourteen, just a child, when he took his first case.

I say 'took' because he didn't solve it until almost twenty years later.

That case, as you know of course, is the suspicious death of Carl Powers, a teenaged athlete who died during his swimming championship.

I say 'suspicious death' but what I mean is that it was only suspicious to Sherlock.

Everyone else thought the boy, Powers, had simply drowned.

Sherlock knew better.

But, being only fourteen years of age and just a child, could do absolutely nothing about it—despite his multiple attempts to convince police that the supposed 'drowning death' was, in fact, a murder.

He tried so hard, Sherlock did, to get the police, to get someone, anyone, to get me, to just listen to him.

But nobody did.

Not even me.

I knew he was right, and, even then, I had significant enough influence in the government to do something about it—but I didn't.

And still, completely and utterly alone in his 'crusade', Sherlock kept trying.

I had always known Sherlock was different, yes…

…but this…

This was when it all started for him.

This was when I truly realized that Sherlock was more than just 'different'.

That he was different than me.

That he wouldn't compromise himself; his lifestyle, his morals, his personality, like I had for the sake of appearing normal.

That he would never give up and that he would never be satisfied, nothing would ever be enough…

For him, for my brother, Sherlock Holmes…the Game will always be 'afoot'.

Mycroft Holmes thought he had delivered a very elegant and eloquent preface for the biography of his younger and only brother Sherlock Holmes.

He took a breath.

But before Mycroft could continue his story, Jim Moriarty (handcuffed to a chair, locked in a secret interrogation room) started to snicker.

Yes, snicker.

Not laugh maniacally, or anything, like a criminal of his caliber should have (or, rather, the caricature of a criminal of his caliber) but snicker, just snicker.

And, frankly, it unnerved him.

(Which, probably, was Moriarty's purpose.)

Not much unnerved Mycroft Holmes (the British government) who had seen 'a great many things' (bad things) during his career…

…but Jim Moriarty did.

Perhaps it was the fact that the 'consulting criminal' was just so damn obsessed with Sherlock.

(And that he wasn't so different from Sherlock.)

(And that he, too, like Sherlock would never give up…)

"You don't get it, do you?" Moriarty snorted, finally looking up at Mycroft from how he, with closed eyes, had been snickering into his lap, "Even now, twenty years later…you just don't get it."

"Get what?" Mycroft had to ask, willingly 'taking the bait' because he had to keep Moriarty talking.

"The joke." Moriarty said, matter-of-factly.

"The joke?" Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow, "What 'joke'…?"

"The joke." Moriarty repeated, chuckling, "Think about what you just said, Mr. Holmes, think…"

Moriarty paused to allow Mycroft to think.

Mycroft furrowed his brows and thought, knowing that Moriarty was watching the metaphorical 'gears' turning inside his skull, probably imagining some kind of hamster running on a wheel—

"Anything?" Moriarty interrupted Mycroft's thought process.

"No." Mycroft admitted, shaking his head, "Nothing."

Moriarty snickered again.

"Ah, that's too bad." he moaned exaggeratedly, "...but I guess I shouldn't have expected you, Mr. 'I'm the government and I've got no sense of humor', to actually get the joke."

"And are you going to explain it to me?" Mycroft asked, and then added, "…bitter fool?" to show that he indeed did have a sense of humor.

"Really, 'nuncle', Shakespeare?" Moriarty returned, rolling his eyes, "It's so old. I much prefer the modern…the novel…And it's so mainstream, too, so normal…so boring…"

"Hmm, I so had you figured for a 'renaissance man', Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft commented, folding his arms.

"People forget that 'renaissance' means rebirth." Moriarty countered, sighing, "And that's what I am; reborn, re-imagined. I'm new...Not some senile old bureaucrat with an umbrella stuck up his ass."

Mycroft simply smiled at this insult.

He was not going to dignify it with any other response.

"I apologize." He said, "In my 'senility' I must have gotten my definitions confused. I shouldn't have said 'renaissance man'…The term I meant is 'polymath'."

"…oh." Moriarty accepted, nodding, eyes and mouth wide, seeming to understand (but in the most mocking of ways possible).

"Still…" Mycroft continued, "It's a shame that you can't appreciate true culture. That you can't appreciate our rich British—"

"I'm Irish!" Moriarty growled.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded, smiling, "You are..."

After three days of no one breaking into her apartment to capture and/or kill her, Molly had decided that it was safe to leave and return to work.

