FIC: That One May Smile 10/10
Title: That One May Smile 10/10
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) R
Word count: 3,900
Summary: The End
Back to Ch 1
Richard lifted his head from where he was dozing on the bed when he heard Seb come in, trying to work out from the sound and smells what dinner might be.
Ah. Pizza. Wonderful. He pulled himself up to sit upright, easy now after a week's practice. His hands were bound behind him with soft rope now, barely a hindrance to movement.
"I need the bathroom now," he called through. "You've been out for hours. And I'm hungry."
Seb stalked in and untied him without a word. He showered quickly, thinking about the food getting cold. When he came out Seb was waiting in the bedroom.
Richard tried a smile. It couldn't do any harm. "How was your day?"
Seb looked down on him. "I am so sick of the sight of your stupid voice. You could at least pretend to be him for a while."
No trace of the charm he'd first felt when they met. Richard sighed, slid into Moriarty for the first time in days, not too far that he didn't know who he was, couldn't slide out again. Watched Seb closely for a minute, smiling.
"Whoops. Your eyes just gave you away again, Sebastian. Every time you touch this body it's not Brook that's on your mind."
He pushed the dressing gown off his shoulders. "Would you like to rape me again, Seb? Without causing any damage, of course. It's just a bare fraction of what I did to you. Almost disappointing that you've learned so little."
Richard as Moriarty grinned. "I'll know, of course, when I come back. Do you think I'll care about your entirely praiseworthy reasons, or be suitably grateful that you didn't leave bruises? Do you think that will be enough to let you live?"
Seb shifted slightly. Richard sprawled on his back on the bed. "Come on, pet, I'm hungry. You're wasting my time. You might as well have fun while you're still breathing."
"You're not him." Seb snarled, advancing on the bed. "You don't know what he thinks."
"I do." Richard was himself again. "You know I do. He'll kill you if he returns. Let me go!"
"Shut the fuck up!" A heavy hand closed over Richard's mouth. He lay passive under Seb's weight, concentrating on breathing through his nose. The rest of this was familiar enough already not to need any of his attention. There would be lubricant, and little physical roughness if he didn't struggle; Seb was genuinely paranoid about bruises.
He'd vaguely wondered, as Richard, why Seb persevered with the sex once the initial shock had worn off. Seb didn't seem to like him much any more and for his part it was OK compared to some of the other stuff Seb had tried- things on his face or over his head that made him feel like he was suffocating or drowning, injections that sped up his heart rate until he thought he was going to have a heart attack, weights on his chest to crush him, low level electric shocks to make him convulse and scream. All far more horrible than the rather detached buggery, but ultimately none of it was truly frightening, not when he knew Seb wouldn't risk any damage to Moriarty's body. Nothing came close to dislodging his overwhelming desire to stay himself.
From Jim's perspective the reasons were obvious and nothing to do with Brook at all. Things were quite often clearer from Moriarty's viewpoint, Richard mused, shifting to accommodate Seb a little better. He wasn't always good at analysing stuff- he thought of himself more as a people person. He should have asked whether there was garlic bread as well. It had been a long time since breakfast.
There was garlic bread but when Richard reached out for a piece a little too eagerly Seb took it all away. Richard called him a petty tyrant. Seb accused Richard of being a pathetic little bodysnatcher and binned the rest of the pizza as well, tossing a couple of slices of bread at him as replacement. Infuriated at the loss of his long awaited dinner, Richard announced that he was going on hunger strike and Moran could explain severe malnutrition to his precious Moriarty. Probably, he said cheerfully, some of his teeth would fall out.
"Right. That's fucking it!" Seb snarled. "I want this finished now!" He pulled some clothes from Jim's wardrobe. "Get shaved, get dressed. We're going out."
Out was several consecutive taxis. When the final one drew up outside a familiar door Richard baulked, genuinely terrified for the first time in days. "No. I won't go in there again. You can't make me."
"Get out of the cab, Brook. Don't be an utter coward. I'm not going to let any of them damage you." Seb flashed a small gun in his hand. "I'll choke you unconscious and drag your body up the stairs if I have to. Get."
It wasn't 'any of them' that Richard was scared of. It was just John Watson. Who also had a gun and not Moran's compelling reasons to stay his hand.
"Mycroft will have cameras watching." This was crazy. He really ought not to be here. Neither of them should be anywhere near Baker Street. He'd long since stopped thinking about it, thought he'd forgotten, but the memories were back now, sharp.
"I'm counting on it. Get out."
The elderly lady who answered the door was clearly in some distress. She blinked at them. "Is this about the poor Inspector?"
"That's right." Seb was calm, gentle. "We need to talk to Sherlock."
"He's upstairs. I do so hope he's all right. Such a lovely man. Lovely."
Seb pushed Richard before him up the stairs. "Go in." Richard found himself propelled through the door at the top, and immediately the object of the two men's attention.
