At first, Jim was the game master.

(Well, no, first he was a baby, then an infant, then a child. Even as a schoolboy, this beautiful cacophony inside his head drowned out the unbearable monotony outside.)

He had always run the show. He reigned over his house and his school. The bullies found their pets cut open, waiting for them when they got in from another day of making his life hell. The girl who turned him down found herself expelled for cheating the very next day. The boy who turned him down didn't speak another word for almost nine years.

As an adult, he still played games. He oversaw them from the shadows.

(Take a dying man, a glimpse of hope and a bottle of strawberry speckled pills. Mix thoroughly and leave to marinate for… say, a few months. The final outcome will be worth it.)

When the final contestant won that game and the host let his master's name slip, Jim was unimpressed. One of the rules was that you must never ever tell who it was that pulled your pretty little strings. It was a shame the old man wasn't alive to watch his daughter scream, but there would be other days for that.

He played games with arrows and sandbags and then with chloroform and chlorine. That was the best game, the greatest game. It took planning but it was worth it. The trainers had been his favourite part. Such a simple touch, but was all the bait that Sherlock needed. He swallowed it up, hook ripping his throat open in his desperation to play a part. It had all been so very fun.

Jim had taken something of a back seat after that. It was pretty damn hard to follow something of that calibre. That level of intricacy and planning needed time and dedication. So he took a more backseat role and he became the storyteller.

Rather than leading Sherlock through hoops, he merely sat back and told him where to jump and how high. It was enlightening. It taught him that he didn't have to stage such huge events all the time. Of course, they were far more enjoyable, but that wasn't the point. A few gentle hints and nudges combined with a meek little man was all that he needed.

He enjoyed being Richard Brook. A few carefully placed phrases, and soon everybody was convinced that they knew him.

"Oh, Rich Brook!" they'd say. "I've heard that name, yes… yes, I'm sure I have somewhere." It was as simple as playing on insecurities. He just had to make them feel like they should know him, like if they didn't they were stupid. Left out. Left behind. Nearly everybody fell for it. They were all so eager, so desperate to prove themselves.

He pickpocketed their children out of spite more than anything else. He went to a child's party only once. The little girl who kicked at him and squealed like a pig was found a few days later. Huddled in a red cloak and nothing else, lost and starving and lonely in the woods. Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

Of course, it wasn't in the press. In the end, the parents were very agreeable about not going to the police or the newspapers, even if they did take some… persuading.

Rich Brook was in a witness protection program now. There was always the chance that an obsessed fan of that nasty little fake detective could strike. The idea of a children's TV hero being murdered in the name of a fraud upset people. It would be so cruel, so unfair. Jim had found that nothing got people riled like a bit of unfairness. The world had accepted that Richard Brook needed to be hidden- they had applauded it, grumbled and nodded firmly. "About time that the government did something bloody right. That poor man. I hope he's safe."

With the game master at rest and the storyteller hidden away, it was time for a change. When he changed out of Rich Brook's clothes for the final time to meet Sherlock on the roof, he pulled on his new persona. Nobody would have noticed a change because everybody was an idiot. Except for Jim.

He made Sherlock Holmes disappear with no intentions of ever bringing him back. With just a few magic words, he sent a man to his death. And oh, yes, it was so very magical to watch. It cemented what he had already known: he would become the magician.

Nobody other than himself knew the details of what unfolded on the rooftop that night. A few knew the vague outline- he had swallowed his gun; head exploding before he got up and walked away. How he had done it was a mystery. A good magician never spoils the act, and Jim would not condone clamouring for his secrets. He moved away from London. It was just easier, and he could do with a change of scenery. A consulting criminal would be welcome anywhere there was crime, and crime would be welcome anywhere there was justice.

Birmingham would be a good place to start, he decided. It was big enough that he could lose himself in the thousands of faceless drones- but he knew parts of it. A man like James Moriarty had contacts in every corner of this pathetic little globe, and he hadn't worked all those years for nothing.

Exactly what happened in London now that he was gone was no longer any concern of his. He didn't care what they did with the body, or whether the doctor would cry, or what pretty little gravestone Sherlock would get- although he had to admit, he did hope it got desecrated.

The games were over. The story had ended. The magic, however, had only just begun.