Apparently, Jim's brother James wasn't planning to 'make good' on his threat to have her 'lying cold' on her own 'morgue table' if she ever saw Jim again…and his men in black suits had been content with stealing Jim away from her instead.

(Stealing? From her? What, did Molly think she owned Jim now? (More likely it was the other way around…))

It was funny actually, Molly thought, that it had taken over a hundred people to take Jim into custody.

James had somehow vacated the entirety of King's Cross train station and replaced all the normal travelers with his own employees.

And then suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.

It was scary.

So this was the extent of James' power…

…And Molly had thought Jim was dangerous.

(They really were gods, weren't they?)

(…and speaking of gods…)

Sherlock was already down in the basement when Molly arrived at the hospital that morning.

Waiting, but not for her—for her help (sadly, there was a difference).

Still, for the great consulting detective (the great, all-powerful god) Sherlock Holmes to seek the help of mere mortal (amoeba) Molly Hooper…

As always, she was honored, and she obliged.

"I require the use of some of your equipment." Sherlock stated as soon as he saw Molly come down the stairs.

It wasn't a question, it wasn't a request (-It wasn't even polite!).

It was an order that Molly, as always, dutifully obeyed.

"Sure, Sherlock." Molly agreed, smiling, "What do you need?"

"I'll find it myself." Sherlock replied, "Just unlock the lab for me."

"Okay." Molly nodded, still trying to maintain the smile which Sherlock did not return.

Sherlock followed Molly down the dim hallway, past the cold room with the bodies, to the lab.

She reached into her pocket to pull out the keys…

…and realized she didn't have her white labcoat.

"Um…" Molly fumbled, in front of the wooden door, slapping her hips as if she believed the keys to be in her pants pockets.

She could feel Sherlock watching her.

Now he would realize that she wasn't wearing the labcoat she always wore.

And then he would wonder why.

And then he would look at her and deduce.

…and then it would be all over.

Molly's breath hitched.

But Sherlock said nothing.

Molly turned around, there was no expression on his face that Molly could (feebly attempt to) read and 'deduce' his deductions about her.

Nothing.

"I'm thorry..." Molly apologized.

And then she noticed how her voice had sounded.

Surprised, she squeaked, quickly bringing a hand to her lips, parting them just slightly enough so that she could feel the tip of her tongue on her fingers.

There was a sore…

…a bite-mark...

…that had still not yet healed.

('Not yet healed' because Molly had been picking at it with her own teeth, absentmindedly—or, maybe, deliberately because she didn't want it to.)

Would Sherlock deduce this as the cause of her new lisp?

Would Sherlock deduce that Molly Hooper had been at the train station with Jim Moriarty when the black suits had come to take him away?

Would Sherlock deduce that Jim had kissed her, twice…and that the second time he had bit the very tip of her tongue with his front teeth just as they were being broken away?

Would Sherlock deduce that Molly had wanted so badly to call out to Jim as he was being taken away but she didn't (couldn't)and so since that day she had been hiding out in her flat and hadn't spoken a single word, the last ones she had said being said only to Jim?

Would Sherlock deduce this?

"Just go get a spare from the security office." Sherlock told Molly, groaning to himself and massaging his forehead as if this delay was the most annoying event possible.

And Molly (incredibly relieved) was eager, as always, to oblige the god.

(And a few days later the cut on her tongue had healed and her lisp had gone since she had decided to stop picking at it for the sake of discretion to keep herself safe, as Jim had requested.)

"…but you're mother's not." Mycroft completed.

(It was a simple deduction, really. Jim didn't look ethnically Irish but had an Irish last name, so his father must have been Irish while his mother could've been as English as the people he tried to distance himself from by insisting his country of origin so adamantly.)

Jim knew Mycroft was only trying to 'bait' him with his comments about his mother and he certainly wasn't going to 'take the'.

Sure, if his hands weren't cuffed together behind his back and a chair, Jim would jump up and punch him…but since they were, Jim was going to 'be the bigger person'.

"And your mother sucks cocks in hell, Mr. Holmes." Jim retorted, definitely being the 'bigger person'.

"You're stalling, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft stated, folding his hands behind his back and then bringing them back to his sides, stretching out his fingers, as if to demonstrate how free they were, "Explain the joke to me."

"Okay," Jim began, grin already returning to his face upon remembering the joke, "A Brit, a Scot and an Irishman walk into a bar—"

"I'm stopping you. I believe I've heard that one before." Mycroft interrupted, "Tell me the other one."

"The catchphrase." Jim said.

" 'catchphrase'?" Mycroft repeated, again raising an eyebrow, "I wasn't aware Sherlock had a 'catchphrase'…"

"'The Game's afoot'." Jim declared, "You said it yourself."