"Moriarty!" John had picked up the poker, was advancing. "I knew it was your doing! This time I'm going to smash your skull in. Where is he?"
Richard backed up, terrified, straight into Seb who wasn't moving.
"You're asking the wrong man." Sherlock, from the sofa. "Try the one behind him."
John glanced behind Richard at Moran, went back to threatening him with the upheld metal. "Moriarty's in charge. His dog just follows orders."
"That's not in any meaningful psychological sense Jim Moriarty, John." Sherlock pulled himself upright on the sofa with what looked like a little discomfort. The bullet wound must still trouble him. "And he's not here of his own accord."
A phone shrilled on the table. Seb shoved Richard out of the way so that he could pick it up.
"Yes, the place is surrounded," he growled into it. "I want you and no-one else up here or they all die."
He dropped it back on the table. "Ten minutes in this traffic. We might as well start without him." The gun was obvious in his hand.
John lowered the weapon reluctantly. "Start what? Have you got Greg?"
"Of course."
Sherlock was frowning. "You're earlier than I expected."
"Got fucking tired of this bloody thing." He shoved Richard again, into the centre of the room. "I want it gone for good and the boss back. Do that and I'll let you all live, including your pet policeman."
"That's not fair!" Richard protested. "We had a deal, Sherlock!"
"We did." Sherlock considered him. "It doesn't look as if you're in a position to uphold your side of the bargain. Still," he looked back at Seb, "the return of Jim Moriarty is not at all desirable."
"Didn't think you'd do it for the asking. That's why I have a gun and a hostage."
"Indeed you have."
"Don't do it!" John warned. "Moriarty nearly killed you!"
"Nearly being the operative word. So, for that matter, did Moran." Sherlock sighed, looked back at Richard. "It appears that we must consider trying. It's am interesting puzzle at least. When did you detect the fraud, Moran?"
"Eight days ago."
"Ouch! Your employer is not going to be impressed at all. Brook fools you for a whole month and then for over a week you're helpless to get rid of him?"
"I didn't ask for a critique." Seb snarled. "Just fix it, Holmes."
Sherlock glanced at his watch. "I think we'll wait for my brother. He has more direct experience of Richard Brook than any of us." A thin smile. "He completely misinterpreted the situation, of course, but still his observations may be useful."
"In that case," Richard said, hopefully, "may I please have something to eat while we wait? My dinner got binned."
"Thought you were on hunger strike," Seb growled.
"Since you're all trying to kill me there doesn't seem much point. I don't want to die starving."
Sherlock was watching him curiously. "Make him a sandwich, will you, John?"
"What?" John's voice rose in indignation. "He's a heartless, brutal murderer and we're feeding him?"
"He's hungry," Sherlock pointed out. "You could put the kettle on as well."
Richard was unimpressed by the offer. "This could be my last meal! How about we call out for takeaway?"
"Anyone not Mycroft Holmes knocks on this door gets hit by sniper fire." Seb pointed out brusquely. "Take the sandwich and shut up."
Richard got his sandwich. Everyone got coffee. Mycroft arrived, prickly and cautious, and asked for tea instead. He sipped it with a grimace.
"Under brewed, but we are on a tight schedule here. Has he lost his mind completely now?"
Sherlock looked smug. "I suggest that you reassess your observations, brother. This is not Moriarty insane. He is who he has always claimed to you to be."
"Richard Brook?" Mycroft frowned. "A dissociative personality? Far too convenient. And a form of insanity."
"Artificially generated to suit Moriarty's needs, naturally, and controlled, originally. The method of creation throws up a number of intriguing questions. But it has slipped its leash and is no longer subordinate. It tried faking Jim as camouflage but it's been uncovered and Mr Moran here wants it exorcised so that his boss can return again."
"Which I've told you we shouldn't do." John interjected. "At the moment he's pathetically harmless."
"Not harmless at all." Mycroft frowned at Richard. Finally seeing him, Richard thought with a shiver, for the first time. "There are a dozen of my people dead or viciously mutilated because Richard Brook thought that I slighted him. He possesses as little conscience as his alter ego."
"I was being Jim!" Richard protested. "I had to play Moriarty convincingly. And you were really mean."
"Interesting. Tell me," Sherlock said to Moran, "what you're tried already."
"The usual stuff, avoiding physical damage. Water boarding, asphixiation, electrical shocks, induced palpitations. Nothing as unsubtle as he tried, but it should have been far more effective." He gestured at John.
"And rape, clearly." Mycroft added. "Unless that was consensual?"
"And that." Seb looked unmoved by the accusation.
"He's got a crush on his boss," Richard said spitefully. "He likes pretending I'm Jim when he does it."
"You shut up." Seb snapped at him.
"And what happened when you tried these effective techniques? Exactly, please."
