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Remembering Jim (Minotaur VI)

…

"The attempt to trigger a new perception of space reopened a basic philosophical question. Remember: you are inside an enclosed space with equal height and width. Do your eyes instruct you about the cube merely by noticing it, without giving any additional interpretation? No. You don't really see the cube. You may see a corner, or a side, or the ceiling, but never all defining surfaces at the same time. You touch a wall, you hear an echo. But how do you relate all these perceptions to one single object?"

― Bernard Tschumi, The Labyrinth: Making Space Distinct (or The Experience of Space)

…

It was the morning of December 2nd, and Sherlock eagerly watched the clock. He was waiting for an appropriate time to make a phone call. Normally, this was not something he cared about in the least, but he was after all, trying to make a change.

He had not slept all night. That was fine. As it was, he had probably gotten enough sleep in the last several months to last him his entire lifetime.

And last night, he had woken up in more ways than one.

His laptop screen was open, and he had googled what the earliest appropriate time to make a phone call was. The first few search results were absurd. Sherlock would not be waiting for 9 am. After scrolling for some time, he found one website that suggested etiquette dictated that 7:45 was the absolute earliest.

Sherlock watched the digital clock in the bottom corner of his computer screen turn over. 7:44. Just one more minute.

He sprang up as soon as the last digit turned, and his phone was already in his hand and dialing.

"Good morning!" Sherlock said, as soon as he heard the line open.

"Sherlock, what is it? Is everything okay?" John said on the other end.

"Yes. How are you?" Sherlock said. Oddly, he actually meant it. He had not actually listened to John in so long, he had a lot of catching up. How was John's life going? Was domestic bliss everything the doctor hoped for and more?

"Alright, you're freaking me out. Are you at 221B? Stay there, and I'll be right over." John replied.

"I will stay here, yes, but there's no need…" Sherlock was confused. This was not the intended effect. He was hoping to engage John in a conversation, not have him rush to central London first thing in the morning. "Everything is fine, John."

" Good morning? How are you?! You've literally never asked me 'how I was,' in all the years I've known you. I don't know what you're thinking, but stop it. Place your hands underneath your arse, and sit like that until I come over, okay?"

Sherlock paused, and even took the phone away from his ear to look at the call screen. Yes, it still said John. Had he really never bothered to ask John how he was?

"Look, it's not necessary. Let me explain. I've made a turn, and I'm trying something new. I'd like to be a… good person. Part of that involves, I assume, asking people how they are. You would know better actually." Sherlock tried to explain.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Am I not going about this the right way?" Sherlock tried again. He had no idea how to explain to John, especially over the phone, the surreal experience of finally walking through the mirror to the other side and meeting the person responsible for all of Sherlock's woes. Sherlock had gone through the glass darkly, and emerged with a clearer vision of what ought to be done. The person on the other side of the mirror would simply have to cease to be. And a new person would take his place. There was no other recourse.

"I'm already hailing a cab." John said, and Sherlock could indeed hear the noise of traffic on the other end of the line. "Just sit tight." John reiterated.

Sherlock sighed, and nodded. "Alright."

…

John wore the same expression of gentle befuddlement through the entirety of his visit.

"So, you see, I've realized I must change. Otherwise, I will keep repeating the same mistakes, over and over." Sherlock concluded his explanation. It was a rather sanitary story that he had told John (the disembodied voice, for example, was not mentioned), but nonetheless, it captured all the major points.

John nodded thoughtfully.

"Obviously, I'm not exactly sure how to go about this change. I intended to reassure you with a phone call this morning. Instead, I've somehow precipitated you rushing here, when there was no need." Sherlock added. "I was hoping you could coach me on the finer points."

John was quiet for long moments.

"Alright, I think I get it, but Sherlock…" John cleared his throat, "We do like you the way you are. I mean, I'm not going to complain if you learn some manners, not at all. But, if you're worried that somehow we will abandon you or something if you don't change…"

Sherlock shook his head. No, no, no. It wasn't just about manners . He was afraid of this. John had not really understood the Sherlock of before. He could not help because he could not see the immense abyss Sherlock would have to bridge between the person that Sherlock had to face last night and the person he was aspiring to be.

