Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: This was cowritten with the fantastic writer batlock who can be found on tumblr. I wrote as Moriarty and batlock wrote as Sherlock. The perspectives do change back and forth.

"Grandmother, what big teeth you have got!"

"All the better to eat you up with."

And, saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her all up.

-Little Red Riding Hood, Charles Perrault

Sherlock's head lulled from side to side as he slowly sat up.

It hurt.

It more than hurt; it was bleeding.

He wiped the thin trickle of blood from his forehead and pushed himself to his feet. He had no interest in being surrounded by the muck and grime coating the floor. This was bad. He had no idea where he was, save for the knowledge that this seemed to be some sort of cellar. He had no idea what had transpired, with the exception of the rather sore bump on his head. And he had no idea who he was.

This was very bad and depending on who the approaching footsteps he could hear belonged to, it may be getting worse.

Jim approached the door to the cellar, knocking but opening it quickly after without waiting for any reply. He knew exactly who was behind that door, and he couldn't help how excited he was to see his little rival.

"Helloooo, sleeping beauty." Jim sang, as he took in Sherlock's appearance. He was worse for the wear, a trickle of blood making its way down his head and around his neck. Jim narrowed his eyes, making a mental note to have Sebastian kill whoever had brought Sherlock to him like this. He did not enjoy having his toys broken. Only he could do that. "How are you, my lovely?"

He swallowed, narrowing his eyes and looking over this man. Clearly, he could tell by the tone alone, they were familiar to each other. How Sherlock knew him, he had no idea. On the bright side, he didn't seem to be armed. Maybe he wasn't here to hurt him. That would be most preferable. It didn't hurt to be cautious though. Sherlock hesitantly took a step closer to him. "Did... were you the one who locked me up in here? I need to leave. I need a doctor."

Jim's eyes widened with glee and he let out a small chuckle. Sherlock had no idea who he was! How precious was this! He decided that he wouldn't kill whoever had hurt Sherlock like that. Nah, he would be merciful, probably amputate one of the fellow's limbs. After all, he was being served a temporarily amnesiac Sherlock. There was just no way Jim was going to pass this opportunity up. This was the perfect moment to do what he did best: wreak some havoc.

Jim faked some tears, siddling up to Sherlock and hugging him tightly for a few moments before letting him go. "Oh darling, of course." Jim sniffled. "Do you remember who you are? Do you know who I am?"

"I..." Sherlock was confused. He still had no recollection of how he ended up in this place, but at least now there was someone here for him, someone who seemed to care about him a great deal judging by the pet names. Slowly, he shook his head, eyes cast down at the floor.

"I'm afraid at the moment, I can't remember anything prior to waking up in this room." Sherlock relaxed some, still glancing around in hopes that something would help. "I can surmise that I was thrown in here against my will, but unfortunately, I can't seem to get anything beyond that. I have no idea who you are."

Jim frowned, his body shuddering as if he was terribly saddened by the news, and he wiped his eyes. "Oh, Sherly, how you wound me." Jim sniffled. "That evil man, John, held you up in here. I'm Jim? Don't you remember? I'm your flatmate." He pulled Sherlock in for another hug. "I'm just glad we found you in time. You're okay."

Flatmate. That did seem vaguely familiar. Sherlock managed a smile as he was pulled in for a hug, cautiously wrapping his arms around Jim. Jim. Yes, he definitely recognized that name. That was progress, right? "Yeah..." he said quietly. "I think I'm fine, yes. Still, considering the size of the wound and the fact that I was unconscious... A hospital visit may be in order. Were we... close? You seem to be hugging me a lot."

Jim was doing his absolute best to not burst out in laughter. This was so easy. The man's demeanor had changed almost instantly when he thought that Jim was his flatmate. Was this how he was around John? God, Jim could not wait to see how Sherlock would act when he got his memories back.

Jim turned his head away, his eyes blinking rapidly, mostly from the sheer strain it took not to roll on the floor and giggle hysterically at Sherlock's look. But of course, Sherlock didn't know that.

"I... You're injured and you can't remember anything. I don't want to burden you with that. Just..." Jim's arms dropped limply to his side, and he looked down at his polished Gucci shoes which were now covered in disgusting muck. He'd have to buy himself a new pair. "How about we just get you fixed up, hmm?"

"That might be for the best, yes." Sherlock nodded, grateful to be getting out of this miserable room. Taking one unsteady step after another, Sherlock made his way out of the room, following close behind Jim. "And you think you'll be able to help me fill in the blanks?" He frowned, focusing intently. "I hate not knowing what happened. It's unbearably frustrating. When we get back to the flat? Perhaps that will help to jog my memory some..."