Seb shrugged. "What you'd expect, at first. He screams, he cries, he begs, he pisses himself. But there's no heart to it. And when I stop it's all 'what's for dinner' and 'shall I put the TV on' and 'how was your day' like I'm his fucking roommate. It's like he's too fucking simple to understand."
Mycroft nodded. "My experience concurs. He tries to make a connection with anyone near to him just as a small child might. But it's unstable; he switches between adoration, spite and fear and he lashes out without reason or conscience."
"I'm not stupid!" Richard shouted, dreadfully offended. "I'm a brilliant actor. I faked Moriarty for ages. None of you could do that."
"No." Sherlock said. "By all accounts your Moriarty was intelligent and creative. What other roles have you played, Richard?"
"Oh, loads."
"Name one."
Richard shrugged. "I played Richard Third. Mycroft saw me."
"You played that as Moriarty," Mycroft said. "Who else?"
"I had a few bits after jail. I don't remember. Does it matter?"
Mycroft tipped his head on one side, looked across at Sherlock. "His recent work showed no particular talent. A one trick pony is, I believe, the expression."
Sherlock nodded, spoke to Moran. "He can play Moriarty so well because he must have at some level access to Moriarty's mind. When he isn't playing Jim he's a hollow thing, a surface personality over very little substance, a mere puppet. Only now he's cut his own strings."
"Hey!" Richard protested. "That's just unkind. I'm as much a person as you lot are."
Mycroft snorted. "Not even close to fully human, and definitely squatting on someone else's property. The morality of restoring Moriarty is questionable but one can conclude that obliterating this entity is ethically acceptable given the stakes." He drained his cup, put it down.
"I don't want to be obliterated!" Richard wailed at the unsympathetic faces. It wasn't fair! Moriarty was the evil one. He was just himself. Harmless. Friendly. Nice. He sat down on the floor, despondent.
"So do it." Moran growled.
"Right now," Sherlock said, "I have no idea how to start."
"How about consulting a therapist?" John suggested. "They deal with multiple personality disorder?"
"Therapy!" Sherlock snapped. "Egos, ids and unresolved traumas? Unscientific rubbish. Might as well suggest voodoo."
"Sherlock did not get on well with his therapist as a child." Mycroft said. "Too many home truths."
"Nonsense! The woman was unfailingly inaccurate. Even her invoice was riddled with errors!"
Only Richard laughed. "I don't mind trying that," he offered. Therapy took years.
"I wasn't suggesting signing him up for weekly sessions. Just finding out what their approach is. It couldn't hurt." John protested.
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "I looked into the scientific papers on the subject weeks ago. The aim of psychotherapy is to integrate the dissociative states but the so-called experts are fumbling around in the dark when it comes to methods."
Richard looked up. "Does integrate mean that I don't die?"
Sherlock studied him before speaking carefully. "Integration implies that you accept the feelings, actions and memories of your dissociated selves as belonging to a single individual. It would mean that you- both of you- cease to make a distinction between yourself and Jim. However when it comes to an artificially generated dissociation, however that was achieved, the matter is far less clear. Are you a genuine subset of Moriarty's personality, or something else? You may not be integratable."
"You mean he may not want me back." Richard said quietly.
"Precisely."
He thought about it for a moment, the others silent.
"I wouldn't mind. Integrating, I mean. As long as I didn't just vanish. I wouldn't mind being Jim as well." There was nothing for him as just Richard any more.
"You'd be a monstrous killer with terrible crimes on your conscience, at least partially insane and almost certain to meet a swift and violent end." Mycroft commented dryly.
Richard shrugged, unperturbed. "I'd have money, and power, and Moran. And none of you would dare look at me like this any more."
Seb spat on the floor. "Boss has got no use for any of him. I want him erased. Completely."
Richard felt a spike of anger. Moran would damn well come to heel. "You might want to rethink that, Sebastian. Or were you overlooking the fun you've been having sexually abusing your employer's defenceless body while he was temporarily non compos mentis? Because you can be certain that he won't."
He licked his lips automatically. "I might be the only part of him -us- me- that doesn't intend to hack your genitals off with a blunt kitchen knife and watch you bleed to death screaming."
"Don't threaten me, you little bastard!"
Richard didn't scramble to his feet fast enough to avoid the backhanded blow. He spat blood onto his hand from his cut mouth. "That's going to bruise, Seb. You got a death wish, is that it? You want us to do it? I warn you, we don't play along to your fantasies."
They were all staring at him now.
"That was far too swift to be plausible. Is he acting again?" Unusually, Mycroft sounded uncertain.
"No." Sherlock. "It appears that there was a strong pressure already acting for integration. He's merely stopped resisting it."
"That's not Moriarty." Seb growled.
"Not yet." Richard smiled at him, ignoring all the others. " But he's coming. You might want to drop to your knees ready to start begging."