"I am glad you're out of the funk you were in. I was getting worried." John added. It looked like he wanted to say more.

Sherlock placed his hands on his lap, and kept gazing at John, waiting for the rest of the words.

"Are you, erm, are you over the wizard thing, then?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked. "No," the answer came easily and readily, but then, he stopped, and realized he was not sure what John was asking.

"But you're feeling better?" John tried again.

"Oh! I see. Yes, I'm feeling much better. No need to stick me in a nuthouse." Sherlock answered, finally understanding John's question. It was to do with the inner stasis that Sherlock had shattered the night before. John had connected it with Harry. But of course, it was due to so much more than that.

"A nuthouse? Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John asked.

"You were here yesterday, talking about hospitalization." Sherlock explained.

John seemed agitated. Somehow, the conversation had begun sliding off the rails again. "Sherlock! That wasn't- were you even listening?"

"No, not very much, if we're being perfectly honest." Sherlock confessed.

"I was saying, yesterday, that Mycroft had suggested it, but Sherlock! As I said, I had advised him strongly against it. I think I talked him around. And I doubt he would do such a thing now, after I pointed out how it would do you little good-"

Oh no. That's actually much worse. Sherlock sprang up and went to the window. The ambulances might pull up any minute.

"I've got to talk to Mycroft." Sherlock said under his breath. His plans would be put in jeopardy if he had to execute them from the confines of a closed ward.

Sherlock looked down at his phone. His fingers tapped out a quick text.

Are you free today? I'd like to come by for a visit, if you are.

He sent the text to Mycroft. The response was swift.

Has someone stolen your phone? Read Mycroft's reply.

Sherlock frowned.

No, it's me. Have something to discuss.

There was a pause.

Ominous. I will prepare myself, as best I can. Diogenes Club, 3pm.

Sherlock nodded, and slid his mobile back in his pocket. He turned back to John.

"So, then. The next people on my list of amends are Mrs. Hudson. Then, Lestrade. If I could secure your help in how to approach this situation correctly, it would be immensely helpful. I can handle Mycroft myself, I think. " He told John.

John nodded, the befuddled expression still present.

"Right, yeah. Okay, this is what you're going to do…"

…

Mrs. Hudson was very easy and very hard at the same time. Sherlock sat down with her, and apologized for being so difficult. Mrs. Hudson teared up, but waved her hands about, and called herself a silly old lady.

"I'm just glad you're feeling better, dear." She said.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and nodded. It did not appear to be enough, but John had assured Sherlock that all Mrs. Hudson was looking for was reassurance that Sherlock was okay. Some flowers or chocolates might help as well, but on John's advice, he ought to space the two instances apart. Sherlock noted to pick up a bouquet on his way back to Baker Street.

He was off to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock made his best attempt at being civil with Sally Donovan. For her part, the Sergeant did not appear to know how to take this change in stride.

Lestrade was behind his desk, and Sherlock sat down across from him, and launched into the prepared speech. Earlier, John had nudged him this way and that, but for the most part, the words were entirely Sherlock's.

"...so, if you have any more difficult cases, I am happy to be of service. And, in the future, I will refrain from making disparaging remarks about you, or your police force. To the best of my ability, of course. Oh, and I'll try not to lie. Unless it is strictly necessary." Sherlock finished.

Lestrade actually laughed.

"Get an unwelcome visit from the ghost of Christmas past, have you?" Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock blinked.

"No, Greg ." Sherlock answered, unsure of the reference Lestrade was making. Christmas was still weeks away. But Sherlock did remember, just in time, to use the DI's Christian name.

"I don't know what kind of drugs you've got your hands on, but I'd like some." Lestrade said. "I've actually got nothing for you today. But yeah, alright, I'll call you, first weird case I get."

Sherlock nodded and exited the office.

…

"I haven't been a very good brother, have I?" Sherlock asked.

"Understatement of the century." Mycroft mumbled under his breath. "But then again, since you're so hell bent on putting it all out there, neither have I." Mycroft shrugged.

Sherlock fidgeted.

"I believe this is the part where we both say we will endeavor to do better by each other, and go our separate ways, no?" Mycroft lifted one eyebrow, in question.

