I'm not dead! School is out and I've had some time to write. Thank you for your patience. i know it's been forever since I've uploaded and I hope you can forgive me. I'll get out of your way and let you read now!

"Sherlock-"

"Not now, John,"

"Sherlock please-"

"John, if you could assist in my acquisition without further communication-"

"Sherlock! Stop this!"

John clutches Sherlocks arm, ceasing him from his frantic hustle about the flat. Sherlock yanks his head back, letting a glare fixate on John, like an angry beast fixing it's predatory stare upon a challenging foe. John Watson softens his concerned expression upon seeing Sherlock look at him with such ferocity, such anger.

"I'm sorry Sherlock."

He says instinctively,

"But you've got to tell me what the bloody hell is going on."

He hadn't a single clue what was happening. Minutes ago John was learning of the birth of his best friends son, and only seconds later he was being told that an evil and profoundly dangerous man was at large and threatening his friends family. Being prompted to leave his own flat and meet Sherlock at his and Molly's flat, he found him shredding, tearing, and throwing every children's toy he had possessed over the months like it was trash. The counters in the kitchen, usually stocked with viles and tubes and human anatomy, was now masked with stuffed bears and labeled bottles. Strung from leg to leg was the fluff of pillows and the wool from sheep blankets, and scattered rattles and other noisy contraptions littered the floor. John held Sherlock with his stoic stare, but all the man did was shrug his grip away and continue to swim his arm around in a bright red paper bag. He pulled from it a chestnut hued bear, and, seeming satisfied with his find, hastily cleared a spot on the cluttered table and placed it on the wood neatly. John wasn't going to let Sherlock continue whatever it was he was doing without some explanation.

"What's going on Sherlock?"

John asks. Sherlock refused to look at John, his eyes instead fixed onto the bear in front of him. A long moment passed before Sherlock said anything, and John wondered if it was his mind, or his emotion that demanded so much time to process what to say.

"James Moriarty..."

Sherlock starts,

"Entered Molly's hospital room late last night, and took our son. I thought, perhaps, he was going to kidnap him. But I awoke to this sight, and instead he...told me things."

"Like what?"

John presses. Sherlock sighs, and finally manages to fix a vacant stare at John.

"You're in such a hurry Sherlock, please just let me hold the boy a little longer. I've only just met my son."

Sherlock recoils at Moriarty, the sight of his tainted fingers stroking his son like it was a pet that belonged to him.

"I wish you would stop calling him that,"

Sherlock musters all the strength in his body to keep from shouting. James chuckles.

"I'm only stating a fact, you of all people should know it."

"I know the facts. The facts are John is the product of mine and Molly's aspiration of beginning a family. I fail to see how you fit in."

"Then you're lying."

Jim hisses at Sherlock in a voice that is predatory, intense. Like a snake warning its predator.

"Really, Sherlock, it's not that hard to figure out,"

He continues as he bounces the child in his arms.

"When sweet Molly and I were in love, you remember that don't you? Maybe you don't, you were in love yourself with that army doctor..."

Jim smirks,

"Well we did what people in love normally do."

Sherlock of course understood what the villain meant and he attempted to not let show how much it repulsed him.

"And that was years ago-"

"Oh she is lovely Sherlock-"

"If you've come out of longing-"

"She was so good too...shy, but god did she know what she was doing. I can see why you like her so much-"

Sherlocks hands are gripped onto the mans suit in a split second as he's pushed back against the hospital door with a fierce vehemence. Moriarty hugs the baby tighter to his chest, making sure he doesn't slip by accident from his arms. Sherlocks act of violence did little to frighten him.

"Careful now, you wouldn't want little Johnny boy to bump his head."

Moriarty gasps aloud as he is shoved harder against the metal of the door. The baby in his arms hiccups as if nothing was happening. Such a sweet, oblivious child.

"I'll assume you're wanting something."

Moriarty mocks a grimace as Sherlocks knuckles slip underneath his larynx and begin tightening the muscles in his throat.