And Mycroft did recall saying something along those lines earlier….

Jim began to snicker again.

"And just what is so funny about that, might I ask?" Mycroft asked, eyebrow still raised.

"You still don't get it, do you, genius?" Jim questioned.

"Obviously not."

" 'the Game's afoot'."

"…Yes?"

"The Game…" Jim said again, stressing and elongating certain important words and syllables, " is a-foot."

"Afoot?"

"No! A Foot. A…Foot!...as in, you know, the thing with five toes at the bottom of your leg. A foot. The Game is A Foot."

"The Game is A Foot." Mycroft repeated, still confused.

He got that Jim meant 'foot' (as in the body part) but he didn't get the joke.

(He knew but he didn't understand.)

Jim sighed.

"Sherlock's first case. Carl Powers." He attempted, "What made Sherlock suspicious? What did Sherlock notice that nobody else did?...What was Carl missing?"

"Carl Powers was missing…he was missing…ah, his trainers." Mycroft remembered.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes! Good boy!" Jim congratulated condescendingly, wishing so much that he could clap his hands, "Carl was missing his trainers. His shoes…and what, Mr. Holmes, do we put in a shoe?"

Insight.

An instantaneous revelation.

An understanding.

And suddenly Mycroft Holmes got the joke.

"A foot." He said.

Jim grinned.

"A foot." He repeated, "The Game… the very first game that Sherlock ever played, the one that, even now, he still hasn't finished, despite finally solving the case...is A Foot. Get it?"

"Yes." Mycroft nodded.

"Isn't it hilarious…" Jim chuckled, shaking his head, "All this time…it's been a joke, Sherlock's catchphrase, a damn pun…commemorating his first case. The Game is A Foot. Celebrating our bond. 'The Game is afoot'. Because, like you said, the Game is always afoot…"

But Sherlock, well, he never played well with the other children.

He was smarter than them and he knew it, they all knew it…but when he was just a child he didn't care.

All his 'discoveries', his thoughts, his feelings (and yes, he used to have those)…he couldn't keep them to himself.

He wanted to share them with everyone.

He wanted everyone to be as excited about, say, his insect wing collection or the fingerprint patterns in the finger-paintings, as he was.

But that was simply impossible, of course, and so all the other kids found Sherlock annoying…

…and the emotional outbursts he would have-that he still has, sometimes, on bad days—they would…unnerve them.

When he was just a child, Sherlock couldn't control his emotions, his impulses…

Everything he felt, I suspect he felt so much more strongly than everyone else did that it overwhelmed even his superior mind.

He cared too much.

And so I told him that 'caring is not an advantage'.

And I programmed that 'nursery rhyme' into his brain… until he learned to ignore, to smother...to attack, to destroy every emotion he experienced and became the efficient machine that he is now.

He always resented me for it, too.

And there were times, too, that he rebelled.

He would disappear for days, weeks even…escape into the city…

…escape into a 'higher plane of existence', he told me once.

The extreme state of consciousness, the feeling of omniscience, omnipotence that only artificial stimulants can provide.

He become a 'god', he said.

And he loved it.

But the 'higher you fly, the harder you fall' as they say—whoever 'they' are.

There was no gentle way to bring Sherlock down from his hazy, grey skies where only he could see through the clouds.

He couldn't just climb down from Mount Olympus…he had to jump. He had to fall.

It was the only way down.

So many times I had to lock him in dark rooms, alone with nothing…

…until his blood was free of the substance, free from the need of it and he was 'human' again.

And he hated it.

He hated me.

But what he didn't know, though…

…or, rather what he always knew but never really understood (except while under the influence)…

…was that he already was a god.

Always was a god.

He and I, being as we are, understand people.

We look at them and we understand.

But what had always been an advantage to me, a power of mine that I use to control people via my understanding of them…

…has always been a handicap to Sherlock Holmes, his 'Achilles Heel'.

He understands people, yes, but cannot relate to them.

He can't know them.

And so, they've always unnerved him.

So selfish, so petty, so stupid…ordinary people are.

Sherlock fears them.

And so, like ordinary people do when they fear something, he avoids them.

The phone (Jim's phone) had been 'ringing off the hook' (vibrating constantly) since Molly had received it from Jim that day at the train station.

(And she did, only once, turn the ringer on just to see what the ringtone was. It was some old disco song. No wonder he had it on vibrate.)

She never answered.

The calls went to voicemail and the texts went unreplied.