"I suppose. I don't think we've ever done this." Sherlock shrugged.

"And I pray we never will again." Mycroft agreed.

"Right. Just one more thing, then. How much do I owe you for Baker Street?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft snorted. "Consider it an advance, for the next time I present you with a case, you will take it."

Sherlock winced, but nodded.

…

"Is that everyone?" Sherlock, back in Baker Street, was hoping he had more to do. The amends he had imposed on himself ran out all too quickly, and he was back inside his flat, with the voice threatening a return at any moment.

Oh yes, they are certainly all convinced aren't they? You've put on a spectacular show.

"It's not a show." Sherlock ground out between clenched teeth.

Time will tell, as it always does.

"What else is there? What more can I do?" Sherlock asked.

You know perfectly well.

"No, I don't. Know what?"

You've lost something along the way. And it will keep rotting you until you purge it.

Sherlock swallowed.

"I really don't want to do that right now." He whispered, more to himself.

Then the mask is already coming off, isn't it?

Sherlock clenched his teeth. Had he really lost his nerve, that quickly?

He took his phone out, and read the last message from Harry.

It would be so easy to believe he has truly changed now, and to go find Harry and make the final set of amends he has saved for the wizard, and then…

Ride off into the sunset laughing?

The voice was right, of course. If he were truly serious, he must face the wreckage of his Labyrinth. But the idea of setting foot into that darkened, hypogene space was more terrifying than anything Sherlock had ever done.

"I don't think I can do it." Sherlock choked out, finally.

Naturally. You think just because you've pranced and sung your songs in front of all your friends, you're different? No, Sherlock. It's never that simple.

…

For some reason, having Hermione stay at Grimmauld Place resulted in Ron visiting with a notable increase in frequency. He was hardly ever away. Harry kept this very peculiar observation wholly to himself, curious as to how it might play out.

"Merlin, it's like we're kids again, isn't it? The three of us, staying at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix?" Ron said, with a grin on his face, as he poured out three glasses of mead.

The fire in the sitting room was roaring, and a soft flurry of snow swept the windows.

"You're not actually staying here, though, are you Ron?" Hermione countered.

"I might very well be if things keep going the way they are. Charlotte is on a war path. Wants the cottage, and three pounds of my flesh along with it. I tell you, Harry, if you can avoid getting divorced, do so. I suppose the first step is not to marry."

" My divorce was perfectly civil. Perhaps if you and Charlotte sit down to have a rational, logical conversation, things would not be so-"

"Hermione, have you met Charlotte?" Ron cut in.

Harry watched the two, remembering his frustration decades past, and wondered if things ever really did change.

He watched the snow gather on the mullions of the windows. His thoughts were far away and drifting further. Hermione and Ron's bickering was like a much listened to, old record, and it faded into the background.

All he could think of was Sherlock. The longer Sherlock ignored him, the more Harry thought of him. No, that wasn't right. Maybe, the more Harry interacted with people of the magical world, the more he longed to return to 221B.

But that wasn't it either. It wasn't about the flat. Just the person that lived inside of the flat.

Maybe, the more time passed since his trial concluded, the more he missed Sherlock?

Harry had not been whole, until Sherlock found him. Sherlock had discovered all of Harry's missing pieces, and shoved them back into place (granted, not all too gently). Is that why Harry could not keep his thoughts from returning to the man?

For one breathless moment, Harry thought about downing his glass of mead and apparating (a foolish thing to do after drinking) directly to Sherlock's flat. Maybe he was back, after all these months? Maybe Harry could explain, pour his guts out, to Sherlock?

Without noticing it, Harry's breathing was coming in quicker, and he felt a prickling behind his eyes. The alcohol was having its effect.

Damn, he missed the man.

He down his glass of mead, but did not apparate to 221B. That would have been, Harry repeated to himself, an insane thing to do.

"...Harry?" Ron's voice was near.

"Yeah? Sorry, what is it?" Harry felt himself plummet back to the present.

"I was just saying, maybe it is better to be single, after all? Less complicated. Right?" Ron asked.

Harry had no idea what to make of the question. Why was Ron asking him this?

Harry looked to Hermione for help. No help was forthcoming, as Hermione was busy glaring absolute daggers at Ron.

