Author Note: Oh, what have I just got myself into trying to write a Sherlock fan fiction and crossing it with Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji). I blame Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for giving me the idea of bringing Black Butler cast into the twenty-first century, more importantly into the Sherlock BBC-verse.

But I don't actually think of this as a crossover, since everything will happen in the Sherlock-verse and focus mainly on Sherlock cast. I'll be writing the Black Butler cast as OCs, so you don't need to know anything about Black Butler to read this. BUT the Black Butler merry crew still belongs to Yana Toboso. I own nothing of this little universe.

PS. Thanks Eiko for pointing out the grammar errors. I'm not a native speaker of English, so I know my grammar definitely sucks. I'll check and upload every chapter again. :) Hope I can keep you entertained.

"The hardest thing in chess is to win a won game." - Frank Marshall

Part 1: After the Shock

The pool was an utter mess when Lestrade arrived. The ambulance was already there. Firefighters were working to quench any fire left in and on the building. The roof was evidently in the verge of collapsing that they let no one, absolutely no one, inside the place.

It irritated Lestrade more than he would ever admit. The bomber had struck again, his fifth attack like Sherlock had said, but this time there was no warning, and he couldn't even contact Sherlock or John. At that moment he was trying to think what Sherlock would do, and what kind of evidence would he need from this place. For one thing, they had to confirm this was not a copycat. They needed samples of the bomb used here. He had to ask someone to find it for him. Someone.

His eyes involuntary fell on the rolling bed coming out of the complex heading for the ambulance. In a split of a second his heart, brain and legs raced toward the man evidently shocked and injured from the bomb. It was Sherlock, goddamnit, it was Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" he must have been screaming, but the sounds were deafening he couldn't even hear himself or Sally who was clearly trying to say something over the distance. He didn't care, not at that moment. He almost flung himself to the bed as they hurled Sherlock toward the white van.

Sherlock was barely conscious. His eyes were darting about as if observing everything but seeing nothing. The idiot met the criminal alone again, and he might have died because of it.

Then suddenly those blue orbs locked on him. His hand grabbed on the lapel of Lestrade's coat almost too tightly for a barely conscious man. Under the deafening noises he could hear words coming clearly from those broken lips. "Jim Moriarty. Barts. Molly."

That was all Sherlock was able to say before they pulled him into the ambulance and the door closed, locking Sherlock away. The detective was still reaching out for him but his strength was clearly failing. What struck Lestrade the most was the fact that he looked frantic unlike the calm calculating Sherlock. Something was very urgent, and he wanted Lestrade to help him.

Jim Moriarty. Barts. Molly.

Sally reached him at last, telling him under her heavy breath that John Watson was sent to St. Barts moments ago. She mumbled the number of casualties before Lestrade cut her off. "Check St. Barts for Jim Moriarty and anyone by the name Molly. And be quick," he added. Sally seemed startled, but disappeared with his errand within minutes. She could sense the urgency of this from Lestrade as much as Lestrade could sense it from Sherlock. Sherlock had met the bomber, Moriarty. Something must be going on with Molly at St Barts.

But for now, he had to rely on the medics to care for John and Sherlock. He had to rely on Sally in understanding Sherlock's message. All he could do is what a detective must do: try to understand what had come to past.

The officers would not let him into the building for the reason he understood perfectly but left him frustrated nonetheless. He wanted to know what had gone on inside. But he was utterly out of place with the Bomb squad running around gathering anything they could about the explosive used. The medics were taking the injured and the dead away. Everyone was moving like a whirlwind around him as he stood there sometime asking, sometime thinking, but there was nothing he could do.

Then Sally ran to him with her cell phone in her hand. "They have a pathologist in St. Barts named Molly Hooper. We're trying to contact her. Nothing of Jim Moriarty there."

Quickly, Lestrade mind reeled. Jim Moriarty was the bomber, but what should he make of Molly Hooper. Was she one of Moriarty's people? She had to be connected in some way. Damn Sherlock for not being clear.

"Contact her once you know where she is. She is certainly a crucial link. Search for any record of Moriarty." Again he startled Sally. Poor Sally. Like him, she could sense the urgency, but she didn't understand. When she hesitated, he added, "Sherlock Holmes said so."

When Sherlock woke up, it was already day. The window at his bedside was beaten with drops and drops of rain. The pattern intrigued him for some time before he realized what he was staring at. His head was throbbing and his body ached. He started to feel the needle of the VI in his arm and smell the disinfectant in his room. Private room in St. Barts. He was able to tell by the building outside the window.

