AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, this is the first thing I have decided to upload to . I've been a member for what must be two years now? And the entire time I've written plenty of fanfiction, but I was always too nervous to upload. I'm starting with the giant cliffhanger, the first chapter being 99.99% cannon. So please, be gentle with me. Reviews are much appreciated. Enjoy.

"Brought you a little 'getting to know you present." There was a brief pause from the man, filled with the sound of water lapping at the sides of the pool. "This is what it's all been for," the last word was drawn out. "Isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from this." The heels of his shoes made sharp clicks that echoed eerily.
That is when she heard it. "Step out." The ear piece was very loud, blaring out static. Samantha swallowed the scream she so desperately wanted to let out. Staring at the blue curtain concealing her, she found that her feet were unable to move. "Now, Sammy."
Hatred welled up inside of her. She didn't understand, she had no part in this! All Samantha had done was run to the local market on a Monday night, and now she had been thrown into some serious, very illegal stuff. Biting down on her bottom lip, Samantha stuffed her hands into the pockets of the oversized coat she wore and walked into the open.
She turned to face the British man who had been speaking just a moment ago. His eyes bore into her, a mixture of dread and surprise. He stood in what must have been a fairly awkward position. Looking over his shoulder at her, the same shoulder lifted, handling what appeared to be a black flash drive.
Had the situation been different, Samantha could have stopped to fully appreciate the man's good looks. The unruly black hair framing his face complimented him well. The dark locks flipped in every which direction, concealing the majority of his forehead and ears. He wore black, and plenty of it. His expensive looking jacket was black, as well as his trousers and dress shoes. The button up shirt he wore was light silver in color and fit snuggly across his slim chest. He continued to eye Samantha warily through dark eyelashes and piercing grey eyes. His face was somewhat narrow, sculpted by unusually high cheek bones. His neck was long, and just enough of his white chest was exposed. Soft, pale, pink lips defined his features as well, his lower lip dipping down at a strange angle.
"Evening." Samantha said in the calmest voiced she could amass. She flipped a red strand of hair out of her face. His eyes widened. "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?" She repeated the words as they were fed to her. His name rolled nicely, of not awkwardly, from her American accented tongue.
"Who-" He cut himself off and sent the question in a different direction. "What the hell?" The hand gripping the flash drive tensed, and then lowered itself slowly.
"Bet you never saw this coming." Samantha's voice shook slightly, and she cursed herself for allowing it. Sherlock was staring at her in a new way, analyzing, full of purpose, taking in every aspect about her that was visible. He took long strides closer, but stopped some fifteen or so odd feet away.
Smart move, thought Samantha. The voice in her ear piece spoke up, clearly enjoying every moment of this. "Open up! And then repeat:"
Samantha did just that. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she began to speak again. "What," She pulled at the sides of the heinous green coat. "would you like me. To make her say. Next."
Sherlock didn't look surprised to see the vest strapped to Samantha's chest, various colored wires entwined with blocks of C-4. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed the red dot of light trained on her chest that, Samantha assumed, came from a sniper hidden on the numerous balconies above the indoor pool.
Sherlock strolled carelessly towards her, turning to scan for others.
The cheap looking fur that lined the hood resting on Samantha's shoulders tickled her left ear, but she didn't dare reach to scratch it. She winced inwardly at the terribly over used joke her ear piece had just demanded she subject herself to.
"Gottle o' geer." Samantha said, no amusement in her voice.
"Again." The earpiece sniggered.
Samantha leaned her head to the side exasperatedly. "Gottle o' geer."
"Again!"
"Gottle o geer." Her voice was breathless.
"Stop it." Sherlock deadpanned, before Samantha was forced to say it once more.
"Nice touch, this." Samantha commented dryly while Sherlock turned his slim figure away from her. "The pool." Pause. "Where little Carl died." Samantha stole a quick glance at the swimming pool and grimy, white tile floor. She found it difficult to register the fact that someone died here.
"I said, 'I stopped him'!" Samantha realized she had been tuning out the only thing saving her life.
"I stopped him." Samantha said.
Sherlock took slower steps now, and Samantha had just noticed how very tall he was. Over six feet for sure. And then there was that ever so calm expression that decidedly looked everywhere except Samantha. It made her want to punch it off of his face.
