I Don't own it.

AN: It can get a bit confusing, since its all in Moriarty's head. There is a rational explanation for all of this, too, I just didn't feel like spending the time to add it.

Moriarty frowned at the wall before him as Sebastian Moran entered the room, not needing to look to know his "henchman"- really, it was such a clich term, he preferred "associate," henchman really lacked the professionalism he sought for in all his criminal endeavors- was soaked, dripping water all over the polished marble floors that some weaker men would have termed beautiful. Jim, or James as his mother had called him before that fateful day that her weak, human heart failed (only Carl Powers had called him Jimmy, and Carl Powers had suffered, Oh had he suffered, for it), knew they were simply expensive. They were part of his facade. They impressed people. He didn't give a damn.

It was the devil's fork of being a sociopath, or as Sherlock Holmes would probably point out, a psychopath. He cared for nothing, so there was nothing for anyone to hold against him. At the same time, he cared for nothing. The entire world was inevitably boring. Nothing drew his attention or his interest. He didn't enjoy his power. He cared for nothing, except Sherlock Holmes.

One might say it was his pride, but the emptiness inside him was not pride. All he had was logic. He needed something, anything, to do. Sherlock Holmes was a satisfactory distraction. Outwitting Sherlock gave him purpose, alleviated the mind-numbing monotony.

"Yes, Sebastian?" Moriarty drawled, habitually adding inflection to his tone to make him sound as though he cared. The water droplets continues to fall behind him, but he didn't deign to turn around.

"I set up the trap for Holmes as you asked."

Moriarty nodded his head approvingly. He almost didn't notice the quaver in the man's voice. Realistically, human emotions were so infinitely dull. Experience told him that he had to play Sebastian, however, like all of the others.

"And?" As though he was interested

"I don't think this is a good idea," Sebastian muttered hesitantly.

The blood rushed into Jim's head and he wondered if what he was feeling was anger. It showed all the symptoms: accelerated heart rate, overstimulation of the sweat glands, a tensing of the muscles Moriarty let out his breath, forcibly relaxing his muscles in a demonstration that reminded him that his mind had total control.

"What is it that you don't endorse about my plan?" Jim made his voice light and uncaring, a tone he often adopted when acquiring information.

Sebastian hesitated, and for a moment, Jim wondered if he had a brain. It would surprise him. Jim Moriarty wasn't often surprised. Then Sebastian spoke.

"I think you're underestimating him."

Moriarty laughed. "He played me for a fool, once, with his 'suicide' and I lost a great impersonator on that one. I shall not underestimate Sherlock Holmes again."

"It's not Sherlock Holmes I was talking about." Oddly enough, the voice quavered again. Moriarty began to spin around.

*click*

The sound of a revolver being cocked was very distinctive, louder than the still falling droplets of water.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"John Watson!" As the gun went off, Moriarty felt something, for the first time in his life. Jim Moriarty felt surprised.

The bullet missed him. Moriarty laughed and turned, only to find nothing. Sebastian Moran stood behind him with a tape recorder in one hand and a revolver in the other. More importantly, he was outfitted in a large vest of explosives.

"What would you have him say next?" Moran whimpered. "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Moriarty met his match, may Moriarty meet his maker? Maybe he might, it ends tonight."

"You're insane," Jim whispered, with just the tiniest bit of glee slipping into his tone. This was something he'd never expected, an opponent he had never seen.

"You know, Sherlock often reckons it's the brilliant ones who are the most fun," the voice came from the tape recorder in Sebastian's other hand, drawing Moriarty's eyes. "They want to get caught, to be recognized. It's the average idiot, you have to watch for. He's unpredictable. He doesn't want to get caught, to play games."

Suddenly the voice was coming from behind him, Moriarty turned to see his associate Whang, a leader of a Chinese triad he had some dealings with, standing behind him, also wearing a vest and carrying a tape recorder.

He glanced around, suddenly seeing them everywhere. His stomach dropped.

Smith, Moran, Whang, Sheffington, Vaught Leaders of crime syndicates, gang members... was that Golem?

The voice was coming from all directions now as terrified or impassive faces met his eyes everywhere he looked.

"So this is me warning you," came the cold voice of John Watson. "You have no heart, but I can destroy your mind. I'm not going to kill you, yet. It is

inevitable that I will eventually, but for now, I will burn your mind straight out of you. You will lose everything."

Red dots appeared on all of the vests and Moriarty took a step back.

"Yours was such an idiotic plan, but I've refined it. You're worse than Sherlock, how can someone so smart, BE SO STUPID?" The voice rang loud through the

huge room.

"This is just a warning, Moriarty. The game has already begun, and up to this point, I've let you play by your rules, but what is Russian roulette without a gun?"

Suddenly all of the men and woman around Moriarty whispered the same thing,

"Are you ready to play?"

Jim Moriarty wake with a start, gasping. An uneasy feeling haunted him.

"It was just a dream, a product of an under stimulated subconscious fabricating a false reality," he consoled himself.

His phone beeped.

