Hello everyone! Just a few quick notes before we begin. This is my first multi-chapter fic. Yay me! And constructive criticism is always appreciated. This story will probably end up being about 5 chapters long, and I will attempt to update them regularly. Key word there being attempt.

In addition, I am American, and Sherlock takes place in England. I have tried to use the correct terminology whenever possible, however I'm sure I've missed some. So if any of you happen to be british, or at least know more about it than me, feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes on how a brit would word things.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor do I make any money off of this.


Sherlock Holmes walked along the busy streets of London. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face.

Spying a member of his homeless network, he sidled over.

"Spare change?" The young man asked.

The detective pulled out a folded bill, photo hidden inside. As he handed it to the boy, he leaned in close.

"I need to find this man. Spread the word. If anyone sees him, find me immediately."

"Thank you, sir." the boy nodded, signaling he understood.

Task done, the detective walked off, back in the direction of Baker St. There was nothing more to do but wait. It wouldn't be long before someone caught sight of the man, who was responsible for two murders and multiple robberies. Until then, he would see if Lestrade had any decent cases.

Focused in his thoughts, Sherlock ran straight into another pedestrian.

Muttering a quick apology, John had been telling him that was the right thing to do, he started to walk away only to feel a sharp pain in his neck.

Immediately realizing his mistake, he attempted to pull the needle out of his neck and push away his attacker. However the drug was already taking effect, and he found himself losing his balance.

As he slumped into the arms of his assailant, he yelled as loud as he could and kicked desperately, trying to draw attention.

The man holding him glanced apologetically at the nearby people.

"Sorry, he's had a little too much to drink." He then tossed the detective limply into a waiting car.

Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes open, but eventually succumbed to the sedative.


Slight pain in neck...sitting down...someplace hard...but not the ground. A chair then.

The thoughts running through the detective's head were noticeably slower than normal. He opened his eyes.

Vision blurred...jumped on street...needle in neck...conclusion? Drugged and kidnapped.

As he attempted to move his hands, he realized that they were tied behind his back. A few seconds of wriggling proved the bonds to be strong and secure.

It took another few moments for his visions to clear up enough to survey the room he was in. He could still feel the effects of the sedative. His head felt foggy and slow.

He was in a basement of sorts, that much was clear. As to where, he didn't know.

The only window, a small square, high set in the wall. The amount of light coming in told him it was either late evening or early morning, which he could not tell. If he had been clear headed, he would have known. As it was, he cursed the sedative for fogging his thoughts.

There was one door, he was facing it. It was metal and locked. Even if he could get free he wouldn't be able to escape that way.

Before he could make anymore observations, the door opened.

"Hello, Sherly!" A voice sang cheerfully. "It's so nice of you to come and play."

"Moriarty" Sherlock growled.

"Uh uh uh, play nice with Daddy." The consulting criminal's tone sickened the detective.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"That would be telling now wouldn't it?"

"Yes it would, but you'll tell me anyway-"

Sherlock was cut off by a sharp blow to his temple. His head swung to the side and his vision swam.

"It's not nice to be rude to Daddy. That can have very dire consequences." Moriarty was glaring at him now, before his face changed, as if a switch had been thrown, back to one of delight.

"A little game, with you and your little friends. To see if they're as smart as you seem to believe. It goes a little something like this."

Moriarty held up a syringe in front of his face. Sherlock stared at it, face carefully blank, as he tried to deduce what it contained.

"This," Moriarty announced with great pleasure, "Is tetrodotoxin"

"You're going to kill me." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Oh, no. At least, not yet"

"Then what, pray tell, is the point?"

"See, I'm going to give this too you, and then I'm going to leave you here for your little pet to find."

Sherlock scoffed, "If it's not a fatal dose, then they're plenty capable of administering proper care and nursing me back to health."

"Not if they don't even try."

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, attempting to follow his line of thinking. His face remained even.

"You don't get it do you Sherlock? I'm disappointed in you." Moriarty frowned. "Oh well, you're going to die soon anyway." His face changed once more into a gleeful smirk. "This isn't regular tetrodotoxin. No, I've made a few adjustments of my own. This can mimic death closer than any other poison out there. They won't even be able to feel a pulse."

The detective was beginning to see where this was going, but remained impassive, buying time. "No matter how much you slow my heart, if it is still beating, then the heart monitors will be able to detect it."

"But they won't ever use one. Once they find you without a pulse and resuscitation attempts fail, they'll declare you DOA. They'll never know. After all, there's no use hooking up a heart rate monitor to a dead body."

Moriarty took this opportunity to lean in close to Sherlock, lowering his voice as if to tell him a secret. "And you know what happens when a body arrives with an unknown cause of death."

Sherlock swallowed, and for the first time his mask wavered as he realized the full extent of Moriarty's plan.

A dead body comes in, cause of death unknown. Standard procedure: full autopsy.

According to them, he'd be dead. But, as long as Moriarty hadn't changed that aspect of the poison, he'd still be at least partially conscious. Conscious when they cut him open. He'd never survive it. After all, there's never been any need to be careful with what you damage on a dead body.

Seeing the brief look of horror on the detective's face made Moriarty grin wider. "That's right. After the blood tests, they'll see the poison, but they'll be too late. Just imagine the look on their face when they realize that I wasn't the one that killed you, they were."

With that, he jabbed the needle deep into the detective's neck. Then watched as Sherlock struggled for a second, before slumping limply in his bonds.

The last thought on Sherlock's mind before he slipped into darkness, was the look of guilt that would be on John's face when he realized that Sherlock was dead for a second and final time, because of him.


So there we have it, chapter 1. I'd love to know what you thought of it. Please R&R.