"Er, not sure." Harry answered, voice weak.

"Ron, it's not like Harry had options before, now did he? Obviously, now that he does , things could be quite different for him, couldn't they?"

"Yeah, he does have options now. Sure. But all those options lead down the same road, don't they?" Ron said, and took a hearty swig from his glass, "There's falling in love, that's all well and good. Feels nice while it lasts. And then what? All that love giving way to disinterest, giving way to boredom, giving way to irritation until finally, it's over. And all you've got left is dealing with the paperwork of how you're going to go about splitting a single life up between two people. Not worth it, if you ask me."

"Just because your marriage has ended, doesn't mean Harry is bound to repeat your mistakes, Ron. Harry might have more wits about choosing a partner, and end up with someone more suited to him. You can't just assume that Harry would get divorced. Your parents have been together their whole lives, haven't they? And they-"

"Hermione, my parents aren't the issue. And people back then had different priorities. They stuck around, while people our age-"

"People our age what , Ron? We don't know how to love properly? And Harry could have the same priorities as your parents, couldn't he?"

"I'm sorry, what are we talking about?" Harry asked, completely nonplussed by this conversation.

Both Ron and Hermione looked stunned that there was actually a third person involved in the conversation. In an epiphany that Harry could almost attribute to Sherlock having rubbed off on him, he realized Ron and Hermione's argument actually had nothing to do with him.

He looked back and forth between his two friends.

Just as suddenly as his epiphany had come, the solution to this complicated problem presented itself. Harry looked down at his empty glass. Should he? He decided that he definitely should, but not tonight. It could wait until they were all sober.

"Anyway, we ought to be helping Harry find someone. Not trying to discourage him from looking." Hermione sniffed.

"Hold on, are we setting Harry up on dates? Because I have a few aurors who may be interested…"

"Absolutely not. Aurors, Ron?" Harry might have been angry if the idea was not so ludicrous. He and an auror, out on a date. What would they talk about? Harry laughed thinking of how he could regale said anonymous auror with tales about having eluded them for years.

"Right. Auror may not be the ticket." Ron agreed, "What about on your side, Hermione? Know anyone?"

"Why are we talking about this?" Harry was losing control of the situation, quickly.

"I have a few ideas, but I was sworn to not meddle in Harry's love life while I reside here." Hermione answered.

"Brilliant. We'll just wait until you're back at home, and then we can get Harry-"

"Isn't anybody going to ask me if I'm actually interested?" Harry looked in disbelief between his two friends, "Ron, you were just saying not a moment ago how love is not worth it. Now you're playing matchmaker?"

Ron waved his hand at Harry, effectively dismissing his own prior points. "That's all toss. Of course, it's worth it."

Harry looked for help from Hermione, again. She just shrugged and smiled. It could be the mead working its way into the witch's blood, but she seemed to have softened after Ron's last remark.

"Alright, look." Harry put his hands up, "I'm not sure how to put this. I'm… not available right now. Not interested. Not looking."

"Why?" Ron asked with genuine curiosity.

Because I'm still in love with Sherlock , Harry almost blurted out, but stopped himself just in time.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Harry. You need time. We understand." Hermione said.

But that wasn't it. He didn't need time. He needed Sherlock. Or to forget about Sherlock. But which was it?

"Maybe…" Harry considered his situation, and without meaning to, his hand closed around the mobile phone in his pocket that held only two numbers. He glanced down at the screen. What had he expected? "Maybe I really ought to try and find someone. I don't know. I'm just not sure what I want."

Ron immediately began refilling their glasses with more mead. "To finding out what Harry wants!" He toasted.

Harry laughed, called Ron a rude name, and they clinked their glasses together.

…

Hermione had been clever enough to prepare a few sobering potions. Not that she was going to share. The two men sleeping down the hall could deal with their hangovers. Well, maybe she would give one to Harry in the morning, but definitely not Ron, since he was the instigator.

She downed the light pink potion that tasted overwhelmingly of flowers. The room immediately stopped spinning and she felt some relief from the nausea.