For a moment, he lost track of why he was there and simply stared at the wallpaper on the ceiling. His head hurt. His body hurt. Why?

Sherlock!

Then he remembered the voice, John's voice. He remembered the impact when they fell into the water. Smell of Chlorine was still in his hair. It was hot. The fire. He shot the bomb. It blew up. John tackled him into the pool. John.

Where's John?

He got up almost instinctively despite his headache. John was not in this room. John was with him when they tried to drag each other out of the pool. But he was not here. He couldn't remember if John was injured. Damn the concussion.

He was trying to get out of bed when he noticed the gauze patched on his legs. Burns, mostly on his right side. John must have burns too, and concussion. But how bad?

He was lost in the moment until the door swung open and an exclamation came thundering into his ears. "Sherlock! For goodness sake! Lie down at once!" Before he could react Lestrade was at his bedside pushing him mindfully on to bed, but he resisted. The DI looked distressed. His eyes darted all over Sherlock as if he was seeing the injuries for the first time. "Good heaven. You got a concussion. Don't even think of getting out of bed today. Do you understand?"

"Where's John?" he asked.

Lestrade sighed heavily then stared right into his eyes. "Do you understand that you need rest, and you must not get out of bed, Sherlock?"

"Where is John, Greg?" he demanded.

Again, Lestrade was silent. "Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

The solemnity and distress in Lestrade were sending chills down Sherlock's spine. He just could not take it anymore. "I'm not your kid, Greg. WHERE IS JOHN? TELL ME!"

The DI seemed surprised for a moment, but regained his composure almost instantly. The concussion. It must be the concussion that was making Sherlock emotional.

"John is fine," he answered at last. "He is in a bit of a bad shape, but he is doing just fine."

"He's in ICU."

His voice trembled and he couldn't stop it. Even Lestrade was surprised with the emotion that was welling up in the past few minutes. He had to swallow as Sherlock broke almost unnoticeably in front of him. But he had been the closest thing to a friend to Sherlock in the past five years; he could tell.

"Sherlock," he said as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder, "believe me. John is fine. They have scanned his brain and there is no haemorrhage. They just need to monitor him a bit like they need to monitor you."

"But I'm not in ICU," Sherlock protested. Lestrade sighed heavily again, irritated.

"Can you please have some faith in people, Sherlock? I know we are idiots, but we have things we can do, lots of things. So now lie down. I need to talk to you."

Lestrade's calm voice seemed to be working well, because Sherlock obeyed albeit reluctantly. The emotion whirlwind was gone, leaving the familiar sociopath behind. "What then?"

The DI simply stared at him before he replied, "You don't remember what you said to me then? Not a surprise really. You were barely aware of anything." He sat down on the stool close by and Sherlock knew this would be a long talk. "Jim Moriarty. Barts. Molly- that is exactly what you told me. We weren't able to get hold of Molly Hooper last night, but she is here to work today. No suspicious movement has been going on around her. As for Jim Moriarty, no one found him. We are sure he is not dead – his snipers are- but he is definitely injured. He must be somewhere in London."

"You won't find him," said Sherlock. "He was here working in Barts's IT department. He was dating Molly Hooper, or pretended to be. She is in danger. The man will kill her because she knew him more intimately than anyone. And, no, there would be nothing left about him in Barts's system. He had definitely erased it last night before we met."

"But why must you meet him, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him at last. He had always wanted to ask Sherlock this: why was Sherlock so keen to take this risk alone?

Like always, Sherlock looked at Lestrade like a nuisance, a distraction, an idiot. The only difference was this time he actually talked, "He did not deliberately pull me into this game, Greg. This is a costly game for him, a great risk. He would only do that if there is a payoff, more so if it would serve more than one purpose. He was distracting me from a secret document I was asked to recover, and tried to kill me at the same time."

Suddenly, it made perfect sense to Lestrade why each and everything must happen. First, it was to distract Sherlock, then to lure him in and finish him off. It is evident that Sherlock had miscalculated many things about Moriarty, but Lestrade was good enough a friend to not say anything.

"And John's the fifth?" he asked rather reluctantly. He didn't want Sherlock to turn emotional. He really didn't know how to handle that.

But Sherlock just nod, a nod which was his defeat. Lestrade suddenly felt the urge to pat Sherlock's shoulder but thought against it. Instead, he pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the bedside table where both he and Sherlock could see. The detective was eying it disdainfully, of course. Sherlock was never before the victim he now was. "Can you describe to me in detail what happened at the pool last night?"

Sherlock sighed, but he soon proceeded with the story and the best deduction he could make.