Text Message from Unknown Number

Are you ready to play, Jimmy?

No, it couldn't be.

He dropped his phone, leaping out of bed. Something crinkled beneath his feet. It was a note.

Hello, Sexy. You know who it is. Having fun yet? Every good doctor knows how to treat a burn, I am not a good doctor. I am a great doctor. Maybe someday I'll be a good man. That day is not today. I will burn you, Jimmy. You underestimated me. Did you ever even bother to read my file? Sherlock didn't. Lestrade didn't. The fault of genius is that you underestimate stupidity. You need an audience. I don't. You use finesse, keeping your hands clean. I'm a soldier and a Doctor. There has not been a time when I have no blood on my hands. The time is coming when it will be your blood. I would advise you to call up some of your associates. They have not been so lucky.

Frantic, Moriarty grabbed up his phone once more and dialed the number of Sebastian.

"The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time " He hung up before the message had ended and dialed Whang's number.

"The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time "

He tried again. Each time he got the same message.

Somewhere in China, a warehouse burned to the ground with several dozen people inside. Investigators declared it accidental. Simultaneously, a box was received by local law enforcement with samples for DNA identification along with enough proof to show that the leaders of all of China's top crime syndicates had been inside and evidence implicating hundreds of others.

Similar events took place in countries all over the world.

"Impossible, isn't it?" John Watson said to Jim Moriarty, holding a gun casually to the man's head. "Did you read my file yet? If you did, you know who I am, or better what I am. You know that a man who barely has an IQ of one twenty has beaten you. You know that I've gotten into your head. You know you're dreaming. You know that soon you'll fall into a different kind of sleep and you're never going to wake up."

Jim Moriarty's eyes flew open. Not again, he almost groaned. There was a creak from beside him on his bed. He turned, and there was John Watson.

"I'm dreaming," he gasped.

Watson's eyes flickered cold and feral. He had a conscience, and yet he was ignoring it, he had practice making the tough decisions. This happened to be easier than most. Casually, he pulled a gun from his waistband and tossed it into the air, his eyes meeting Moriarty's. "You're doubting yourself now." He smiled.

"Is this even real?" Watson questioned Moriarty quietly.

Moriarty froze, unsure.

"There's one way to prove it," Watson said, eyes boring into Jim's skull. "One way to prove it's all real."

Eyes still caught on Jim's, he slid a single bullet into his revolver with a soft metallic clank.

Eyes still on Moriarty, John Watson pressed the gun to his own skull and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. "Is it real?" Watson whispered, eyes twinkling.

He handed the gun to Moriarty, who took it hesitantly and, eyes alight in sudden realization, pointed the gun at John Watson and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

"You have to play the game," John whispered. "The game, Jimmy."

He took the gun from Moriarty's slack fingers and pressed it to his skull again, and again he pulled the trigger. Once, twice.

"Two more chances if it's real," John said. Moriarty took the gun and pointed it at Watson once more. He fired, once, twice, nothing happened.

"No," Moriarty exclaimed. He had seen and heard the bullet enter the gun. Unless is mind was failing him

"I'm either crazy or this is a dream."

Watson smiled at him and Moriarty wondered how he had ever thought the Doctor harmless. The man's teeth glinted.

Moriarty pinched himself, trying to wake up. It didn't work, but he still felt the pain.

"You won't wake up," Watson murmured, "until you play the game." He handed Moriarty the gun.

It isn't real, Moriarty reassured himself, pressing the gun to his head before pulling the trigger.

James Moriarty's grey matter splattered nicely against the wall, like a macabre abstract.

John Watson slid the gun from the man's hand and smiled, seemingly unaware of the blood splatter and tissue residue that coated his ambiguous sweater as he settled back into his quiet persona, hiding the soldier beneath his mask.

"Only you, Sherlock." He stated, stepping over Moriarty's broken figure without glancing down. "Only you would insist on purchasing a specially made seven chamber revolver because 'a proper smiley face requires a nose.'"

He strolled off with a sigh, his expression softening. "Now to take out the rest of the web and then to find you, Sherlock... thinking you're protecting me? Ha!"

Three months later

Sherlock Holmes stared at the man in front of him. John Watson had seen better days. Blood streamed from multitudinous abrasions all over his body, soaking his jumper, but the man was grinning at Sherlock as though he wasn't getting blood all over the carpet and as though it was a normal thing to be in Ireland in the house of the flatmate he had seen commit suicide almost a year before.

"Hello, mate," John quipped. "I'm back. I had to fetch some milk and beans."

Sherlock Holmes just stared, for once, wordless.

"How did you know where I was?" He breathed.

John rolled his eyes. "You genius types always underestimate me."

He strolled into the house's kitchen without pause.

"Would you like some tea?"

Sherlock nodded mutely.

John busied himself with preparing drinks while Sherlock settled onto the couch, his face knitted into a puzzled frown. A sudden and familiar cry broke

through his contemplation.

"Sherlock! What have I said about keeping the severed limbs on the bottom shelf?"

"Not good?"

"A bit not good."

"John... I'm bored."