"I can stop Samantha Jones, too." She bit out, looking down. Samantha couldn't help but notice Sherlock's left hand working up a fuss. His long, nimble fingers rubbed anxiously against one another and their neighboring thumb.
"Stop her heart." Samantha could have sworn that the skin below the red dot shining on her chest went up ten degrees.
"Who are you?" Asked Sherlock, his back to Samantha. A high pitched creaking filled the room. Sherlock turned to look at the opposite side of the pool, where the sound originated.
"I gave you my number..." Came a voice that was all too familiar for Samantha's ears. "I thought you might call." He continued in an overly pouty tone.
An unsettling silence fell over them, only broken by soft footsteps. The barely coherent thought running through her head was that this better not be because Sherlock forgot to call some bugger.
"Is that a British Army L9A1 Browning in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" His voice was getting slowly closer.
Sherlock's hand reached into his right hand pocket and drew out that very handgun. Fluidly, he pointed it at the man.
"Both."
Samantha couldn't stand it any longer. She turned her head to see a rather short, thin figure on the other end of the pool. His hair was dark and receding slightly. His forehead was large, making his sunken eyes stand out. The black suit he wore was flashy. He gave a wry grin as he stuck his hands in his pockets.
"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" Moriarty greeted in his sing-song voice.
Samantha couldn't help the wave of anger that surged over her. A deep flush colored her ears. Everything about Moriarty screamed evil.
Sherlock's brow furrowed as he glanced Moriarty over, gun still directed at him.
"Jim?" Moriarty suggested. "From the hospital?" Sherlock's hand joined the other, which was fingering the trigger on his weapon. "Huh. Do I really make such a fleeting impression? Though I suppose that was rather the point." He continued. Samantha and Sherlock locked eyes for a moment, then Sherlock's eyes wandered to her chest. "Don't be silly." Moriarty told them. "Someone else is holding the riffle." His voice then lowered to a more threatening octave. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." He continued to make his way over leisurely. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world." Moriarty paused to lick his lips. "I'm a specialist, you see." He trailed off, then added, with much enthusiasm, "Like you!"
Sherlock's eyes darkened with realization. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me? To get rid of my lover's nasty sister."
A small chuckle escaped Moriarty as he rounded up on the two.
"Dear Jim," Sherlock persisted in his monotone. "Please, will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"
Moriarty was no more than three feet from Samantha, and she barely resisted the urge to pounce on him. He ran a finger over his lip and looked at her with a menacing smile.
"Just so." He grinned, mocking Sherlock's deep, rich voice when he turned his attention back onto him.
"Consulting criminal." Murmured Sherlock with a hint of awe. "Brilliant."
Moriarty grinned smugly. "Isn't it?" Samantha couldn't stand to look at either of them. "No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."
A loud metallic click sounded as a result of Sherlock cocking his gun. "I did." Sherlock corrected.
"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way!" Moriarty said in his eccentric voice.
"Thank you." Sherlock replied immediately.
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes you did."
"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. "But the flirting is over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" He spoke with a surprising high pitch. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Sherlock's grip tightened on his gun. "Although," Moriarty continued. "I really have enjoyed this, this little game of ours!" He began to speak in a deeper, dim sounding tone. "Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like that little touch with the underwear?"
"People have died." Sherlock avoided the question.
"That's what people DO!" Screamed Moriarty, his words echoing all over the place.
When Sherlock spoke, his voice was quiet yet far from soft. "I will stop you."
"No you won't." Moriarty said matter-of-factly.
"You alright?" Sherlock directed at a terrified and confused Samantha. When she said nothing, Moriarty walked behind her.
"You can talk," He said, bemused. "Sammy, go ahead." Samantha was smart enough not to open her mouth. She was almost certain the first thing she'd say would be a very colorful string of curses directed at them both.
"Take it." Demanded Sherlock, holding the flash drive towards him.
"Oh," Moriarty strutted his way to Sherlock. "that. The missile plans." His voice had become airy, finishing his words like a snake. Now that Samantha thought about it, he resembled a snake in many ways. Dangerous, yes, watching them like they were his prey, sneaky, slimy, cold, terrifying.
Moriarty took the flash drive and pressed it to his lips, kissing the cool plastic without removing his eyes from Sherlock. "Boring!" His voice rang out. "I could've got them anywhere." And with that, he flung it into the pool like dice at a casino.