Seb's eyes were locked with Richard's. He blinked, twice, then looked around at the others. "Got to keep this lot under control." His tone was no longer belligerent. "I'll square things with the boss when this is finished."
Richard nodded briefly, turned to Sherlock. Moriarty was strumming through his thoughts now, a sensation of cold delight. Not like acting at all, more like waking up. Why had he stayed asleep so long?
"It appears that we owe you a small debt, Sherlock. Very small."
"You can repay part of it with data. What went wrong?"
Richard knew, now. "Your brother's extremely close surveillance and your flatmate's obsession meant that I- that Richard Brook had to carry on existing independently longer than originally intended. Re-integration was meant to happen as soon as Richard left jail, while he was still ignorant of his nature. His active opposition to Moriarty was unpredictably powerful. If he hadn't come to understand the situation and chosen to cease resisting, the impasse might have continued indefinitely."
He tipped his head onto one side, then the other, straightened his crumpled suit. "No permanent harm done, as it happens. Here we are, all beautifully integrated and full of righteous wrath, ready to rain down vengeance on," he glanced round, "well, everyone here except you, Sherlock. You might as well throw away your address book. You were always more dramatic as a loner anyway."
"What's left of Richard?" Sherlock seemed merely curious, despite the threats. "Or are you all Jim now?"
Richard shrugged. "We like Shakespeare, and dressing up pretending to be other people, and garlic bread. And those funny little noises that Moran makes in bed. And we think Mycroft's little anecdotes are adorable, though we're going to kill him anyway."
"Fascinating. Will you tell me how you created the spilt?"
"That much is your debt repaid. You get no more." They might need it again some day. Besides, keeping Sherlock frustrated of knowledge was fun.
Moriarty stretched, the taste of his own blood still strong in his mouth. "We must be off- got a few things to sort out- housekeeping matters, mainly. You know how it is when you've been away, Sherlock, which reminds me that at some point we must get together and reminisce about ways to fake deaths on rooftops."
He glanced around. John, unostentatiously getting himself ready to rush Seb's gun. Mycroft, prepared to duck behind the desk and hope to survive long enough for the SAS to storm the place. Sebastian, ready to gun both men down long before either could act, as soon as he gave the signal.
They thought about it, briefly- leaving Sherlock drenched in the blood of his family and his friend. But it wasn't subtle and it wasn't necessary. They could take either of them any time they wanted. It would be fun to watch them scurry around for a while first. They'd even release the obnoxious policeman who had bullied Richard so (and he remembered now, ordering the method of Finney's death in gruesome detail. Over too soon, but he'd not had time for sophistication. He'd been in hiding from himself).
"Come on, hound," he called to Sebastian. "We're going home." And to Mycroft and John. "It seems that my dog needs a little correction to his training. I doubt that he will be fit for hunting for a while. You may want to take the opportunity to leave the country."
He grinned. "At least I hope so. He has so much more fun if there's a little challenge involved. And he's going to need a little fun, after I've finished with him."
"I'm not going to run from you," John hissed. "I'm going to track you down and kill you."
Moriarty winced. "No style at all. Plenty of enthusiasm, rather like your interrogation technique, which I suppose counts for something. How about you, pet? We've spent such long and lovely hours together. Tell me, what's your master plan for staying ahead of Sebastian's bullets?"
"Confidential." Mycroft said, dryly.
Moriarty applauded, slowly. "Much better. Your brother is acquiring a little panache, Sherlock. A little late in his life, but better than never I suppose."
Sherlock had drawn himself up to his full height. "You will harm neither of them. Nor Lestrade."
Moriarty frowned at him, pantomime. "Sorry, but I think I probably am. Righteous vengeance, remember? It's a thing."
"You'd be stupid to act precipitously against anything of mine while there's a yawning chasm in your information. And neither of you are stupid."
A chasm? Of course. "While I was tucked up cosily in prison for years, where were you, Sherlock?" He didn't expect to be told. It wouldn't be that easy. The others... "You haven't told them."
"And make then targets? No." Sherlock's eyes were sparkling. "You have near limitless resources. It will be difficult but you will no doubt find out at least some of it eventually. If you are allowed the time." He smiled briefly.
Stalemate. Richard/Moriarty considered that. It was more interesting than he had anticipated. Sherlock was almost certainly bluffing; nothing in those missing years should stop Jim killing his people. But 'almost certainly' left room for that intriguing possibility that Moriarty might be on the verge of making a rare mistake. There was no hurry.
He nodded, conceding the position. "A stay of execution, then. A brief one." And to the doomed men, "Ta ta for now. A little anticipation will spice things up for all of us."
He still had Moran to deal with. That would have to do for now; that and Sherlock's puzzle, and maybe some take away pizza with proper garlic bread. As he descended the stairs of 221B to the sound of the guns in Baker Street clearing his way he started whistling. They were both happy to be himself again. Jim Moriarty was back and in control.