The three of them had drunk entirely too much. It was a Friday night, making its way into a Saturday morning, and perhaps this bout of irresponsibility had to do with the fact that Hermione and Ron both had no obligations the next day. At the end of it, (three bottles of mead, if Hermione counted right) Ron had been in no state to leave, and took one of the guest rooms in the Grimmauld house. Hermione might have felt awkward about this turn of events, namely sharing a house with her ex, but found she did not. Harry's house had been like neutral ground. Ron and she could have their arguments, they could hash out their differences, and it would all be okay, as long as it happened here .

None of that made sense, of course. Why should Grimmauld house be any different than Hermione's home, or for that matter, Ron's? But, Hermione had learned painfully as she had gotten older, that just because things didn't make sense, didn't mean they weren't true.

Perhaps having this neutral ground could prove beneficent in more ways than one. There were many things she wished she had told Ron over the years. A few more nights of drinking like that, and it would only be a matter of time before she was spilling all her thoughts out in front of Ron, and unfortunately Harry, who was really just along for the ride, wasn't he?

Poor Harry. Hermione wondered what she could do, how she could help.

It was obvious that Harry was still besotted with Sherlock. And, (Hermione was not proud of herself for this), from the few sneaky glances she had at Harry's phone screen while the wizard held it in his hands, Hermione knew that Sherlock was basically ignoring Harry.

This was odd. She had visited 221B many times while Harry was hiding out there, and Sherlock was so visibly possessive of Harry, it was hard to imagine he could ever be this cold towards him. Hermione felt she was missing something important, but could not put her finger on exactly what it was.

…

Despite the room spinning around him, Harry managed to dig out his mobile phone and give it one more glance. Scowling, he tossed it away from himself. Again, the idea of just apparting to 221B crossed his mind, but in the state he was in, he would likely appear in Sherlock's flat as a puddle of entrails, rather than a person.

The mead was tossing ideas about in Harry's head, and odd associations kept turning up and subsiding. The tent, where Ron and Hermione had left him. Ron smiling and toasting to love after giving a speech repudiating love's worth. Sherlock, swearing that he was married to his work and was not interested in anything even remotely romantic. All contradictions.

Harry had no idea what to do about Sherlock, true. But, he did have an idea about Ron and Hermione. The trick now was to remember it when he woke up.

…

Ron was asleep, content with having the two people in his life that, in his inebriation, he found were worth more than anything else to him. They were together, the three of them. Harry was back, finally, and Ron had not realized how much he missed bickering with Hermione.

…

The night was very dark and Sherlock was afraid of his dreams.

Perhaps sensing that Sherlock was near to finally climbing down into the center of his collapsed Mind Palace, his subconscious sent him horrifying night time visions.

Sherlock continued his program of becoming the newer, better person, but he had yet to face his Labyrinth. He simply couldn't work up the courage.

Sherlock took on a case, and he extended an invitation to John, to accompany him. As it was, the case was nothing spectacular, and was wrapped up within days. Lestrade had congratulated him on a job well done, but Sherlock thought it was really one of the weaker mysteries that the DI had presented him.

With the first weak rays of the winter sun breaking into 221B, Sherlock decided he must complete the task before him. He must enter his Labyrinth. But he could not do it alone. His dreams had, all along, been hinting at how he could do this monumental task. For who was always there with him, in his dreams?

"Are you there?" Sherlock called out.

How could I not be?

"Right, of course. I have a request." Sherlock continued.

What?

"Could you… take on Harry's voice again?" Sherlock asked.

Is that really necessary? Now that we have come into the full open, what is the point?

Comfort , Sherlock thought. "Please," he said.

He heard no reply, but sensed that his wish was granted. Closing his eyes and counting backwards, Sherlock began to enter into the wreckage of his Labyrinth.

…

The very first memory Sherlock touched and triggered into being staggered him. Molten gold sunlight, green grass, and dark eyes inches from his own. He felt a savage, hot claw in his chest. It made his breath short, and he bent over, clutching at his heart. It took him a few moments to identify the sensation, but once he did, he was even more bewildered.

Love.

Sherlock wrenched his hand back, like he was burnt.

Love? How did love figure into this?

He stepped away. The Labyrinth was dark, and he was afraid of going further. Behind him, he saw Harry's ghost silently watching.