It was nine in the morning, but it felt like the darkest hours of night. Even the warm cup of coffee in her hands could not cheer her up. She barely slept after Jim went missing, along with John and Sherlock. Sherlock- the very thought of him drowned her- Sherlock who broke her heart a hundred times over, Sherlock whose brilliant observation and deduction never ceased to amaze her, Sherlock who almost died last night.

She shouldn't care really. She had told herself when she met Jim that she would get over him. Jim was so gentle, so kind and loving. Dear Lord, where was Jim? If Jim was here she might be able to cope with Sherlock injured. She never saw him so broken before. The nurse told her he would be fine. He was extremely lucky to have only minor injuries, but the burns looked horrible and who knew what a concussion might do.

The phone in her office rang and she had to swallow the lump in her throat and picked it up, trying her best to be her apparently cheerful self, but the tone on the phone had her heart sank so deep she couldn't breathe.

She never was called up to the office before, not with such a stern concerned tone she was getting. She expected something really bad. Maybe they found out that she had let Sherlock use body parts for his experiments. This was not good. She must stop thinking about Sherlock.

But that mantra was not able to stop her when she entered the office and saw a man standing at one side of the room. His black trench coat added with his height gave him a lean profile and his jet black hair plastered down to his high cheek bone only reminded her of Sherlock. But, no, this man was not Sherlock Holmes. His hair was straight, not wavy. Even the rain outside could not damped it so much as to change that. And he smiled at her a beautiful and warm smile she would never ever see from Sherlock Holmes.

It was the director's voice that stopped her from staring at the man as she introduced her to another man standing in the middle of the room - auburn wavy hair with a goatee and a funny smile. He offered her his hand and she clasped it like dear life. She was trying very hard not to think of the man who was looking at her right now.

"Ms. Hooper, Detective Inspector Aberline from Scotland Yard. He wants to have a few words with you."

"Oh, how can I help you?" she gave him her usual nervous smile and he smiled back, turning to her boss.

"Can I talk with Ms. Hooper outside? It would not take longer than an hour," he asked.

"Oh, please do," she replied, obviously nervous for some reason Molly did not know. The three of them walked out of the room in utterly awkward silence.

"I think we should go to a coffee shop. I haven't had a good cup of coffee yet," DI Aberline said with a grin that made him look like a child. She nodded although she was not entirely into the idea of getting another cup of coffee. A change in the surrounding might help her think straight.

But, no, it was harder than that, especially with the man sitting opposite of her. He offered to buy her a cup which she refused and settled with a cookie while Aberline waited in line for his.

At that moment, she didn't know yet why they were here. She wished she knew so she would have something to think about besides him and his slender hands hidden under the black leather gloves. His soft-looking hair damped by the rain framed his rather androgynous pale face so perfectly it could have been painted. The most startling feature was his eyes. She found it hard to look him in the eyes yet it was the very thing that reminded her he was not Sherlock. The orbs were warm mahogany unlike Sherlock's cold blue. And there are warm human emotions there displayed clear as day.

She was rather relieved when Aberline got back to the table. "Sorry about that," he said whilst sitting down with a thermos in his hand. "I haven't introduced you yet, have I? Ms. Hooper, this is Sebastian Michaelis, my assistant. It would actually be better if we can go back to the Yard, but well. Do you mind if we talk about your missing boyfriend here?"

That was when her eyes lighted up warily, "Jim? You know something about Jim?"

"Yes, Ms. Hooper," Aberline said rather solemnly that she wanted to shrink away from him.

But she couldn't. Even if worse come to worst, she must hear it out. "What happened to him? Did he…die?"

Aberline shook his head, "No, miss. You boyfriend is very positively alive. The problem is he is a wanted criminal. He arranged crimes. He also had arranged the serial bombing that Mr. Holmes had come across…"

His voice died out instantly when Molly started crying unashamedly. People were looking from every corner of the shop, even the baristas. Aberline seemed lost as to what he should do while Sebastian leaned forward and held her hand.

"We know you were never aware of his identity, Ms. Hooper," he whispered. "He was cunning like that. The problem is-"

"The problem is he used me!" she uttered bitterly. "He used me…. to get to Sherlock…like Sherlock used me to get to the corpses. What now? What do you want?"

She might have been screaming. It was so hard to keep the voice down. But Sebastian's expression did not change. Nothing in him wavered as he said, "We want you to be alive and safe, Ms. Hooper."

For a moment, she did not know what to say.