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) R
Word count: 3,900
Summary: The End
Back to Ch 1
Richard lifted his head from where he was dozing on the bed when he heard Seb come in, trying to work out from the sound and smells what dinner might be.
Ah. Pizza. Wonderful. He pulled himself up to sit upright, easy now after a week's practice. His hands were bound behind him with soft rope now, barely a hindrance to movement.
"I need the bathroom now," he called through. "You've been out for hours. And I'm hungry."
Seb stalked in and untied him without a word. He showered quickly, thinking about the food getting cold. When he came out Seb was waiting in the bedroom.
Richard tried a smile. It couldn't do any harm. "How was your day?"
Seb looked down on him. "I am so sick of the sight of your stupid voice. You could at least pretend to be him for a while."
No trace of the charm he'd first felt when they met. Richard sighed, slid into Moriarty for the first time in days, not too far that he didn't know who he was, couldn't slide out again. Watched Seb closely for a minute, smiling.
"Whoops. Your eyes just gave you away again, Sebastian. Every time you touch this body it's not Brook that's on your mind."
He pushed the dressing gown off his shoulders. "Would you like to rape me again, Seb? Without causing any damage, of course. It's just a bare fraction of what I did to you. Almost disappointing that you've learned so little."
Richard as Moriarty grinned. "I'll know, of course, when I come back. Do you think I'll care about your entirely praiseworthy reasons, or be suitably grateful that you didn't leave bruises? Do you think that will be enough to let you live?"
Seb shifted slightly. Richard sprawled on his back on the bed. "Come on, pet, I'm hungry. You're wasting my time. You might as well have fun while you're still breathing."
"You're not him." Seb snarled, advancing on the bed. "You don't know what he thinks."
"I do." Richard was himself again. "You know I do. He'll kill you if he returns. Let me go!"
"Shut the fuck up!" A heavy hand closed over Richard's mouth. He lay passive under Seb's weight, concentrating on breathing through his nose. The rest of this was familiar enough already not to need any of his attention. There would be lubricant, and little physical roughness if he didn't struggle; Seb was genuinely paranoid about bruises.
He'd vaguely wondered, as Richard, why Seb persevered with the sex once the initial shock had worn off. Seb didn't seem to like him much any more and for his part it was OK compared to some of the other stuff Seb had tried- things on his face or over his head that made him feel like he was suffocating or drowning, injections that sped up his heart rate until he thought he was going to have a heart attack, weights on his chest to crush him, low level electric shocks to make him convulse and scream. All far more horrible than the rather detached buggery, but ultimately none of it was truly frightening, not when he knew Seb wouldn't risk any damage to Moriarty's body. Nothing came close to dislodging his overwhelming desire to stay himself.
From Jim's perspective the reasons were obvious and nothing to do with Brook at all. Things were quite often clearer from Moriarty's viewpoint, Richard mused, shifting to accommodate Seb a little better. He wasn't always good at analysing stuff- he thought of himself more as a people person. He should have asked whether there was garlic bread as well. It had been a long time since breakfast.
There was garlic bread but when Richard reached out for a piece a little too eagerly Seb took it all away. Richard called him a petty tyrant. Seb accused Richard of being a pathetic little bodysnatcher and binned the rest of the pizza as well, tossing a couple of slices of bread at him as replacement. Infuriated at the loss of his long awaited dinner, Richard announced that he was going on hunger strike and Moran could explain severe malnutrition to his precious Moriarty. Probably, he said cheerfully, some of his teeth would fall out.
"Right. That's fucking it!" Seb snarled. "I want this finished now!" He pulled some clothes from Jim's wardrobe. "Get shaved, get dressed. We're going out."
Out was several consecutive taxis. When the final one drew up outside a familiar door Richard baulked, genuinely terrified for the first time in days. "No. I won't go in there again. You can't make me."
"Get out of the cab, Brook. Don't be an utter coward. I'm not going to let any of them damage you." Seb flashed a small gun in his hand. "I'll choke you unconscious and drag your body up the stairs if I have to. Get."
It wasn't 'any of them' that Richard was scared of. It was just John Watson. Who also had a gun and not Moran's compelling reasons to stay his hand.
"Mycroft will have cameras watching." This was crazy. He really ought not to be here. Neither of them should be anywhere near Baker Street. He'd long since stopped thinking about it, thought he'd forgotten, but the memories were back now, sharp.
"I'm counting on it. Get out."
The elderly lady who answered the door was clearly in some distress. She blinked at them. "Is this about the poor Inspector?"
"That's right." Seb was calm, gentle. "We need to talk to Sherlock."
"He's upstairs. I do so hope he's all right. Such a lovely man. Lovely."
Seb pushed Richard before him up the stairs. "Go in." Richard found himself propelled through the door at the top, and immediately the object of the two men's attention.