"It appears you weren't my first in more than one way." Sherlock gasped, looking at the silent Harry. "This is…a surprise."

He touched the memory again, summoned it, and that beautiful ravaging feeling flooded him.

And the boy in the memory, sitting inches from him, on a tartan blanket thrown over a green lawn, he knew his name: Jim.

Jim. How could he have made himself forget Jim? How could he have made himself forget this , the indescribable feeling of falling head over heels in love with Jim? Sherlock mused, feeling that delicious warmth surge through his chest again, how apt that foolish description of love actually was. Head over heels indeed. He watched the memory. He must have been about 16. Jim was his age. And all Sherlock wanted to do was kiss him. But he couldn't. Jim was another boy, for one. And Jim had become his very best friend. Sherlock couldn't snog his best friend, could he?

Jim smiled a slow lazy smile, the amber sunlight glinting off his Cheshire grin and his black eyes. Jim was completely in control of himself as always. But Sherlock trembled. He wanted it so bad, yet, what would happen if Jim turned him down? If he pushed him back? What if after Sherlock kissed him, Jim cut him off, told him never to come and see him again? What then? Friends were not something young Sherlock came by easily. Especially not a friend like Jim.

In the memory, teenage Sherlock's breath was coming in ragged bursts. He was practically panting like a dog. Jim would know what that meant. And yet, he didn't draw back. He sat exactly there and let Sherlock inch closer, and only smiled.

Almost whimpering from the nerves and the excitement, teenage Sherlock finally willed himself closer, closer and then…

He kissed Jim!

His whole world spun upside down. Head over heels. Jim was letting Sherlock kiss him! He didn't draw back.

The rush of pure happiness was so strong that adult Sherlock, in the darkness of his Labyrinth, let out a cry. How could he have been so stupid as to forget this? This moment of pure bliss, which was one of the happiest moments of his life, and he imprisoned it here in the Labyrinth? What had he been thinking?

The lights dimmed and the walls rumbled. Sherlock backed off again, stepping closer to Harry.

A cold laugh, the laugh of a boy unconcerned with anyone in the world, save for himself, sounded through the stone walls.

"Stay close, please," Sherlock said to the mental projection of the wizard. Harry nodded, and offered a hand. Sherlock grasped it.

He walked into the dark, poisoned heart in his Labyrinth. He knew that each brick would have a memory. He started touching them at random, getting flashes of remembered imagery, from a far away past.

A pair of boy's trousers on his bed in the dorms. A chess board, left on the end table, the white's king knocked over in surrender. The green lawn in front of his boarding school library. It took many memories for the picture to start coming together. But piece by piece, it did.

It began with young Sherlock sitting in the library, studying from a textbook. Another boy, about his age, approached Sherlock. He struck up a conversation. That had hardly happened before. Most of the other young men and women knew by then to give Sherlock a wide berth. So why was this young man suddenly talking to him?

The young man was very smart. He was knowledgeable, and dazzling. Charismatic in a way Sherlock could never hope to be. And more importantly, the boy did not find Sherlock's peculiarities displeasing. The boy didn't think Sherlock was a freak for guessing and deducing. The boy thought Sherlock's talent brilliant . The boy, Sherlock discovered, was also brilliant, in his own way.

The boy could make people do things. He would whisper a word there, or nudge a person here, and suddenly things would turn out exactly how the boy planned them.

They spent time together. It took only a few months, but the boys, Jim and Sherlock, became inseparable. They held single conversations that lasted months, interrupted by schoolwork and sleep, and Sherlock wished he could do nothing else but talk to Jim. Play chess with him.

Sherlock's eyes were wide with longing as he looked at the boy over the chess board. He loved him. The dark hair, the wide, feline smile, that odd glint behind Jim's eyes. He loved all the parts that made up Jim. He wanted more. Just talking, playing chess, it was quickly becoming not enough .

Sherlock was the one to initiate. It took all his courage. He brushed his hand against the other boy's hand as he recovered his fallen bishop from the board. Jim instantly understood. That smile, wicked and cold, made Sherlock question whether he really had made the first move. He felt like he had stepped into a trap, and was stuck, and vulnerable.

