Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or the show; BBC Sherlock as they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and recreated by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis.
"Let him go." Sherlock slowly walks out from the shadows; his dark curly hair has been reduced to extremely short tufts of ginger dusting his head. A baggy black sweater with the hood resting at the nape of his shoulder blades, with a pair of worn denim jeans hangs off his lanky frame as a pair of dirty converses scraps the floor. He points the revolver at the man holding John Watson at gunpoint, as his eyes slowly scans over the unconscious soldier's body; an angry bruise on his left cheek, a series of untreated gun wounds on left shoulder where the scar that caused him to be invalidated from the military was located, as well as on his right thigh. Dried blood was crusted on his arms and chest shows where he has been butchered by at least a large piece of glass or a butcher's knife. The sleeves of the used-to-be white collared shirt was rolled up to his elbows to show the four fiery red welts on his writs as bare feet was covered with burn marks and severe cuts. Sherlock's hand trembles with anger as he turns his gaze to the man behind John, his usually soft silvery-green eyes hardened to the molten silver as he glared at the man in an expensive four piece suit and neatly slicked back hair that is smiling that rivals to the Cheshire cat.
"Lovely job I've done to him, haven't I?" he whispers, his eyes glinting with evil glee and mischief.
"Let him go, Moriarty." Sherlock growls, he steps closer.
"Oh no, no. I wanted to talk to you Sherlock, that's why I've kidnapped your little pet." The smile instantly dropped to a pout.
"Then let him go and I will talk." Sherlock stalked slowly and carefully as a predator would stalk its prey.
"Aw. Its heart wrenching to see how far you'll go for you pretty little pet." Moriarty grinned happily as with one flick of his finger, he disengaged the safety device on the revolver, the click echoes throughout the warehouse, "Well, he won't be so pretty when I blow his brains out."
"If you pull the trigger, I will kill you." Sherlock growls.
"I faked my death once, who says that I wouldn't do it again?" He laughed as he pressed the gun firmly against the temple of the soldier.
"You've got no one to save you if you do fake your death because I've destroyed every single strand of your web." Sherlock spoke quickly, fear and desperation flashed in his voice and eyes before he managed to control the tornado of inner emotions.
"Well then. I'll just kill myself." the dark haired man grinned even wider.
"Then please don't drag John down with you." Sherlock spat sarcastically.
"Ha. You're so funny Sherlock. I just want to talk to you."
"Do you still want to threaten me?" confusion and then downing lightened in Sherlock's mind.
"I've got another web in the making Sherlock. Don't interfere. If you do, I'll send someone to kill you and your beautiful pet." Moriarty's voice came out in a dark toned whisper as he pursed his lips together and widened his eyes.
"Mycroft will send protection."
"Ah! But those protections are brought and I've got dough." Moriarty smiled pleasantly as he paused, "Think it through Sherlock dear because it would really break my heart if I have to kill you and your pet when I want you two to join me."
A thick silence covered the room, then Sherlock opened his mouth; "I'll not interfere in your work. You have my word."
"And to join me?" Moriarty sounded hopeful.
"I am satisfied with the amount of enemies I have now." the dark haired man's face instantly fell into a pout as he looked at the ground whilst shrugging his shoulders and lowered his hand.
"you really don't want to join?" his voice came out barely a whisper.
"Yes."
"Then...you leave me with no choice."
A sharp bang and intense pain attacked Sherlock's right shoulder as he dropped the handgun as he shrieked in agony and astonishment.
"This is for solving all the riddles."
Another gunshot rang through the room as Sherlock arched his back as he fell to his knees, clutching his thigh.
"This is for the woman."
A third gunshot echoes as Sherlock cries whilst clutching his side as he rests his weight on his left elbow.
"This is the final debt." and with a hardened gaze, the tall, darkhaired man turned around and swiftly disappeared into the shadows. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Sherlock forced himself to sit up and pluck a black Nokia phone from the back pocket of his jeans and slowly pressed the digits 999 before it slipped from his hands and landed in front of him.
"Hello 9-9-9, what's your emergency?" a pleasant young woman's voice answered back.