"Moriarty!" John had picked up the poker, was advancing. "I knew it was your doing! This time I'm going to smash your skull in. Where is he?"
Richard backed up, terrified, straight into Seb who wasn't moving.
"You're asking the wrong man." Sherlock, from the sofa. "Try the one behind him."
John glanced behind Richard at Moran, went back to threatening him with the upheld metal. "Moriarty's in charge. His dog just follows orders."
"That's not in any meaningful psychological sense Jim Moriarty, John." Sherlock pulled himself upright on the sofa with what looked like a little discomfort. The bullet wound must still trouble him. "And he's not here of his own accord."
A phone shrilled on the table. Seb shoved Richard out of the way so that he could pick it up.
"Yes, the place is surrounded," he growled into it. "I want you and no-one else up here or they all die."
He dropped it back on the table. "Ten minutes in this traffic. We might as well start without him." The gun was obvious in his hand.
John lowered the weapon reluctantly. "Start what? Have you got Greg?"
"Of course."
Sherlock was frowning. "You're earlier than I expected."
"Got fucking tired of this bloody thing." He shoved Richard again, into the centre of the room. "I want it gone for good and the boss back. Do that and I'll let you all live, including your pet policeman."
"That's not fair!" Richard protested. "We had a deal, Sherlock!"
"We did." Sherlock considered him. "It doesn't look as if you're in a position to uphold your side of the bargain. Still," he looked back at Seb, "the return of Jim Moriarty is not at all desirable."
"Didn't think you'd do it for the asking. That's why I have a gun and a hostage."
"Indeed you have."
"Don't do it!" John warned. "Moriarty nearly killed you!"
"Nearly being the operative word. So, for that matter, did Moran." Sherlock sighed, looked back at Richard. "It appears that we must consider trying. It's am interesting puzzle at least. When did you detect the fraud, Moran?"
"Eight days ago."
"Ouch! Your employer is not going to be impressed at all. Brook fools you for a whole month and then for over a week you're helpless to get rid of him?"
"I didn't ask for a critique." Seb snarled. "Just fix it, Holmes."
Sherlock glanced at his watch. "I think we'll wait for my brother. He has more direct experience of Richard Brook than any of us." A thin smile. "He completely misinterpreted the situation, of course, but still his observations may be useful."
"In that case," Richard said, hopefully, "may I please have something to eat while we wait? My dinner got binned."
"Thought you were on hunger strike," Seb growled.
"Since you're all trying to kill me there doesn't seem much point. I don't want to die starving."
Sherlock was watching him curiously. "Make him a sandwich, will you, John?"
"What?" John's voice rose in indignation. "He's a heartless, brutal murderer and we're feeding him?"
"He's hungry," Sherlock pointed out. "You could put the kettle on as well."
Richard was unimpressed by the offer. "This could be my last meal! How about we call out for takeaway?"
"Anyone not Mycroft Holmes knocks on this door gets hit by sniper fire." Seb pointed out brusquely. "Take the sandwich and shut up."
Richard got his sandwich. Everyone got coffee. Mycroft arrived, prickly and cautious, and asked for tea instead. He sipped it with a grimace.
"Under brewed, but we are on a tight schedule here. Has he lost his mind completely now?"
Sherlock looked smug. "I suggest that you reassess your observations, brother. This is not Moriarty insane. He is who he has always claimed to you to be."
"Richard Brook?" Mycroft frowned. "A dissociative personality? Far too convenient. And a form of insanity."
"Artificially generated to suit Moriarty's needs, naturally, and controlled, originally. The method of creation throws up a number of intriguing questions. But it has slipped its leash and is no longer subordinate. It tried faking Jim as camouflage but it's been uncovered and Mr Moran here wants it exorcised so that his boss can return again."
"Which I've told you we shouldn't do." John interjected. "At the moment he's pathetically harmless."
"Not harmless at all." Mycroft frowned at Richard. Finally seeing him, Richard thought with a shiver, for the first time. "There are a dozen of my people dead or viciously mutilated because Richard Brook thought that I slighted him. He possesses as little conscience as his alter ego."
"I was being Jim!" Richard protested. "I had to play Moriarty convincingly. And you were really mean."
"Interesting. Tell me," Sherlock said to Moran, "what you're tried already."
"The usual stuff, avoiding physical damage. Water boarding, asphixiation, electrical shocks, induced palpitations. Nothing as unsubtle as he tried, but it should have been far more effective." He gestured at John.
"And rape, clearly." Mycroft added. "Unless that was consensual?"
"And that." Seb looked unmoved by the accusation.
"He's got a crush on his boss," Richard said spitefully. "He likes pretending I'm Jim when he does it."
"You shut up." Seb snapped at him.
"And what happened when you tried these effective techniques? Exactly, please."