Even now, the heat of those first touches reverberated through Sherlock's entire body. The shameful, beautiful, scorching feeling of simply holding his hand. A boy's hand.

Not just a boy . Jim. The most intelligent human being Sherlock has ever met. The only other one like Sherlock.

A full year went by. Although no one from Sherlock's or Jim's families knew about the other, the two boys were together. Sherlock thought nothing could be better than this. The secrecy only added to the excitement.

Being at that very certain age when sexual drive overpowers everything else, it is not surprising that the two boys began experimenting. Sherlock was ecstatic at first. There was never an evening, when Jim snuck through the window into Sherlock's dorm room, that he didn't want the other boy's company. He always wanted Jim. Only…

Jim had peculiar tastes, that's for sure. However, Sherlock ought not be one to judge. Outwardly, Sherlock appeared as peculiar as can be. Jim, Sherlock knew, appeared normal, but yet the peculiarity found other ways of expressing itself. This is how young Sherlock convinced himself that everything was fine. Jim would never seriously hurt him. And anyway, Sherlock was one to point out the strangeness of the requests Jim made of him. How could he? He was rather strange himself.

The requests became more like demands, but young Sherlock was not deterred. It was just Jim , after all. Nothing bad could seriously happen with Jim.

And, and, and… (young Sherlock worked himself into a tight knot trying to convince himself), Jim was young . Of course he was prone to experimentation. Once the two of them grew up a little, surely Jim's desires would cool. Become more bland. Become more… palatable.

Thinking in this vein, young Sherlock asked Jim what he would like to be when he grew up.

"Are you serious?" Came Jim's reply, his voice only inches from Sherlock's ear, "What I'm going to be? What do you think? Maybe an accountant? How about a baker?"

"I thought you had your sights set a little higher than baking." Sherlock responded.

"You're damn right. How about the King of England?" Jim joked (Sherlock assumed, at least, that Jim was joking). "The House of Windsor has had their turn. I will be the first to inaugurate the House of Moriarity. What do you think? Does it have a ring? It does, doesn't it?" Jim asked, laying next to Sherlock, their arms interwoven.

Sherlock nodded. "Certainly." Then pressed a kiss into Jim's neck.

In the Labyrinth, adult Sherlock had enough. Only momentum propelled him forwards.

A pair of boys' sneakers loomed ahead in the darkness.

"I'd like to return now." Sherlock choked. To whom? To Harry , who was not there, but who he had conjured like a spell from his own mind? To Baker Street, which was equally empty? The memories kept coming, and Sherlock was completely alone.

Young Sherlock had noted the discrepancies in the Carl Powers case ages ago. Of course, he never did figure out the name of the culprit, or the exact method. All he knew was that Carl's shoes had been taken. And that, to the young detective's mind, was as good as a smoking pistol.

The details started falling into place.

Not his Jim. He must have been mistaken.

But why would Jim have the shoes? They were not his size. Jim never wore them. He simply… had them, in a plastic bag, in a trunk under his bed. A trophy? They could be another pair of shoes. Surely, they were. But Sherlock's powers of observation were being honed, and he could have sworn he'd seen that exact pair before.

It took young Sherlock a long time. But he couldn't help himself. He had to know. So he asked Jim.

The way Jim confessed made Sherlock think he never really did know the other boy, in the first place.

"Of course I did." Jim shrugged, and kept their chess game going.

Sherlock sat, blinking. He had just heard his first confession of murder.

"You killed him?" Sherlock asked again.

Jim looked up from the game.

"Oh, no . Don't tell me I was wrong about you, Sherlock."

"He was a kid, and you killed him." Sherlock knew he was repeating himself, an action he and Jim both detested.

"So he died. People die everyday. What do you think Carl Powers was doing that's so important? What do you think I really affected by ridding the planet of one, miserable little soul? C'mon, it's your move."

Sherlock looked down at the board, and knocked over his king, effectively giving up and ending the game.

Jim frowned at this. "Pull him back up, and continue. You know how I hate surrenders."

"Aren't you worried? Telling me all this, aren't you concerned I'll go to the police?" Sherlock asked. He wanted to understand.

"No, not concerned at all." Jim sat back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. The picture of no concern.

