so! This is my very first fanfiction, yay!
summary: if you don't stop prying I will burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you. Moriarty was never one to make empty threats.
warnings: Character death, oh noes! Implied Sherlock/John
disclaimer: A plan is underway to hold Steven Moffat to randsom for the rights to Sherlock, but until then, I own nothing.
Enjoy!

Salt In The Wound

"You thought it would be that easy? That quick? I don't take kindly to being underestimated. It will not go unpunished- I've left a surprise for you." there was a click and the phone went dead. Sherlock sat staring intently at the small pink phone, pondering what he had just heard and trying to shake the disconcerted feeling he always got when he heard the voice of Jim Moriarty. No, of course blowing up a building wouldn't mean the end of it, even if Moriarty was inside the building in question at the time. But Sherlock and John had both escaped alive, and, after several weeks and a full recovery from both of them, maybe he had dared to hope.

I don't take kindly to being underestimated. It will not go unpunished. What had that meant? The words worried him. Most people he encountered were so slow, so easy to predict, but Moriarty was almost as clever as he was, and had been one step ahead of Sherlock for a long time now. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Sherlock felt powerless against him. Not a feeling he enjoyed. So now, confronted with a mysterious and ominous message from the man himself, Sherlock felt slivers of fear running through him.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head round the door, momentarily jerking him from his reverie. He focused long enough to hear her ask the whereabouts of his flat-mate, John Watson. There was a reason for the question, but Sherlock had sunk back into thought before he could hear what it was. He muttered "upstairs" and she left again in the direction of John's bedroom.

I've left a surprise for you. What? And, more pressingly, where? Maybe he-

His musings were brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of Mrs. Hudson's scream echoing down from the floor above. From John's room. Without thinking, Sherlock vaulted the back of his chair and ran across the table- sending several of his latest "experiments" crashing to the ground in the process- reaching the stairs with alarming speed. He took them two at a time and barrelled in to the room, missing Mrs. Hudson by only a few centimetres. The sight before him froze him as solid and as cold as ice:

John was spread eagled on the bed, his head turned away to the opposite wall, one hand dangling slightly off the edge of the bed. But all eyes in the room were drawn to the blood. The blood lying in a large pool around John, soaking the bed sheet, the pillow, running along his out stretched hand and dripping off his fingers onto the floor. Splattered half way up the wall. Staining John's shirt and jacket a stomach-turning crimson.

Sherlock's brain worked faster than virtually everyone else, his IQ was easily higher than anyone he had ever met, his powers of observation worked at light-speed. But even he, in all his intellectual magnificence, could not comprehend the scene that lay before him. As if his brain had been frozen in shock, struggling to even see what was in front of him, never mind make sense of it. How much time past, he didn't know. maybe seconds, maybe minutes. Then the full force of what he was seeing hit him like a bullet in the chest.

He reeled back, slamming against the wall. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. It took all his will power to form his thoughts long enough to speak, "Mrs. Hudson. phone Lestrade. Tell him to get down here immediately." the woman he was addressing was clutching the door frame for support, a nearly hysterical look in her eyes. She began to form a stuttered reply, making no move from her current position. "NOW!" Sherlock's voice surfaced as a shout. She jumped, saw the look of panic in his eyes, and fled the room.

Under normal circumstances, when faced with a dead body, Sherlock would leap to it's side and begin ascertaining the cause of death, possible motives, and several deep-seated personal secrets only the person in question would ever have known. But now... He couldn't bring himself to perform the simple task of walking to the bed, couldn't bring himself to raise his head and look again at John, lying still and soaked in blood. He wondered vaguely how he'd ended up collapsed on the floor, but that was lost amongst the sick feeling rising rapidly within him, the dizziness, the image of John circling and rebounding behind his eyes. Through this haze one thought was surfacing: I don't take kindly to being underestimated. It will not go unpunished- I've left a surprise for you. John. This was the intended surprise? The idea was repulsive. Horrific. But this was Moriarty. The thought was not to be immediately pushed aside. Who new what he was capable of, behind his camp façade and his team of invisible snipers? John. There was enough blood for Sherlock to know that there was little he could do at this point. Little he could do. The thought sent great pangs of terror ringing through him, threatening to devour him. He was still fighting for control when Lestrade arrived on the scene.

Sherlock had lost count of the number of crime scenes he'd been to over the years, and to be honest, they were sort of fun. Swaggering round silently working out the likelihood of the new trainee officer cracking under the pressure, how many people would be turning to alcohol to escape their misery once they returned home, and how long it would be before Donovan got pissed off and dumped Anderson. Again. Since John had moved in, silent wondering had become whispered debates and the occasional giggling fit (for which they were always rewarded with murderous glances from whoever was standing near them).

Having a crime scene at your own house with your flat-mate as the victim is another matter entirely.

John had already been taken away in an ambulance. And officers were combing his room for anything that might give them a clue as to what happened. Sherlock knew they needed him up there, but couldn't face that room again. He'd managed to gain some level of control over himself, but it was shaky at best, and back in that room...

he remembered how he'd felt when the doors of the ambulance had shut, separating John from him. He'd been gripped with a sudden, immediate fear that he would never see John again, that he'd lose him forever. The same fear threatened to resurface at the memory, and he desperately shoved it down again. In his effort to calm himself memories began to surface. Of him and John and Moriarty on the poolside. His shock at the site of John, his fear when the bomb jacket was revealed strapped to his torso, and... something Moriarty had said...

"if you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"Oh now we both know that's not quite true."

there was no doubt any more. This was the work of Moriarty. How was for another time, what mattered now was that he'd done it. He'd struck for Sherlock's heart and he'd hit dead on. For a long time Sherlock had thought himself incapable of feeling anything for anyone. So much so that he no longer recognised his own feelings. But Moriarty had. He'd recognised what Sherlock cared about most and struck for it. John. His flat-mate. His colleague. His only friend. Sherlock saw for the first time how well Moriarty knew him: too well, perhaps even better that he knew himself. He was able to inflict emotional pain far greater than any physical injury. He'd left Sherlock powerless to do anything except hope and pray that, against all the odds, John had not been taken from him forever.

Does John live? or die? I'll leave that one up to you :)

Save John Watson and Review!

This fic was originaly intended to be a one-shot, but I've had a few requests to continue it into a full story. I'm in two minds at the moment so I've set up a poll on my profile page. Should it continue or is it better off as it is? Don't forget to add your vote!