Author's Note: Well, fellas, here's a short cracky drabble for the truly geekish. A crossover of madness, if I ever did see one.

If you want to Google Sherlock's italics, I promise they're a real destination. :)

Song for this drabble. "Danse Macabre" from the anime soundtrack of Kuroshitsuji II watch?v=R6w_3oKsh5g (nothing like a little dramatic violin for our dear Mr Holmes)

Enjoy!

Head west on York Street, toward Montague Mansions.

His feet slapped hard against the pavement, loud clacking noises to offset his thin, labored breathing. His coat whispered along the lines of his body, stretched fully to its limits as he ran down the dark streets.

Now follow the A501-watch out, there's road work 10 meters ahead.

His eyes searched the shadows and the bright spots from luminescent signs, wary of every shift in color and texture.

Take the first right to Gloucester Place-

He ducked right, stumbling as his foot scraped on a curb. He regained his balance and sprinted on. His mind raced, calculating the next turn in the memorized route.

The second right: Marylebone Road.

His burning lungs were ignored as mere details, his racing pulse a side effect to be examined later, but not now. The immediacy of danger, not right, wrong was transposed as the top priority in his mind. The only sensation to be acknowledged was the prickling of hairs on the back of his neck, triggering alarms like flashes of lightning in his brain.

In his pocket, his mobile phone buzzed out another text message alert. He reached into his pocket and flipped the phone around, hiding its lighted screen-minimizing the target zone. He gripped its smooth casing, fingering the center button.

He was so intent on his pocket that he almost collided with the cab that turned the corner. The driver shouted out of the open window for him to slow down and watch where he was going. He huffed out a heavy breath, shaking his head in disbelief at the stupidity of the rest of mankind.

There's another right...Upper Woburn Place, Upper Woburn Place...Where is it? I know it's close-it's got to be close-

He came to a dead stop as a figure rounded the nearest corner, its gait familiar yet stilted...wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything about the man facing him was wrong, from his ruffled Westwood suit to his calm, intent gaze.

"Well, well," Jim Moriarty said, with a shallow smile, "here we are again, my dear. I've been chasing you for hours, and I've finally got you! Only, I'm afraid I can't take all the credit for this wonderful ambush." The career criminal tilted his head to the side, and for a moment his eyes seemed to shine iridescent blue.

The recipient of Moriarty's greeting took five steps back, tried to spin on his heel, and came to another abrupt stop as a second figure blocked his way. The cornered man did not hesitate; he sprang to the side and crashed through a scaffold surrounding a window, flinging himself into the empty building and scrambling across its floor.

He made it to the second building over before he was trapped again, hemmed in by Moriarty and his hulking assistant. Together they dragged him back to the street. He tugged frantically at the phone in his pocket before being thrust into the open to face the one who had initiated the chase in the first place.

The man-no, humanoid, distinctly not human-before him gave him a pleased smile. "At last. I was beginning to think I would have to relinquish the chase."

Though his hands were shaking, he clicked on the correct application and muted his phone, hoping his oponent would not be observant enough to notice. "I think I know what you want," he panted, staring his enemy in the eye, "and I don't have it!"

With a long-suffering sigh, the man lifted his arm. The weapon in his hand-a spear, quite ancient, of unkown make, and why was it glowing?-came to rest against the chest of the captive, sending a shock of true fear straight though him.

"On the contrary, Sherlock Holmes," the man said, "you have exactly what I need."

The spear began to glow, that same bright blue as Moriarty's eyes-

"Heart."

And Sherlock Holmes felt his brilliant mind blow apart, fragments of fragments flying away from his essence and falling back together in a strange parody of their original design. Suddenly, his purpose was clear and all-consuming: he faced the man before him with new eyes.

"What are your orders, sir?" he asked, his defiance forgotten, lost in the tide of new thoughts flooding into his brain.

Beside him, his new master smiled victoriously.

Buried in a neglected pocket, the mobile phone displayed a satellite image of Woburn Place, a little red dot winking steadily in the center of the screen. 'You are here,' the phone reported mutely, and then, 'Sending location to MePhone: MySpots.'

Two and a half kilometers away, Doctor John Watson's computer received the incoming message:

New location from .uk.

Upper Woburn Place, London, UK

Notes from Jenny's Location:

NOT HUMANS. TESSERACT. BEEN ABDUCTED IF YOU READ THIS. DON'T TELL MYCROFT. CONTAC D. PS: CODEWORD: SMASH. -SH