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you will go to the police. And in the event I am very, very wrong about you, and you do, the police won't do anything." Jim smiled. "There's no evidence."

"There's always evidence." Sherlock countered.

Jim snorted, "Alright, find it then, Nancy Drew. I'll wait."

Young Sherlock never found it. But to be fair, he never actually looked.

What he did do, despite the protests in his heart and in his body, was stop seeing Jim.

He succeeded for a time, but Jim came back.

"You're common, Sherlock, just like the rest of them." Jim visited him only one time. And it was to deliver the last words he ever spoke to young Sherlock. "Worse actually. You're too smart to be like the rest, but not smart enough to realize that caring will get you nowhere. You're not even a person, one way or the other. Really, you're just good for a fuck." That feline grin, the black eyes shining, and Sherlock hating and loving the way Jim said 'fuck.'

"Interesting." Sherlock murmured. "Is that all?" He tried to pull on Jim's own expression, that blasé mask.

"No." Jim said, and then sat himself down. "I'd like to finish this game, if you don't mind. Pull your king up."

The chess board in Sherlock's room had indeed not been touched since Jim confessed to the murder. Their pieces were all still there. Sherlock's king was still knocked over.

"Alright, let's finish. But, this will be the last one." Sherlock conceded.

…

Sherlock gradually came back to awareness. It was afternoon, and the sun played behind the curtains. The first thing he did was pull up Moriarity's face on his laptop.

" You never actually got over me , did you?" Sherlock accused the image.

It made sense now why Moriarty was always so perversely familiar with Sherlock. They had known each other. They had been friends. They had become intimate. And Moriarty knew the whole time. It hadn't been a game he was playing with Sherlock. It wasn't, as he always said, because he was bored . No, it was personal. Very, very personal.

Sherlock had stumbled in blind, while Moriarty had known the whole time. Like a spider in his web, he had been waiting for Sherlock to find him again. His idea of romance, Sherlock supposed. Undying love, he thought, as he watched Moriarty's face flickering on the screen.

I will burn the heart out of you , he had said. Because Jim knew he had one. And if Jim couldn't have it, no one else could.

It was actually quite funny, wasn't it?

How Sherlock must have infuriated James Moriarty with his complete, oafish obliviousness? Moriarty had tried and tried to remind Sherlock of their painful history, while Sherlock had no idea such a thing took place. Moriarty painstakingly constructed clever games for Sherlock to play, with lives on the line, and Sherlock did not even know who Moriarty was. The man had carved 'I O U' on an apple and left it for Sherlock. This little detail had always aggravated Sherlock, as a riddle without an answer. The answer was now so obvious, it was a wonder how Sherlock did not see it before.

Moriarty would have assumed Sherlock was simply pretending at first, but gradually, he must have understood that Sherlock had somehow forgotten everything about Jim.

Sherlock wondered if Moriarty realized it finally on the rooftop, right before he stuck that gun in his mouth.

"Poor Jim," Sherlock drawled, "But it does suit you. You deserved it."

The teenage Sherlock that had been unearthed in the Labyrinth did make one mistake. He should not have agreed to that last chess game. Jim had offered young Sherlock a drink to their ending friendship (how cliched), and foolishly, Sherlock took it. His limbs had all stopped working for a short time, and Jim had his rather unpleasant way. It was nothing they had not done already, but… Young Sherlock really ought to have seen that one coming.

What Jim did to him was very painful, and hurt all the worse because it was Jim doing it. And that had been the crucial juncture, when young Sherlock decided it was better to forget Jim so entirely, that even seeing his face again had not prompted any remembrance.

On second thought, despite all the problems this buried memory has caused in the present day, he could not be too angry with his past counterpart. What better revenge to take against Jim, against James Moriarty, then forgetting him entirely?

And now, it didn't matter if he remembered. Because there was someone else, and really, Sherlock ought to get going. The memories of his excavated Labyrinth were painful and fresh, but it was paradoxically all from so long ago that the hurt did not have immediacy. There was never anything to fear, in that darkness, after all. Never one to dally, Sherlock was throwing on clothes, and leaving Baker Street. He had a cab to catch, and he wanted to make it across town before rush hour.

…