Jim looked up at Sherlock and gave him a grin which was meant to look sympathetic. "Sure, of course, lovely. There's nothing I would want more than that." Jim was going to have an absolutely delightful time with Sherlock. "Let's go, shall we?" He walked out of the room, Sherlock trailing right behind him, as they made their way towards Jim's small and humble flat in the more well-off part of London.

Oh. His first thoughts upon entering the flat were not of the positive sort. Sherlock glanced around. It was rather nice, gorgeous in fact. The only problem was that it didn't seem the least bit familiar. That wouldn't do. He had felt something upon coming face-to-face with Jim, but nothing here. It was like he was taking one step forward and two steps back. Sherlock let out a sigh.

He'd just have to remain hopeful.

"This way, Sherly," Jim called out as he watched Sherlock glance around his flat. Sherlock had a puzzled look on his face, and Jim was positive that he was confused as to why nothing looked familiar. "Had some redecorating done, love. You'll have time to look around our flat when you've gotten your check up. The doctor's in, and he's not over there."

Jim stood patiently by the doorway leading to his bedroom, where he gotten Sebastian to pick up a renowned doctor from France on his way over. The doctor wouldn't blab, especially not with his children under Jim's watchful gaze. Not that it mattered anyway, since no one would ever see the doctor again after today. Scandals can do horrible things to a man's mind. "Darling?" Jim called out again.

Jim's voice seemed to shake Sherlock from his stupor. "Sorry." He shook his head, moving quickly to follow after Jim. There it was again. This wasn't the first time Jim referred to him by some sort of ridiculous pet name. Was that just how the other man was? He wasn't sure.

Sherlock made his way into the bedroom, watching Jim until his eyes fell on the doctor. A grin tugged at his lips as he sat down. "Funny. I can't remember much, but I'm fairly certain that it's not common practice for doctors to make house calls." Sherlock looked over to Jim.

"I'm a special case." Jim smiled as he walked over to the doctor, his arm resting around the man's neck and over his shoulder as if they were close friends. He looked at the doctor, a large grin on his face. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at the doctor. "He and I are mates, came to know him from some business I had in France. And he owes me a favor." Jim laughed affably, before glancing at the doctor. "Right, Antoine?" The doctor nodded, not daring to speak a work.

Good boy, Jim thought. He turned over to Sherlock, before nodding towards the man to go ahead. "Go on. Make sure he's alright, won't you?"

Sherlock tilted his head to better show off the bump. "Something struck me here. That much I've managed to gather. I was unconscious for a period of time and am currently dealing with a bout of amnesia. However, Jim has been a great help." He smiled up at him. It was rather fortunate that he had a flatmate who was willing to, not only tolerate his strange problems, but help him out as well.

Eyes still on Jim, Sherlock finally dared to ask, "We were close, weren't we?"

Jim put his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground, a bashful expression on his face. "Yes... we were." Jim muttered softly. "But you don't have to worry about that. I don't expect you to remember anything." The doctor walked over to Jim, and told him of Sherlock's condition. He had a slight concussion, and amnesia, temporary, but for how long, was uncertain.

"Thank you, Antoine." Jim nodded towards the door. The doctor couldn't have left any faster. Jim chuckled, amused at how people always scurried away from him. The doctor thought he was home-free. How very, very wrong, that would prove to be. Jim looked back to Sherlock, who was staring at him from his seat on Jim's bed.

"I don't remember anything," Sherlock agreed, watching Jim carefully. "However, as I stated before, I want to remember. I was hoping the flat would trigger something, but that plan quickly fell through. What can you tell me then?" His attention was fully on Jim at this point as he leaned in. "Tell me about myself, about who I used to be, how I know you. Anything." Sherlock was impatient as he ever was, desperate to make the pieces fit together. The sooner he remembered something, the sooner things could start making sense again.

"Yes, yes, I'll tell you of course." His little Sherlock, always eager to solve the puzzle. Jim frowned as he stared at Sherlock's wounds. His fingers brushed lightly over the cut stretching from Sherlock's head to forehead. Jim decided he would execute the man who did this to Sherlock after all. This wound had a good chance of leaving behind a small scar. Of course it wouldn't mar the appeal Sherlock held, but nonetheless, he did not appreciate it. "However, I think it might be better for you to rest a little. Are you sure you want me to tell you now, lovely?" Jim sat down in the armchair in the corner of his room, folding his legs and looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Rest. He didn't want to rest, but Jim was right. It was likely a good idea. Sherlock frowned for a moment before finally giving in. "All right. Rest. We can talk afterwards." Sherlock looked around for a moment before turning back to Jim. He hated this, feeling so helpless. "This bedroom. Is it..." His voice trailed off some, not entirely certain how he should phrase the question.