(She did listen to some of the voicemails, though, and read some of the texts. Most of them concerned some kind of code and proof of its existence that people wanted.)

Molly brought the phone with her wherever she went, afraid that if she let it go for one moment that it would disappear all together (be stolen, perhaps) and she would have betrayed Jim's (last?) request to keep it safe.

(But that wasn't Jim's (last?) request, keeping the phone safe. It was to keep herself safe…)

Molly guessed she was safe, no one had tried to attack her or anything in the two weeks (seventeen days, actually, even thought Molly had never been good at remembering numbers and dates and keeping track of time) Jim had been gone.

She hoped he was safe.

"Somebody's getting quite popular today." Sherlock commented, pulling Molly from her thoughts.

He had once again come to the morgue on a case—this time to examine the body of politician that had probably been murdered on a rival candidate's behalf.

And, for the umpteenth time that afternoon, Jim's phone had vibrated.

"Fifteen times, already, it's vibrated." Sherlock added, turning from the metal table where he was going over the strangulation patterns around the victim's neck to look at Molly suspiciously, "Are you ever going to answer?"

Sherlock was still holding the magnifying glass he was using up to his eye and so Molly could see the ice blue orb burning like a star at her, bigger and so brighter than usual.

Did he know?

"Um—I—" Molly stammered, reaching into the pocket of her new white labcoat to silence the cellphone, "Not yet. I'm still on shift, after all. I'm not supposed to be on the phone…it's just, uh, my boyfriend, anyway…"

"Lair." Sherlock scoffed, turning back to the corpse and returning to its fatal wounds.

"I'm not!" was all Molly could manage to say, already holding her breath.

Did he know?

Had he figured out that this was not her phone but Jim Moriarty's and that it wasn't her boyfriend (did she even have a 'boyfriend'?) contacting her but Jim's contacts contacting him?

Molly never had been a very good liar….

(And was that a good thing or a bad thing?)

"I knew it." Sherlock muttered.

And Molly froze.

…uh oh…

"I knew it!" Sherlock repeated, louder, whirling around to face Molly.

"…knew what?" Molly asked, already cringing at what the answer might be.

"I knew it was the gay lover he was secretly seeing!" Sherlock exclaimed.

And Molly let out a sigh of relief.

…Thank god….

(And, of course, it was the gay lover. More than half of everybody in the world revolving around Sherlock seemed to be gay in some way or connected to someone gay.)

"But I thought it was his opponent in the election…" Molly replied.

"It was." Sherlock stated.

"Wait a minute—you just said it was the gay lover—"

"And it was. His opponent in the election was also his lover. Please, John, try to keep up."

"My name's Molly…"

"Whatever."

"But how did you know—"

"It's just so obvious, really." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The man was strangled with his own belt. Who would access to his belt, the element of surprise and him? A lover during a sexual encounter. And who would have the motive to kill him in the first place? His political opponent…especially when that political opponent was threatening to expose their secret relationship."

"That makes sense." Molly nodded, "…But I thought you didn't pay attention to politics…"

"I don't." Sherlock affirmed, "It's too petty. Unimportant…but regrettably, my brother does 'pay attention to politics'. In fact, he's quite involved. He explained to me the trivial, boring game that is politics…they're all just fixed, anyway, elections. These two politicians had a deal to share power no matter who won the election. That's why they never broadcast any negative attack adverts against each other. But you know this. You were there when Mycroft explained it, John."

"But John's not here now!" Molly cried, "He went to the bathroom three minutes ago! You're looking right at me, for god's sake! You know I'm not him!"

"Yes, of course, I know that." Sherlock stated, unconvincingly.

He wasn't that good of a liar, either, Molly 'deduced'...that, or he just didn't bother trying when he was lying to her.

"Liar." Molly wanted to say but didn't.

She was quiet and the silence was awkward, as it always was (especially between her and Sherlock).

"I'm off to find John, then." Sherlock decided, taking one last suspicious look at Molly and then stalking towards the door.

A few moments after he was gone Jim's phone rang again.

…rang!

(Molly thought she had turned that thing off!)

The music was playing and Molly (after jumping up in alarm and squeaking) hastily shoved her hand into her labcoat pocket, snatching up the phone and pressing buttons frantically trying to shut off its ringer.

Finally the smartphone silenced.

And in that silence, Molly thought she heard something (someone).

But when she peered her head, cautiously, around the door (already cringing at what (whom) she might see) the hallway was empty.

Another day, another chapter and when it was finally finished Mycroft thought he had told a very riveting tale…

Of games and rules and exceptions.