Seb shrugged. "What you'd expect, at first. He screams, he cries, he begs, he pisses himself. But there's no heart to it. And when I stop it's all 'what's for dinner' and 'shall I put the TV on' and 'how was your day' like I'm his fucking roommate. It's like he's too fucking simple to understand."
Mycroft nodded. "My experience concurs. He tries to make a connection with anyone near to him just as a small child might. But it's unstable; he switches between adoration, spite and fear and he lashes out without reason or conscience."
"I'm not stupid!" Richard shouted, dreadfully offended. "I'm a brilliant actor. I faked Moriarty for ages. None of you could do that."
"No." Sherlock said. "By all accounts your Moriarty was intelligent and creative. What other roles have you played, Richard?"
"Oh, loads."
"Name one."
Richard shrugged. "I played Richard Third. Mycroft saw me."
"You played that as Moriarty," Mycroft said. "Who else?"
"I had a few bits after jail. I don't remember. Does it matter?"
Mycroft tipped his head on one side, looked across at Sherlock. "His recent work showed no particular talent. A one trick pony is, I believe, the expression."
Sherlock nodded, spoke to Moran. "He can play Moriarty so well because he must have at some level access to Moriarty's mind. When he isn't playing Jim he's a hollow thing, a surface personality over very little substance, a mere puppet. Only now he's cut his own strings."
"Hey!" Richard protested. "That's just unkind. I'm as much a person as you lot are."
Mycroft snorted. "Not even close to fully human, and definitely squatting on someone else's property. The morality of restoring Moriarty is questionable but one can conclude that obliterating this entity is ethically acceptable given the stakes." He drained his cup, put it down.
"I don't want to be obliterated!" Richard wailed at the unsympathetic faces. It wasn't fair! Moriarty was the evil one. He was just himself. Harmless. Friendly. Nice. He sat down on the floor, despondent.
"So do it." Moran growled.
"Right now," Sherlock said, "I have no idea how to start."
"How about consulting a therapist?" John suggested. "They deal with multiple personality disorder?"
"Therapy!" Sherlock snapped. "Egos, ids and unresolved traumas? Unscientific rubbish. Might as well suggest voodoo."
"Sherlock did not get on well with his therapist as a child." Mycroft said. "Too many home truths."
"Nonsense! The woman was unfailingly inaccurate. Even her invoice was riddled with errors!"
Only Richard laughed. "I don't mind trying that," he offered. Therapy took years.
"I wasn't suggesting signing him up for weekly sessions. Just finding out what their approach is. It couldn't hurt." John protested.
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "I looked into the scientific papers on the subject weeks ago. The aim of psychotherapy is to integrate the dissociative states but the so-called experts are fumbling around in the dark when it comes to methods."
Richard looked up. "Does integrate mean that I don't die?"
Sherlock studied him before speaking carefully. "Integration implies that you accept the feelings, actions and memories of your dissociated selves as belonging to a single individual. It would mean that you- both of you- cease to make a distinction between yourself and Jim. However when it comes to an artificially generated dissociation, however that was achieved, the matter is far less clear. Are you a genuine subset of Moriarty's personality, or something else? You may not be integratable."
"You mean he may not want me back." Richard said quietly.
"Precisely."
He thought about it for a moment, the others silent.
"I wouldn't mind. Integrating, I mean. As long as I didn't just vanish. I wouldn't mind being Jim as well." There was nothing for him as just Richard any more.
"You'd be a monstrous killer with terrible crimes on your conscience, at least partially insane and almost certain to meet a swift and violent end." Mycroft commented dryly.
Richard shrugged, unperturbed. "I'd have money, and power, and Moran. And none of you would dare look at me like this any more."
Seb spat on the floor. "Boss has got no use for any of him. I want him erased. Completely."
Richard felt a spike of anger. Moran would damn well come to heel. "You might want to rethink that, Sebastian. Or were you overlooking the fun you've been having sexually abusing your employer's defenceless body while he was temporarily non compos mentis? Because you can be certain that he won't."
He licked his lips automatically. "I might be the only part of him -us- me- that doesn't intend to hack your genitals off with a blunt kitchen knife and watch you bleed to death screaming."
"Don't threaten me, you little bastard!"
Richard didn't scramble to his feet fast enough to avoid the backhanded blow. He spat blood onto his hand from his cut mouth. "That's going to bruise, Seb. You got a death wish, is that it? You want us to do it? I warn you, we don't play along to your fantasies."
They were all staring at him now.
"That was far too swift to be plausible. Is he acting again?" Unusually, Mycroft sounded uncertain.
"No." Sherlock. "It appears that there was a strong pressure already acting for integration. He's merely stopped resisting it."
"That's not Moriarty." Seb growled.
"Not yet." Richard smiled at him, ignoring all the others. " But he's coming. You might want to drop to your knees ready to start begging."
