WARNING; Blood, murder, gore, stuff of that nature. Be careful and don't say I didn't warn you. Something a little different. I don't own any of the Sherlock Holmes characters.

Sherlock clasped his head in frustration, blood streaking down his face as his hand fell to his side.

"Why must you be so difficult?' he asked Lucinda Browne as she panted on the floor, 'We could've done this the easy way but no. Idiot."

He threw his hand in the air with that comment as casually as one might swat away a fly. Lucinda was breathing hard, the bruises on her face seeming to darken with every second that passed in the now silent, abandoned train. She was sat up against one of the seats, her hand clasping the now blood-stained fabric.

"I...I just thought...' she said, voice hoarse, 'That you would-"

"That I would what?' the man hissed, his usually calm demeanor letting out the demon that dwelled inside of him, the one that he was only paid to let out, 'Spare your life? Let you go free because of your feelings, your emotions? I'm not that kind of man, Lucinda."

Sherlock spat out the name as if it was poison on his tongue and Lucinda let out a gasp as his foot connected harshly with her already beaten stomach.

"I...I'm sorry,' she wheezed out, coughing up a splattering of blood that fell from her lips onto the floor, 'Please...please Sherlock...please let me go? I promise, I won't tell anyone, I'm sorry!"

Sherlock leaned in close to Lucinda, so close that he could feel her metallic breath ghosting across his face. His eyes softened a little as tears of hope welled up in hers.

"And give up on the grand prize? I don't think so."

He produced a knife from his back pocket, holding it affectionately in his left hand. Lucinda whimpered.

"It's such a shame,' he whispered, right hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb caressing her purple cheek, 'Such a pretty girl. No wonder he wanted revenge."

"Who-"

Before she could ask, Lucinda's neck was flowing red creating a flowing cape of crimson down her back. Sherlock threw the knife back and held her face in place, watching as the light left her pupils. He loved to watch people in their last moments, their faces pleading him for a salvation he couldn't give them now. He saw the betrayal, the realisation and finally the true despair that overcame them before their pupils closed.

Once Lucinda's life was definitely gone, he worked quickly. He lay the body down, waiting for a thick pool of blood to form around them before taking out his trusty riding crop. Carefully, he spread the red over the floor, the crop forming thick lines leading from the neck to a spot just above the victim's knees. Once he was done, he made sure to clean up any other evidence that he had ever been there. The advantage of being a genius was knowing that you could only ever be tracked by one and there was no-one like Sherlock Holmes, the Red Riding Hood serial killer.

"What do you mean no?' Sherlock yelled, causing him to be restrained by the guards Moriarty was constantly flanked by, 'It can't all be gone..."

"Look,' Moriarty said from his throne that had somehow been set up in the abandoned warehouse he had agreed to meet Sherlock in, 'There are a lot of people desperate for coke these days Sherlock. You must've known that you're not the only one. You're a genius, aren't you?"

He smiled mockingly as Sherlock struggled against the henchmen, pleased with the reaction.

"Tell you what Sherly,' he said, waving the guards away but not before they pushed Sherlock to the ground, 'Play a game with me."

Sherlock held back his panting as his ears pricked up. He waited to get his breath back before he responded.

"What kind of game?' he asked, cautious but intrigued.

"You must've heard of the Big Bad Wolf?' Moriarty asked lazily, examining his nails slowly

"Of course I have,' he replied, remembering the grizzly pictures of this particularly gruesome serial killer's work, 'I have to be aware of my competition."

"Well, I hired him,' Moriarty said, laughing as Sherlock let out a groan of frustration, 'Don't be like that, I have a lot of people I need to get back at. Speaking of that, how's our good friend Lucinda?"

"Surely you've seen the pictures?' Sherlock asked, pleased with his work.

It had been played on the news on an almost continuous loop, warning people about strangers and boosting Sherlock's already inflated ego.

"Yes, I just wanted all the details, not just a recall of the stupid capes dummy' he replied in a way that would've sounded affectionate if Sherlock knew better than to believe that Moriarty possessed anything close to affection for him, 'But anyway, concerning our wolf-y friend. If you work out who he is in the next week, I'll double your cut. If not, maybe you'll have to find out what happens when you're trying to get clean."

Sherlock gulped internally. He didn't want to try to go through that process again.

"So, am I clear?' Moriarty asked.

"Crystal,' Sherlock ground out through his teeth.

"Oh, and one more thing,' Moriarty said, leaving his chair, crouching in front of Sherlock and grabbing his jaw tightly with his hand, 'I'll give you a clue, just to get you started. He's somewhere in London. It wouldn't be fair to send little Sherly out on his own without any knowledge."

Moriarty then pulled out a wedge of twenty pound notes, stuffing them into Sherlock's trouser pocket slowly and making him feel gradually more and more uncomfortable. Angry Moriarty, scary Moriarty, Sherlock knew how to deal with those. Quiet, almost predator Moriarty, he was less sure of.

"Just to tide you over dear,' he whispered into Sherlock's ear, 'Now fuck off."

As if a switch had turned on in Sherlock's head, he stood up and ran out of there. He only had a week to find this Big Bad Wolf and he was going to do it, Moriarty be damned.

He ran back to his apartment, slid his key into the door and moved quickly to one of the many filing cabinets stacked up in his room. He opened it, quickly flicking to the section labeled B. He pulled out the file for the Big Bad Wolf and began reading. He flicked through the newspaper clippings, internet conspiracy articles and photographs depicting the victims. All of them had been killed through disembowelment. All parts of the intestine were sprayed across the floor forming surprisingly neat lines leading out of the flesh. However, the more disturbing thing about these deaths were the obvious bite marks on both the body and innards of the victims. Sherlock found he had a sick fascination with these images; as artful with the intestines as he was with blood and a riding crop. He smiled to himself as he lay out all the evidence.

"Now, we just need to wait for you to make a mistake,' he thought to himself.

A/N; Please leave a review if you liked it. I'm not sure whether to carry on so feedback would be good to hear, good OR constructive - CF