Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, and I'm incredibly nervous. Not Brit-picked. No beta. Just me.

Chapter One

The gritty sound of rubber soles on wet asphalt sounded among an otherwise quiet night in Rome. It was a comfortable rhythm for Sherlock. His version of normal. The man a few meters ahead of him had no feasible means of escape, but that damn fight-or-flight response kept him moving forward instead of admitting defeat. The man, Sherlock's last tally mark on a long list of Moriarty's associates, turned sharply, catching Sherlock momentarily off-guard. Had he realized how pointless his fleeing was? He reached for his belt, and pulled out a hideously dramatic looking knife. It had a black grip with a thin, curved blade. No then, not giving up, just changing tactics. He was not a particularly skilled man, and the knife seemed to be better fit for a production of The Pirates of Penzance than shanking someone in an alleyway, so Sherlock was able to pull out his own knife without much effort. Sherlock's job was not to kill his opponent, just stall him long enough for Mycroft's men to arrive. The man in front of him was called Niska, an experienced assassin from Moscow. However, knives were not his forte; he dealt primarily with precision firearms. Once Mycroft's men arrived, they would take Niska away and do what they do when they need information. He wasn't a higher up, but he contracted with Moriarty on over two dozen occasions, so he couldn't exactly walk away.

The two began an elaborate sort of dance. Sherlock really wasn't supposed to kill him, but the stupid ape was making it exceedingly difficult not to. Sherlock grabbed the wrist of his knife-wielding hand and twisted, giving Niska the opportunity to punch him with his other hand. Square in the face. Disoriented, Sherlock stumbled backwards, still holding his knife at the ready. Niska grabbed his wrist and shoved his forearm against Sherlock's windpipe. Sherlock struggled for breath, pulling at Niska's massive bicep, but Sherlock was tired. Not just "I've been running for an obscenely long time, and I could use a kip" tired, but bone-weary, "I have been running for months on end, fighting for months on end, hurting for months on end" tired. The pain he was experiencing now was nothing compared to some of the horrors of the last few months, but he still needed air. Niska released his hold on Sherlock's esophagus, but forced his oxygen-starved opponent on to the ground instead. He forced his arm into an unnatural angle until something gave, and Sherlock screamed in the back of his throat.

"You don't think I know what is happening," Niska grunted with a heavy accent, still leaning on Sherlock's now crooked arm. "I know I'm done. I've been done since Moriarty blew his brains out. Your reinforcements will catch up with me, but they'll have your corpse to clean up too." Niska began furiously kicking at his abdomen. It was stupid of Sherlock to believe that any worker of Moriarty's could be as dull as Niska initially seemed. The truth is, he had wanted it to be easy, and his urgency to go home had clouded his judgement. How funny, his urgency to get home would prevent him from getting home at all. Niska, perhaps wanting to take the opportunity to use a dramatic knife for a dramatic death, thrust the blade abruptly into Sherlock's left shoulder. Guttural noises flew from his mouth as the knife was retracted. Dark, hot blood spilled over his body, forming pathetic puddle on the grimy floor below him. His head started to spin, and he was vaguely aware of a scuffle occurring a few feet away. It didn't matter now, anyway. The job was done. He was done.