"No, it's okay, we don't need to call him!" And that was when Sherlock entered the crime scene. Anderson groaned. Called in at two in the morning to find two dead necrotising bodies, and now Sherlock. Yay. When Sherlock walked in, he'd take all the light. It made Anderson wonder why he was ever even recruited. But he made no mention of it, as everyone holds their jobs dear. The irritated man narrowed his eyes at the tall figure. He had no qualifications. Why was he allowed? He looked over at Lestrade in disrespect. How could the detective let such informality happen? He was filling Sherlock in on the details, while Sherlock barely listened and kept blurting out what he had deduced already. Sure, the creature had solve some cases, but it did not mean that Anderson couldn't contribute. He saw the man stoop down, collect information. He had begun before the exchange of usual "pleasantries" between them.

Anderson caught Sgt. Donovan's eye. That's what he was required to call her at all times now. Ever since Sherlock completely uncovered their affair, she'd asked him to have a business relation, nothing else.

"Wait a minute. No. But it's-" Sherlock looked confused. That gave Anderson a snort. "Shut up Anderson. Professional at work."

"And exactly in what way are you a professional?"

"In the way that I've solved half the case already while you're standing there looking pretty. Or what your definition of what that is anyway."

"Dick." Anderson muttered under his breath. John heard, but decided to leave it alone. Until he couldn't.

"Hey Anderson,"

"Yeah?" Watson, right? Yeah. That gay flatmate Sherlock has.

"You and I," he gestured, "could be great friends." Anderson raised an eyebrow. "You know, if you weren't such a dick yourself."

John walked away to Sherlock and left the now solved crime scene before Anderson could digest his talk. Fuck them, Anderson thought. Neither are right in their minds as proven anyway. He turned around to get a cab, after a good eye rolling, succeeded by blacking out.

The world spun sickenly dizzily. Though there wasn't much of a world to spin, as it seemed to be a small cellar. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, to get rid of the blurriness. When he could finally focus, he found a new confusing scenario to fuss about. His wrists chafing with the rope that tied him to the very uncomfortable chair.

"Good morning, sunshine." He found a man sitting right beside him in a turned around chair, taking a luscious bite out of an apple. His face couldn't have been further than six inches.

"What the hell? Who are you?!" Anderson had risen his voice. "Untie me right now!" Anderson restlessly writhed about in the chair.

"Oh, you're not going to be fun." The man rolled his eyes, got out of the chair and walked slowly around.

"Who do you think you are?! Release me! I'm with the police and you'll have hell to pay, you-" the stranger stuff a rag in his mouth, almost down his oesophagus, with force. This made Anderson's gurgles inaudible.

"Shut UP." So the whole world had mutually agreed they needed Anderson to shut up that day.

The tied up muted person was bewilderedly panicking. He had no experience of danger. He wasn't supposed to have an experience of danger. He just swabbed dead bodies. This was not in the job description.

"My men weren't asked to bring you, you know. Useless oafs." The madman observed his apple. "But I can't bring in his friend either now, can I? Window of opportunity closed." He slammed his fist into the table nearby. He chucked his new apple over his shoulder, only to pick up a newer one. "I'll just have to make do with you. Let's hope he likes you enough."

That was the most vague description Anderson had to ever work with. The lunatic pulled out a cellphone from his back pocket. "Sherlock," he greeted, "Goodbye. Moriarty."
He slipped it back in his pocket as quickly as he had gotten it out.

Anderson had been seated with a presence of frustration about him for six hours now. Of course Sherlock, that twat, had something to do about it. What kind of fresh hell did the man bring now? He was too steamed to accept Moriarty's offers of food. Moriarty. What kind of name is that? The kind of weird name like Sherlock, that's what. Do all psychopaths have weird names? Apparently so. He vowed in his train of thoughts to never let Sherlock live this down. He would stir up commotion, heck, make a scene in front of the whole department, blaming this kidnapping on him. Moriarty walked in wandering again, again on his cellphone. He seemed more addicted to it than a teenage girl. Always speaking nonsense into it, while fiddling with his short hair. He had walked in once again in the middle of a nonsensical conversation.

"I believe the poultry you found in the box you also found didn't account for what you set out for." Poultry? "No, it's too easy! Come and find out yourself!" He hung up, looking pleased with himself.

"What?" He had found Anderson staring at him, with a confused and ridiculed face. The madman in those casual jeans and tee shrugged and walked out. It was getting hot. In the middle of winter it was getting hot and suffocatingly so. Anderson wished he could strip out of his jacket, but his hands were tied.

"Eat!" Moriarty placed a sandwich on a table which he had dragged in front of Anderson. Thirteen hours and Anderson had not even had water. Moriarty misunderstood it to be the typical rebellion hostages tend to have. But it was really a subconscious attempt by his hostage to look his worst, so he'd have more to blame on his despised one.