"He never is a man to stand in the line of fire. He is that kind of coward. He was playing a sick game with Mr. Holmes using you as a pawn. But by doing so, he is risking himself because now you know him. Ms. Hooper, besides Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson you are the only person who know his face. Sooner or later, he might come to kill you."

At this she started to cry again, this time for the lies she had believed in. Oh, Jim. Her gentle Jim. To think that it was all an act, all a lie, was too hard for her to cope with.

That was when Aberline intervened, "Ms. Hooper, I know this is hard for you. We can talk about him in detail some other time. But now you have to leave Barts. He knows you and this place too well."

She tumbled back almost instinctively, "You are being ridiculous. I cannot just leave my life like this."

"Sebastian knows people," Aberline assured her, eying the man at the same time. "We have talked to your boss and arranged to switch you with another pathologist in University College Hospital. We can find a new place for you to stay. We'll have people looking out for you. You just cannot be here, or any other places he knows he can find you. I believe you two weren't so involved yet, am I right?"

"No, we weren't," she replied then started crying again. This time Aberline reached out to soothe her.

They sat there quietly for a while until Molly's sobbing stopped. She looked up and Aberline smiled. Sebastian produced a card out of his shirt pocket and put it in her hand. "This is my number. You can contact me in case of emergency or if you feel you are threatened. Just feeling is enough," he said with a small smile. "I know this must be a tough day for you. You should take today off and start planning your moves. You are a smart woman, Ms. Hooper. You'll cope."

At this comment he smiled warmly. It seemed to touch Molly's cheeks and made her blush. No good. She should not get carried away. She was too hurt to feel anything for anyone because it would be selfish. She could't deny that Sebastian was an attractive man, but she knew what attracted her: his similarity with Sherlock Holmes, and the warmth Sherlock did not have.

"We should be off now, shouldn't we?" he said, addressing Aberline directly. The DI nodded before they both rose.

"Please excuse us, Ms. Hooper," said Aberline as he gave her his card. "And please keep in touch. We really want to know you are alright."

She nodded and smiled as they walked out the coffee shop into the rain. Her tears were still on her cheek but she felt much better now. Sebastian was right; she'd cope.

"Can you please not do that?"

Sebastian raised his eyebrows as he fastened his seat-belt. The rain had almost stopped now, but that had not lightened their mood if anything.

"Do what?" he asked innocently, knowing it will not fool the man.

And it really didn't, "Ms. Hooper, the poor girl just lost her boyfriend. Well, not literally but that is not the point. You were flirting with her."

"You might want to define 'flirting' for me if that is the case, because I did not flirt in a strict traditional sense."

"My point is she is depressed and sensitive. You see how she crumbled, don't you? Her sense of self-worth is terribly at stake. You don't want to just reach out and let her cling to you. Yet that is what you did. You invited her to yourself."

"Honestly, detective inspector, you are too orthodox," the man said with a smile. "Of course, I know what professionally you police would do, but I am not a police. And your practice is getting us nowhere."

Aberline grimaced, "Fine, I agree. That doesn't mean yours is better."

Sebastian did not object him. Aberline knew he was right, but he also knew that Sebastian would never agree with him on this and now he was obviously going to involve himself personally with Molly Hooper. The problem was he knew exactly why Sebastian would do that. "Next time you meet her tell her outright that you will not be in any kind of relationship with her, so she is mindful of what you are doing when you comfort her, understood?"

"Yes," Sebastian replied. "You really think she will come to me?"

"Of course, she will. You bloody moron. How many women do you think I see fall under your spell when you are on cases?"

Sebastian almost laughed at that, but settled with snickers which only irritated Aberline even more. Oh yes, Aberline was jealous, deadly jealous. He was aware of how unattractive he was, how his unintentional goofiness sometimes cost him his dream girls. He didn't need to be reminded of that with Sebastian tailing behind him, thank you.

"You know, I wish 'he' is here gathering the information for the case himself. At least he's not attracting too much attention like you do."

At this Sebastian just shook his head, "He can't. He's busy. You know that really well."

"As if he won't send you if he isn't busy," Aberline mumbled as he pulled his car to the sidewalk just behind Scotland Yard. He never risked parking close to the main entrance given the chance that people might see him and Sebastian together. No one was supposed to know of this… arrangement. And he felt comfortable leaving it that way. "Off you go," he said, clearly dismissing the man, "and give my regards to the 'young master'."

Sebastian simply smiled at his sarcasm. "I will," he replied and slipped out of the car.

Another Note: I might need some help on this one since I've NEVER been to London or to England. I don't really know if some of the stuffs I write here make sense in the British context. If you spot something that is out of place, please feel free to leave your suggestions. And please read & review. :)