My first Sherlock fic I've posted. Please tell me what you think!

This could be, I guess, regarded as AU; it takes place either before Reichenbach, or pretending Reichenbach never happened, take your pick. Everyone's alive! haha

(I'm American, and this hasn't been Brit-picked, so if I use wrong words or phrases. forgive me! :] I know the dates are Americanized and I tried to do it the other way round, but it got me too confused so I'm sticking with how it is.)

~Phoenix~

/\/\/\/\

7:58 p.m., September 17

"Sherlock, if you'd stop being so stubborn -"

"John, if you'd stop being such a dull idiot," Sherlock snapped in reply, "Maybe you'd understand something for once!"

Silence fell in the flat. John blinked. Straightened up.

"Well. I suppose that's it, then, hm?" Sherlock didn't reply. "Have it your way," John said coldly, grabbing his coat, "I'm going out." He slammed the door behind him as he stalked out.

John could vaguely hear his flatmate say something loudly, still arguing to thin air. Did Sherlock even listen to him? He imagined not. John tugged his coat on impatiently as the door to 221B slammed behind him, muffling Mrs. Hudson's nervous calls.

John wasn't quite sure where, exactly, he was going - he just knew he needed to get away from Sherlock for a while. He let his thoughts wash over him as he randomly wandered the streets. His head was ducked and his strides fast-paced, his heels clacking loudly against the concrete. He was broiling, absolutely furious.

John considered Sherlock his friend - of course he did. His best friend, really, not matter what his aloof flatmate would insist - and with good reason. After all, they had saved each other's lives, risked everything for each other. Sherlock was his best friend, and undoubtedly it was the same the other way around.

But sometimes he just said the most infuriatingly awful things, and... John didn't know if he was even human.

This was definitely one of those times.

Time passed and the doctor's pace grew slower, his thoughts calmer. Yes, these days did happen. But John knew that Sherlock didn't really mean all the terrible things he could say. And John did care about Sherlock - dearly. Quite more than he would ever be willing to admit to the consulting detective.

Shaking such thoughts out of his head, John lifted his gaze, blinking into reality. It was then that he realized he had no idea where he was. Checking his watch, he found he had been walking for nearly half an hour. He reached a hand into his pocket, checked his mobile, and cursed under his breath. It had run out of battery, completely dead.

He didn't allow himself to worry and starting walking again - once he found a street sign or a phone booth, he would be able to get his bearings. However, the longer he had walked, the shadier his surroundings had become, and now he was practically walking down an alleyway. Things were quiet, and he was alarmed to see the sun starting to slip behind the buildings.

Nobody was around. It was dead silent, except for his own breathing -

- and another pair of footsteps.

John stopped walking, and almost stereotypically soon did the other pair of footsteps. He took a deep breath. A coincidence, this was a coincidence. Besides, it was all much too cliché to be real. This wasn't a show on the telly; he wasn't some screen.

Nobody was following him.

He continued walking and closed his eyes, taking a breath, as the second pair of footsteps picked up as well.

His own footsteps quickened along with his heart rate. Around him rang the deadliest kind of intense silence that chills you, broken only by the sound of another pair of feet following after him.

John looked over his shoulder but saw nothing but shadows. Now he really wished he had a working mobile. He hugged his coat tighter around him and tried to block out the steps behind him; he heard them speed up and now he started running -

There was a blast, white-hot heat, and John's body smashed violently to the concrete.

/\/\/\/\

9:02 p.m., September 17

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, staring idly out the window. Well - he said idly. Physically, perhaps, but his mind was going at about five hundred miles an hour.

He hated when he and John had rows with each other. He would get all worked up and just lash out with the most violent words - and, well, maybe they were true sometimes, but he never meant to hurt John. He never wanted to hurt John.

Mrs. Hudson was hovering in concern by the door. "Is everything alright, Sherlock?" she ventured timidly.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. No. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he replied politely, "it's fine. John and I just had a... disagreement."

Mrs. Hudson laughed at that. "Yes, that's what I always called having a yelling match with my husband, too," she chuckled, somewhat humorlessly. Sherlock stiffened slightly.

"Except he's not my husband," he said somewhat harshly, "he's just my flatmate."

"Same thing, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson joked lightly. Sherlock could sense her uneasiness shaking slightly in her voice. When he didn't respond, she gave a tiny sigh and paused for a moment longer before leaving.

