Hello fellow earthlings :) I have here my first BBC Sherlock fanfiction. So there is a LOT more to the story than the description, there will be flashbacks, smut, more flashbacks, and more smut, and some serious hurt/comfort angst but shhh...spoilers!

I'd like to thank the most awesome beta: Vomashka

Slight AU

Pairing: Sheriarty (Sherlock/Moriarty)

This chapter rating: T (M for later chapters)

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor are they my creations. They belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and the writers of BBC Sherlock.

Here goes...enjoy :)

Hot water. Steam filled the vicinity enclosed by a curtain. Water sprayed through the air, trickling over his skin, in between crevices on his torso and along his limbs. Black soot dispersed, following the water to the floor and swirling down the drain. His skin, rinsed and scrubbed and rinsed again, now showed it's natural color. A sort of relief swept over the tall man as the heat relaxed and soothed muscles. This relief did nothing to disentangle his thoughts, however, for the night had left a disturbance in his conscience.

Thump. He slid heavily down into his chair. His deep green eyes stared into the vast emptiness that was the kitchen. For a moment, he didn't mind the isolation. He sensed his habits of being alone creep in like days before. Those being the days when he lived on his own, without his doctor. His partner in crime, and savior; the one who would pull a trigger for him without thinking twice. His beloved doctor, who was now lying in a hospital bed, comatose.

Sherlock's eye lids started to flicker as his head swelled with questions. Why wasn't he there? Why did he abandon his friend when he needed him the most?

The others would be at the hospital by now. Their friends would look after him. John's family would sit in the lobby all night waiting for good news. But Sherlock couldn't bear it. He was a coward and he knew it. Still, how could he stand to see his friend like this when it was he himself…who pulled the trigger…

"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" the alienating chill of his nemesis entered the room once more.

John's heavy breathing pierced the air like thunder in the sky. The hairs on Sherlock's neck stood erect as he was driven to his dominant weakness. Fear.

He thought he lived for these moments. For the longest time he thought it was the fight he craved.

But now...he was scared.

This time it wasn't the thrill. No, it wasn't the chill of excitement that rushed through his veins. It wasn't the urge to run into danger itself. Something was holding him back.

This man. The second Moriarty revealed his face, Sherlock's mind shook with fear. He was a stranger, yet…his voice was so…familiar.

Deep within the depths of the detective's mind, something had awakened. It was as if a beast was clawing at the inside of his memories. But what was this beast?

Sherlock could barely think. He felt paralyzed by fear. His legs had turned to stone. His thoughts spun like a tornado in the heat of summer. But why was he so afraid?

Never, in all the years of his life that he sought out mystery and danger, had he felt like this. Never felt the numbness of his body, or the dread of his own sanity being ripped away from him. This unknown was what Sherlock feared the most. Who was this man?

Sherlock barely managed to speak, "W-who are you?" he croaked out a whisper but the room amplified the sound.

Moriarty's voice hit the air, "Well, that's a loaded question isn't it?" he paused, "It's just me, Sherlock. Don't you remember?"

The words pelted through the room, hitting the detective like shattering glass. A wave of nostalgia crashed over Sherlock. He knew that voice. He knew it very well.

But it couldn't be…

Fear suddenly melted away. Feeling returned to Sherlock's body and his senses came rushing back. The sweat on his forehead was cold. His eyes flickered open. He opened his mouth, "What—" his voice was a raspy whisper, "What did you say?"

"I said…" Moriarty delayed his words in suspense, "It's just me, don't you remember?"

Remember?

Sherlock hesitated, then rasped again, "Who are you?"

"Oh, Sherlock, are we going to play this game? Come on, give me a break; I thought you'd be pleased!"

"Pleased?!" Sherlock's fear was gone, but anger was creeping in.

Life had returned to his body. He was done being idle. He was done waiting to strike. Sherlock spun around to face this man. But he was angry. Never in his life could Sherlock deal with anger. Now he held a gun, and his head was filled with emotions that could engulf the planet.

"WHO ARE YOU?!" Sound exploded into the room.

A whisper came from next to him, "Sherlock! What is it? What's wrong?"

"Oh, there's no need to shout, Sherly." Moriarty was almost disappointed.

Sherlock lowered his voice, and his eyes narrowed, "Don't call me that. Don't you DARE!"

At that moment, Moriarty regretted this plan to reveal himself. To come back. He thought Sherlock would be pleased. But he, instead, filled himself with rage. What had become of this man he knew so well?

"YOU DIED!" Sherlock roared. This was the moment his sanity failed him. He raised his hand, aiming the gun.

"Wait." Moriarty started to panic, "The gun, Sherlock. There's no need to—please put the gun down!" His plan, this time, didn't rely on threats or power play. He had made a mistake. Because this plan relied on something too powerful to predict. The emotions of a man he used love.

"NO! No, I'm not going to put the gun down!" Sherlock couldn't think, and could barely catch his breath. "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?!" the beast from his memories had taken over, flooding his mind with pain. He took a step forward still holding the gun.

John scurried to his feet, "Ok—Sherlock, put the gun down!" he didn't understand what was happening and he started to panic.

"Sherlock, please, whatever you do, don't shoot!" Moriarty was scared. He didn't expect this, of all things.

"The bomb Sherlock! Please put the gun down!" John raised his voice.

Sherlock had an instinct for blocking out the irrelevant. He tuned out John at that moment. He didn't even think about it. He didn't care. All he could feel was pain pulsing through him, making his brain feel like it's being torn apart.

"Do you know what you did to me?!" He shook the gun towards Moriarty as he yelled, "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PAIN YOU CAUSED?!"

"You don't want to do this!" Moriarty couldn't do anything but plead, now.

Sherlock only saw one way out. He didn't think about the consequences. He could hear John's voice in the back of his mind, but he didn't care. He couldn't. His fear and his anger and sadness and nostalgia engulfed him and Sherlock needed revenge. This man had been everything. The one he trusted and the one that had made him happy. But from the minute he stepped into the room he became the enemy. And for that reason, his once burning love didn't seem to matter anymore. And Sherlock could only see one way out.

"I'm sorry."

"SHERLOCK NO!" John screamed.

And then everything fell apart. There was no light, there was no sound. There was no feeling or hint of thought.

For now, this was the end.

But the sleeping beast…would reawaken soon enough…

Ok, well that's the first chapter...

PLEASE leave you comments, suggestions, and/or praise in the review section. I would really like to know what you think, and if i could improve in any way :)