"You can't make me." Anderson looked at his captor with narrow eyes.

"Fine by me," shrugged Moriarty, and took a huge bite out of the sandwich himself. He stood up from his crouching position, slipped out his phone yet again, and called the number that seemed to be on speed dial. "Did you enjoy the aquarium? Yes, I thought so. Why are you so slow? I'm getting bored now." He hung up. He went off and locked the door behind him, again.

The door clicked again. The captive man had spent two hours in solitude. He had tried his best to free himself, wrestling with the ropes, looking for sharp objects, but nothing worked. Even his phone had been removed from his jacket. He had succumbed to talking to himself, muttering away how much he hated this. When the door clicked, he looked up, stretching his cramped neck from a hung low position. This time though, where he expected to see his captor's head he saw a chest and a blue scarf. Stretching his neck further, wincing at the cramps, he saw Sherlock.

"Anderson?" Sherlock exclaimed in ridiculed disbelief. Moriarty walked out from behind somewhere, now having changed into a formal suit. Dressed to impress?

"Oh! He has a name, does he? Anderson. What kind of name is that?" Anderson shot an ignored glare at Moriarty, because Moriarty obviously shouldn't have been in the position to say that.

"Of everyone, you decide to take him? Anderson?"

"Well, I did the best I could in the opportunity."

"Your best is the worst. I have no interest, so goodbye." Sherlock swung around, flung the door open, and closed it well behind him when he left. Anderson was left dumbfound. He blinked with raised eyebrows.

"Damn my conscience," Sherlock exclaimed as he reentered. Anderson rolled his eyes. "So, what is it Moriarty?"

"Now, let me get that coat for you," Moriarty approached Sherlock. Sherlock snapped.

"What IS IT?" Moriarty stopped. "You have my attention by kidnapping this primate of human form," Anderson wanted to yell, he wanted to so dearly, but he knew he'd only be ignored, "but surely this couldn't be your plan! What do you want?"

"Just wanted to meet you, you know, have coffee or tea or blood. Whichever you prefer."

Sherlock glared at Moriarty with irritation. He had just spent he entire day outside his home, following the random, disconnected, bizarre clues the disturbed genius had left him, and he did not appreciate the prize at the end of it all. Moriarty was better than this. He would've probably known how his relations with the primate were, if Sherlock wasn't overestimating his genius. Which he wasn't. Moriarty had been distracting Sherlock for the entire day, investing all his attention away from something, something much, much more important. "Oh no. What did you DO?" What was he yapping on about? The prisoner was getting frustrated.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"I don't trust you."

"Smart."

Sherlock turned around to rush back home, the place where Moriarty had distracted him from. Anderson was stood up, free from the chair, but in a headlock against a gun's edge.

"You know I will shoot." Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"I have no interest in Anderson. Go ahead." He turned back around. But Anderson could detain his irritable voice no more and yelled. He yelled with passionate irritation.

"I'm here BECAUSE of you, dickhead!" That stung. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Something definitely is! I know that, we ALL fucking know that, but how screwed up are you?!" Moriarty's eyebrows rose and fell, impressed. "You are absolutely fu-"

The door slammed opened with John at stance with his gun, promptly having Moriarty shift his aim from his captor's head to the party crasher's. Sherlock stood back. The loaded guns would've unloaded any second then, had it not been for Moriarty's interruptive phone. He shrugged and attempted to take the call, during when Anderson released his grasp. It only made Moriarty fire. Anderson was spared the bullet, it missing his head by mere centimeters, but it was John's bullet, fired in response, that accidentally shot his thigh that collapsed him while he was escaping.

"I'm required somewhere." Moriarty shook his head in ridicule and left before the flatmates tending the shot man could notice. The police came five minutes later, taking an agonized Anderson for hospital care. After Sherlock and John described the scenario, they were free to leave. John hailed a cab, and they were all set to leave for home.

"Is everything alright at Bakerstreet?"

"Well, right after you left, I noticed these men lurking outside the flat. Suspicious. I understood something was up, so I followed you."

Sherlock nodded as though he knew that.

"Wait," Sherlock inquired, "You left Mrs. Hudson alone?"

"Sherlock, she was out. Although she did call me right before I was about to enter the cellar."

Sherlock shot him a look of concern.

"Don't worry. She said that there was some rummaging in the house, nothing more. She's fine."

"Oh, fine then. I hope they didn't mess up my sock drawers."

They had nothing more to speak of. It was twenty minutes of silence after which John noticed Sherlock smirking, pleased at something.

"What happened?"

"You shot Anderson, by 'accident'," John had to let out a smile at that, "even though you're a terribly good shot."

John chuckled, "I heard all the dick yelled at you Sherlock, obviously."