Making up her mind, Samantha ran up behind him and flung her arm around his neck, the other restraining his arm. "Sherlock, run!" Samantha couldn't believe she was actually risking herself for him, but she had slim chances of getting out of this in one piece. If saving Sherlock's life was the last good deed Samantha could perform, then she was going to.
"Oh, ho ho!" Breathed Moriarty, struggling half heartedly. Had he not been a particularly small man, Samantha would have been thrown off with ease. "Good! Very good!" He laughed. Samantha tightened her grip on the man as Sherlock searched the balconies with his eyes.
"If your sniper," Began Samantha, speaking just above a hoarse whisper. "pulls the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." Proud in her ability to sound so much more courageous than she actually was, the corners of her lips twitched into a tiny smile.
"She's sweet! You could use her around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets." He paused to wheeze when Samantha jerked her arm into his adams apple. "They're so touching and loyal." Moriarty tried to jerk free, but to no avail. "Whoops!" He grinned suggestively. "You've rather shown your hand there, Ms. Jones."
For one moment there, one fleeting moment, Samantha felt a small blossom of hope rise in her chest. Followed by a severe desire to be asleep in her bed. She knew that somehow she would get out of this. She could give Moriarty a good kick in the pants, Sherlock a stern lecture, and then skip her way merrily home.
But when she saw a second red light settle itself on a strand of Sherlock's dark hair, she knew that none of those could be accomplished any time soon. Or ever, for that matter.
Sherlock didn't need anyone to tell him what was going on. He had already deduced that on his own, and he sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment. Sherlock's weapon however, didn't stray from its target.
"Gotcha!" Moriarty cried triumphantly.
Careful of herself, Samantha put her hands up and backed away warily. Only when she was certain that her life wasn't going to end at that very moment did she rest her arms at her sides once more.
Moriarty dusted his overcoat off dramatically, then gestured to it with a bitter look at Sherlock. "Westwood." Samantha held back a scoff. "Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"
"Oh, let me guess, I get killed?" Sherlock suggested in his signature bored note.
"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced. "N-no. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyways, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying." Sherlock got the ever so uncomfortable once over. "I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." Moriarty's voice had a shockingly sinister air to it.
"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock matched his menace key for key.
Moriarty gave him a knowing look. "But we both know that's not quite true. Well, I'd better be off." He glanced at Samantha, then the pool. "Oh, so nice to have a proper chat."
Licking his lips, Moriarty went unphased when Sherlock got s better grip around the trigger and asked "What if I was to shoot you now? Right now."
"Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Moriarty wore a mocking expression of shock. "Coz I would be surprised, Sherlock, really, I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Chow, Sherlock Holmes." He turned to make his leave.
"Catch... you... later." Sherlock's gun followed his exit before the door creaked open.
"No you won't!" Moriarty sung, and the door closed behind him.
Sherlock eyed the vest cautiously. "Alright?" He set his gun down by his leg. Kneeling onto his right knee, Sherlock began to unclasp the Velcro. Samantha simply threw her head back in sheer relief.
"Are you alright?" He asked again, more forcefully.
"Yeah, yeah." Samantha managed to squeak out, allowing him to slip the coat and vest off of her torso in one strong swoop. "I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock." His name felt different now.
When he yanked it's grasp from her left arm, it nearly sent Samantha barreling backwards into him. "Sherlock!"
He slid the bundle down the tiled floor as if he were bowling, his cool exterior slowly deteriorating.
Breathing far to fast then what could be considered healthy, Samantha pulled the side of her blue jacket back over her shoulder. She suddenly felt cold, very cold.
Sherlock cast his eyes over her once more. When he was satisfied that she was physically unharmed, he dashed to the corridor, ensuring that they had no unwanted guests.
She was thankful for the silence, mostly because she didn't know what to say. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw. Not just at Sherlock, not even coherent words, just strange shouts and noises until she was left to think things through in the depths of her mind.
Shock. That's what it was. She was in shock. For a moment, she vaguely remembered being wrapped in an orange blanket, sitting on the edge of an ambulance once, after a small house fire. She was young and had profusely demanded that they stop throwing it over her shoulders every time she turned her back. Oh, what she would give for a sodding shock blanket right now.