Jim fiddled with his fingers, a light red tint on his cheeks. He gave Sherlock a small smile, before standing up and making his way to the door. "Don't worry, you can sleep alone tonight. I..." Jim shifted his feet, as if embarrassed. "I know you don't remember anything." He opened the door, halfway through, when he stopped and looked back. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to call me. Even if you've forgotten, I'm still your flatmate. Friend." Jim added.

He nearly grimaced at the word. Friend. If he wasn't in the presence of Sherlock, he would have scoffed loudly and rolled his eyes. Friend. What a feeble and useless thing to have. He would never understand the desire to have such things. Human attachments made people weak.

Stupid.

Ordinary.

And Jim Moriarty was far, far, above all of that. If only Sherlock could see the same way he did, together they would be unstoppable. But no, Sherlock had to go and lower himself to the normal people, which, in Jim's eyes, made him just as despicable as them.

And it was because of that they were two forces colliding in a deadly game that only one would survive in.

Sherlock was stunned. He really shouldn't be, all things considered. However, there is was. Jim had just said it. They were in some sort of relationship. At the very least, sleeping together.

He slowly gave Jim a nod as he started to unbutton his shirt. After being thrown into whatever that place was for an indeterminate amount of time, his clothes were not in the best of sorts. Before the other man left, he glanced around. "Jim? Where is the hamper?" Obviously, as it was out of sight, it would be located in either the bathroom or closet, but he didn't feel right rummaging around for it. Even though he apparently lived here.

Jim was pulled from his thoughts by Sherlock's question. He turned around, halfway between the door. "Ah, yes, the hamper. Over there." Jim pointed towards the door that led to his closet. "I keep forgetting that you don't remember anything. Feel free to use anything in there." He gave Sherlock one last glance, before he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Jim closed his eyes, his lips curling in a smirk. This amnesia had just upped the stakes. There was no better way to break Sherlock down than this. Sherlock was, for the time-being, essentially a blank slate. Jim could do whatever he wanted with Sherlock, with no interference from his irritating brother or clingy pet. He could see what life would have been like had his little toy not associated itself with the boring people.

Jim Moriarty would build up the Sherlock he wanted, and when Sherlock regained his memories, Jim would have no problem tearing it back down.

This little game of theirs just got interesting.

Sherlock gave him one last smile before he finished undressing, save for his pants which he kept on. He scooped up his clothes and made his way back into the closet.

Once inside, Sherlock quickly located the hamper and disposed of his muck-covered things. Curiosity was overwhelming though and he began to look around. Strange. He couldn't remember who he was worth a damn and yet the designer of each and every one of those suits stuck out in his mind clear as day. They were all very nice, very expensive. Clearly he and Jim were at least somewhat well off. Sherlock smiled, tracing his fingers over the expensive material and just lingering. Sleep would be a good idea though. After all he'd been through rest was important.

Sherlock made his way back into the bedroom and slipped into the bed. Plush, comfortable. Maybe he could get used to this. Sherlock stretched out on the mattress as he drifted off to sleep.

Jim sat in his study, his legs propped on his ebony desk, and his hands clasped. His head rested against his leather chair and his eyes were staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Jim's mind was tearing through hundreds of thoughts, but only one was significant.

Sherlock.

What would be the best way to go about this? What operations could he involve Sherlock in? How could he slow down Mycroft's annoying web of surveillance long enough for him to play with Sherlock thoroughly? Jim was close to narrowing down a solution to all of his questions, when his phone rang. It was one of his associates, a leader of one of the terrorist cells in Pakistan.

"What?" Jim barked, irritated. These ordinary people held about as much interest to him as... well, everything else. They were boring. All he cared about right now was Sherlock. He had lived his entire life waiting for a toy like him to come along. "No, I'm not interested." Jim shut his phone. Weapons. God, these dimwits always wanted weapons. Jim gave them some, and suddenly they thought they were entitled to more. He sent a quick text to Sebastian with orders to kill the irritating leader and release the names and faces of the members of his cell to the public.

Jim tossed his phone onto the table before resuming his thoughts.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please don't forget to leave a review, and let batlock and I know what you think of the story so far. :) The plot will thicken... next chapter! :o Thanks for reading!

-omnomchocolate