Of the Game and the rules and the exception.

Of heroes and villains in a world where nothing was ever so absolute.

Of good men and great men, of angels and demons.

Of gods.

Of Sherlock Holmes.

(Once alone—the only light burning in the vast empty darkness of space-but now surrounded by orbiting planets.)

And Mycroft thought it was all beautiful, almost perfect.

(But not perfect because there was really only one man who could tell the story of Sherlock Holmes perfectly.)

He stared down at Jim Moriarty, awaiting a response.

Moriarty was still seated in the metal chair, but his handcuffs were gone (removed a week ago). Mycroft knew by then that the dangerous criminal wasn't going to be physically dangerous.

Moriarty didn't seem to respect physical violence (when it didn't involve gunpowder and explosives). He liked to play chess, not sports.

Moriarty began to clap.

The archetypal villainous slow clap, it echoed off the white walls of the interrogation room.

Mycroft waited patiently for him to finish, not rolling his eyes (even though he had had just about enough of Moriarty's campy overacting these past two weeks).

"Beautiful, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty sobbed, wiping a tear from his eye, "Just beautiful! Pure perfection!"

"Thank you." Mycroft said flatly, "…and now that I've held up my end of the bargain, it's time for you to hold up yours, Mr. Moriarty. Tell me the code."

"Well…about that…." Moriarty grinned, sheepishly.

"Now, now Mr. Moriarty, no stalling." Mycroft warned, raising any eyebrow and a pointed finger.

"IOU." Moriarty blurted.

"Come again?" Mycroft replied, eyebrow still raised.

"I…O…U" Moriarty repeated, slower this time, stressing each syllable, "IOU."

"Is that the code?" Mycroft asked, "IOU?"

"Ummmmmmm no."

"Then what is it? Tell me the code, we had a deal. You promised. You're not a liar, Mr. Moriarty, are you?"

"Actually, I am—but that's not the point."

"And what, pray tell, is the point?"

"Point is, Mr. Holmes, I'd love to keep my promise. I'd love to tell you the code, I really would…but I can't."

"And why not?"

Moriarty laughed at this, shaking his head and covering his face with one hand, looking down at his lap.

"Well, truthfully, it's a little embarrassing, it is…You see, I wish I could tell you the code...but I seem to have forgotten it."

"You've 'forgotten it'?"

"….I never was any good at remembering numbers…"

Mycroft mirrored Moriarty's hand on face, massaging his aching forehead.

"We had an agreement."

"Yes, I know, I know. I'm sorry…and I owe you one, Mr. Holmes, IOU."

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free.

After their conversation, Mycroft had left Moriarty in the interrogation room for a week.

And, just the further punish the 'consulting criminal' for not revealing the code, Mycroft had turned off the lights, leaving Moriarty alone in the dark.

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free.

For all Moriarty had done (to everyone (to Sherlock)), he deserved to flicker in there until he finally burned out.

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free.

And even if Moriarty had given Mycroft the code he still wouldn't have let him go.

Their deal had been 'tell me the story'—'tell me the code'.

There was no mention of release in that agreement.

And Moriarty had gotten what he had wanted; the story of the life of Sherlock Holmes.

Told by Sherlock's own brother.

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free...

…But Mycroft Holmes needed Jim Moriarty's code.

"It's not his code." Mycroft muttered, suddenly, mostly to himself.

"What was that, sir?" Anthea asked.

She watched Mycroft as he stood in front of the two-way window, staring into the darkness.

He could not see Jim Moriarty, the villain in Sherlock's story.

All he could see was his own reflection.

And then Anthea's, approach behind him.

Mycroft turned around (no longer wanting to face himself).

"It's not his code," He said again, "Jim Moriarty did not make that code—whatever it is. Someone else did. And that's why he cannot remember it. Because he didn't create it, it doesn't belong to him. It's not his."

"Who did create the code, then?" Anthea inquired.

"I don't know." Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head, "And he's not going to tell us…"

"So what should we do, sir?"

"We have to get him to lead us to the one person who can tell us the code, it's creator…"

"Sir?" Anthea exclaimed in disbelief of the anticipated answer.

"We have to let him go." He said.

(It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free. But he did.)

You would think that Sherlock Holmes is unknowable.

Un-understandable.

You would be wrong.

But there are, actually, a small few that do truly know him.

And one, only one, that understands him.

You would think that the one person to truly understand Sherlock Holmes would never- could never betray him.

You would be wrong.

And I was just wondering...

How long does it take you, on average, to read my chapters?