Seb's eyes were locked with Richard's. He blinked, twice, then looked around at the others. "Got to keep this lot under control." His tone was no longer belligerent. "I'll square things with the boss when this is finished."
Richard nodded briefly, turned to Sherlock. Moriarty was strumming through his thoughts now, a sensation of cold delight. Not like acting at all, more like waking up. Why had he stayed asleep so long?
"It appears that we owe you a small debt, Sherlock. Very small."
"You can repay part of it with data. What went wrong?"
Richard knew, now. "Your brother's extremely close surveillance and your flatmate's obsession meant that I- that Richard Brook had to carry on existing independently longer than originally intended. Re-integration was meant to happen as soon as Richard left jail, while he was still ignorant of his nature. His active opposition to Moriarty was unpredictably powerful. If he hadn't come to understand the situation and chosen to cease resisting, the impasse might have continued indefinitely."
He tipped his head onto one side, then the other, straightened his crumpled suit. "No permanent harm done, as it happens. Here we are, all beautifully integrated and full of righteous wrath, ready to rain down vengeance on," he glanced round, "well, everyone here except you, Sherlock. You might as well throw away your address book. You were always more dramatic as a loner anyway."
"What's left of Richard?" Sherlock seemed merely curious, despite the threats. "Or are you all Jim now?"
Richard shrugged. "We like Shakespeare, and dressing up pretending to be other people, and garlic bread. And those funny little noises that Moran makes in bed. And we think Mycroft's little anecdotes are adorable, though we're going to kill him anyway."
"Fascinating. Will you tell me how you created the spilt?"
"That much is your debt repaid. You get no more." They might need it again some day. Besides, keeping Sherlock frustrated of knowledge was fun.
Moriarty stretched, the taste of his own blood still strong in his mouth. "We must be off- got a few things to sort out- housekeeping matters, mainly. You know how it is when you've been away, Sherlock, which reminds me that at some point we must get together and reminisce about ways to fake deaths on rooftops."
He glanced around. John, unostentatiously getting himself ready to rush Seb's gun. Mycroft, prepared to duck behind the desk and hope to survive long enough for the SAS to storm the place. Sebastian, ready to gun both men down long before either could act, as soon as he gave the signal.
They thought about it, briefly- leaving Sherlock drenched in the blood of his family and his friend. But it wasn't subtle and it wasn't necessary. They could take either of them any time they wanted. It would be fun to watch them scurry around for a while first. They'd even release the obnoxious policeman who had bullied Richard so (and he remembered now, ordering the method of Finney's death in gruesome detail. Over too soon, but he'd not had time for sophistication. He'd been in hiding from himself).
"Come on, hound," he called to Sebastian. "We're going home." And to Mycroft and John. "It seems that my dog needs a little correction to his training. I doubt that he will be fit for hunting for a while. You may want to take the opportunity to leave the country."
He grinned. "At least I hope so. He has so much more fun if there's a little challenge involved. And he's going to need a little fun, after I've finished with him."
"I'm not going to run from you," John hissed. "I'm going to track you down and kill you."
Moriarty winced. "No style at all. Plenty of enthusiasm, rather like your interrogation technique, which I suppose counts for something. How about you, pet? We've spent such long and lovely hours together. Tell me, what's your master plan for staying ahead of Sebastian's bullets?"
"Confidential." Mycroft said, dryly.
Moriarty applauded, slowly. "Much better. Your brother is acquiring a little panache, Sherlock. A little late in his life, but better than never I suppose."
Sherlock had drawn himself up to his full height. "You will harm neither of them. Nor Lestrade."
Moriarty frowned at him, pantomime. "Sorry, but I think I probably am. Righteous vengeance, remember? It's a thing."
"You'd be stupid to act precipitously against anything of mine while there's a yawning chasm in your information. And neither of you are stupid."
A chasm? Of course. "While I was tucked up cosily in prison for years, where were you, Sherlock?" He didn't expect to be told. It wouldn't be that easy. The others... "You haven't told them."
"And make then targets? No." Sherlock's eyes were sparkling. "You have near limitless resources. It will be difficult but you will no doubt find out at least some of it eventually. If you are allowed the time." He smiled briefly.
Stalemate. Richard/Moriarty considered that. It was more interesting than he had anticipated. Sherlock was almost certainly bluffing; nothing in those missing years should stop Jim killing his people. But 'almost certainly' left room for that intriguing possibility that Moriarty might be on the verge of making a rare mistake. There was no hurry.
He nodded, conceding the position. "A stay of execution, then. A brief one." And to the doomed men, "Ta ta for now. A little anticipation will spice things up for all of us."
He still had Moran to deal with. That would have to do for now; that and Sherlock's puzzle, and maybe some take away pizza with proper garlic bread. As he descended the stairs of 221B to the sound of the guns in Baker Street clearing his way he started whistling. They were both happy to be himself again. Jim Moriarty was back and in control.