Sherlock also sighed, just slightly, and checked his watch. A slight hint of concern slivered through his skin, and although he tried to shake it off it wouldn't leave.

John had been gone for a bit over an hour.

He could have gone somewhere, he supposed. But where would he have gone? As far as Sherlock knew, John didn't have a girlfriend at the moment - the thing with Sarah had ended a while ago. Sarah had been too fed up with the constant life-threatening danger, and... Well... maybe it had to do a little bit with Sherlock. Sherlock sighed, his foot tapping anxiously against the floor. He checked his phone again. Since John had left, he had sent him numerous texts, none of which had been replied to, to Sherlock's great frustration. He scrolled through the list of texts he had sent.

Where did you go? SH

Stop being childish. Come back to the flat. SH

John? Where are you? SH

I'm getting worried. SH

It's getting dark. Please come back. SH

You're making me nervous. SH

If you're waiting for me to apologize, it's not going to happen. SH

...I'm sorry, then. Just come home. SH

John. This is getting ridiculous. At least let me know you're safe. SH

I'll call the police if you don't answer. I'll call Lestrade. SH

Okay, I'm not really going to call Lestrade, but you need to tell me you're okay. SH

He had even resorted to calling John a few times in the middle there, which had proved just as fruitless as texting, and now he was only more anxious than before. John did have the annoying habit of ignoring him when he was angry, but this was just irritating.

Not to mention worrying.

Sherlock rubbed his face with his hands. Okay. He was overthinking things. He was always overthinking things. John was just talking to a new girlfriend or at a bar or something, ignoring the buzzing phone in his pocket, and being normal.

Getting away from his freakish friend for once.

Sherlock sighed and hoisted himself out of his chair, starting to pace. But this wasn't like John. Not at all. Or maybe it was. Yeah, it was. But -

His phone started ringing shrilly, breaking him out of his frantic panic. He started and blinked in surprise, then lunged for it; the caller ID proclaimed that John was, indeed, calling, and he answered it swiftly.

"John, for the love of God, where have you been? Have you not seen all the texts I've been sending you? You had me worried for a second!"

There was silence on the other end of the line. Sherlock let out a huff of air. "Okay, quit it with all this silent treatment business, you're acting like a child." More silence. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair as he resumed pacing. "It's getting late, that's all, and I didn't know where the hell you went. I wanted to make sure you were safe."

Finally, the silence on the other end of the line was broken as a dark chuckle rang into Sherlock's ear, making his stop dead in his tracks because that was not John. He checked the phone again but yes, he was sure - this was John's phone, but the person talking was not John.

"Well isn't this just delicious," growled the terrifyingly familiar voice on the other end of the line, and Sherlock's heart ran cold with an emotion usually foreign to him.

Fear.

"Grown attached to your little pet, have you?" mocked the voice on the other end of the line that was completely, undoubtedly, Jim Moriarty. "Great big Sherlock Holmes grown fond of his little friend?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. "Where did you get this phone?"

Moriarty laughed again. "Why don't I have John answer that little question? Joooooooohnnnn! Why don't you talk to Sherlock for me?" The phone seemed to bump, like it was moving around, but there was silence. It moved back to Moriarty who said in mock concern, "Oh, it seems like poor Dr. Watson is a little... occupied at the moment." He giggled insanely. Sherlock was gripping the phone so intensely it might had broken underneath his hand, but he paid it no notice.

"You give him back to me," he hissed into the phone, "Or I swear - if you hurt one hair on his head, I swear to God -"

"Oh, but I don't think I believe you, Sherlock," Moriarty's voice mocked sadly over the phone. "And I think we're going to have a lot of fun with Dr. Watson once he wakes up, don't you, boys?" Sherlock could vaguely make out muffled jeers and laughter from the background and could practically see Moriarty's demented smile.

"Have a good night's sleep, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered into the phone, and then the line went dead.

Sherlock was still. Completely still. For only a moment.

His hand shaking, he moved to press a key on his phone. It dialed.

A weary, sleepy voice answered. "What do you want?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, very quietly, trying desperately not to let his utter panic show in his tone, "You have to get over here right now."

Now Lestrade was more alert, because Sherlock never called him for help; it was always the other way around. But this time... "What? What for? What's wrong?"

"It's Moriarty. He's back." He steadied himself for a moment before adding, his voice quavering, "And he's got John."