Stumbling clumsily, she let out a "Oh, dear Lord." before leaning against the nearest wall, sinking down to her knees.
Sherlock returned, pacing back and forth in front of her. Out of everything that happened, this strange man was what confused Samantha the most. It was obvious that Moriarty and he didn't get on well. From the sound of it, Sherlock had discovered something he shouldn't have, something involving dangerous crimes Moriarty had helped perform. Could he be with the police? Surely not. He had missile plans on him, which she was almost certain was not allowed. And about the... method Moriarty had used to communicate at first, it was obvious that Samantha wasn't the first to be subjected to that horror. Sherlock hadn't been the least bit surprised to see the explosives. Wrong. It was all wrong. Wrong and frightening, and terrible.
But the worst part was that Samantha felt, though she would never admit it, good. Adrenaline was pumping through her body and she had a strange urge to jump across rooftops. But for her own sanity, Samantha buried that thought amongst others, refusing to contemplate it.
"Sammy, is it?" Sherlock asked, avoiding her eyes.
"Don't call me Sammy." Samantha bit out. Her eyebrows knit together in worry as he scratched the back of his head with the barrel of the gun.
"Samantha it is then."
"Are you okay?" She asked, trying her best to be polite before she began the rapid fire questions that were building up inside her by the dozen.
"Me? Yeah, fine." Sherlock replied briskly. "I'm fine, fine..." He turned to her, staring at her kneecaps rather than her face. "That, uh, thing that you, that you, uh, did, that, um..." He cleared his throat, breathing heavily. "You offered to do, was, um." Sherlock attempted to gesture with his hands, but only looked a fool waving his gun around. "Good." He finally settled on.
"God, no one saw that."
"Hm?" Sherlock questioned, rubbing the cool metal of his weapon against his chin, eyebrows raised.
Samantha struggled to find the right words. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
Sherlock grinned wryly. "People do little else." He said seriously.
Samantha only just noticed how soothing his voice was, and it worked to calm the frustration inside her. She almost felt the urge to ask him pointless questions just to hear him talk. Hell, he could read the phonebook for all Samantha cared, and she'd still listen.
He flashed her a brilliant smile. With a small laugh, Samantha was ready to stand and start the questioning. But before she could, a bright light shone in her eye, blinding her for a second. That was when she saw the red dot trained on her chest for the second time. "Oh-!" She shouted as two more joined the first.
"Sorry you two!" Came Moriarty's sing song voice as he noisely threw yet another door open. "I'm sooo changeable!"
Sherlock clung tightly to his weapon, four dots illuminating the collar of his button up shirt.
"It's a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness!" He said, positively beaming at them. Samantha stared disbelievingly at him. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." He shook is head with fake disappointment. "I would try to convince you, but, everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
Samantha wanted to yell at him that she had nothing to do with this, and she really tried. The sound that came out could only be described as a sob. A soft, pleading sound that Samantha had only ever heard herself make when she had been broken up with, or fallen down stairs (which she did quite often, surprisingly), and injured herself.
She tried to say something. Anything. Some brave last words. Her mind and her vocal chords just weren't on the same page. She supposed settling for some comment on ripping clothes off in darkened swimming pools would have to suffice. Fresh out of high school, and she was going to die.
The pathetic sound drew Sherlock's attention, and their eyes fixed onto one another's. His cool grey eyes asked, pleaded with her to notice something she clearly hadn't already.
Her mind was reeling. She looked to Sherlock uncertainly, then to Moriarty. What had she missed? The look on his face made Samantha ill. It said "Victory". It was everywhere. His eyes, smirk, even his stance seemed to gloat. Hands behind his back, feet spread apart. Samantha couldn't see his shoes over the bundle of explosives in front of him.
Samantha's head snapped back to Sherlock, and she nodded.
With a cold look Sherlock turned to Moriarty. "Probably, my answer has already crossed yours." His gun was pointed at Moriarty. But with a look of satisfaction, or what must have been considered satisfaction for Sherlock, he lowered his aim to the explosives at Moriarty's feet. He gave Sherlock a glare so intense with hatred that it made Samantha squirm.
Moriarty was a madman. Sherlock was a madman- hell, Samantha might me a madman. And for the first time that night, Samantha wasn't sure who was more dangerous.

-END CHAPTER ONE-