"Fine, fine take the little sunspot I don't need him now anyway. I'll leave the diaper changing to you."

Moriarty holds the baby out in front of him and swings him from side, like Sherlock was a dog, and he was teasing him with a bone. Sherlock tears his hands away from the villain and instead fits them underneath John's arms. He quickly rests the baby on his shoulder, one hand supporting the child while the other cups the baby's fuzzy head. A sigh escapes Sherlocks lips, though he knew this encounter was far from its end. He backs away from the villain, a spiteful sneer fixated on his face.

"Stay away from my family, James,"

"Or what? You'll set your Scotland pups on me and whine to big brother Mycroft for protection? I think you're forgetting who's the dominant character in the story Sherlock, I mean I've already managed to get a phone call in with you, set a few cameras in your apartment and watch Molly here deliver the baby without a single officer lifting a finger."

Moriarty clucks his tongue.

"I'm tired of you underestimating me, Sherlock. And if threatening me is all you can do...be prepared for a troubling last few years."

"Last years..."

Sherlock repeats the words, taste testing them in his mouth. It was bitter, having the statement thrown at him, that he was going to die. When things finally seemed to be settling, when the kettle had finally been brewed. Of course Moriarty would strike now, it was in this particular villains nature to fill Sherlock's most sincere moments with poison. Sherlock straightens his back, his arms encompassing the child in his arms, keeping him warm, protected.

"Now who's threatening who?"

Sherlock says, his voice maintaining a steady wave. Moriarty rolls his eyes and paces the room.

"Please, this is a mere reinstatement. I mean, let's be honest, when am I not trying to kill you?"

Jim smiles and places his hands in his pockets. He looks down at the plain tiled floor for a moment, as if something about it was more important than his current conversation.

"I'm not here to take John...not yet anyway. I just came to give him my greetings. I got what I wanted. You can breathe again, I'm leaving."

"You think you can walk away from this? Despite your warnings, I can guarantee I'll make an exceptionally easy process of imprisoning you."

"Oh I wouldn't do that,"

A cynical smile peels across Moriaty's face as he creeps his way over to Sherlock, hunching his neck forward so his lips barely graze Sherlock's ear.

"You see, you're not the only happy couple here in this hospital Sherlock dear. In fact there's an entire floor filled with cheeky couples with brand new little babies. All the mummy's are still recovering, just like Molly dear."

Moriarty whispers into Sherlocks ear, his words piercing sharp like a dart.

"I have snipers stationed outside...and they will spill all the sweet baby blood running through those tiny little creatures. As well as the mummies, and the daddies and it will be all over your hands. Unless of course you don't tell your police friend, or Molly here."

Sherlocks blood runs ice cold through his veins. He settles a glare on Moriarty, staring into his beady eyes. Sherlock tries to see something in them, bluff perhaps. What reflects back at him is pure malice. Only black pupils, like the glossy orbs that belong to a spider. Sherlock hardens his expression, attempting to remain as emotionless as possible. Or at least make it look that way. It had always been his strong suit, that is, not feeling things. But he couldn't deny the fact that deep within him, he was feeling something. Something that caused him to step away from Moriarty that very second. Something that ceased him from slipping a hand into his pocket and dialing the police. Something that caused him to tighten his grip around his baby boy. Sherlock realized at that moment that he was a fly caught in Moriarty's web, struggling against his bonds, attempting to break the stringy barriers that restrained him. But their was only one way to stop him from killing. Stop struggling.

Sherlock bites his tongue to refrain him from a sudden outburst that could result in death for some innocent family down the hall. Moriarty's face fixes into a smug smile at the recognition of his obedience.

"Very good,"

He says. Moriarty took pride in his dominance. Sherlock watches as he presses two fingers against his ear and cocks his head to the side just slightly. Sherlock squinted, his eyes landing on the minuscule, flesh-tinted chip almost undetectable against his ear if not for a slight protrudent lump inside it. His means of communication to his snipers, obviously.

"Relax, play-time's over mates,"

He whispers before looking up at Sherlock again, his face though, more soft than Sherlock remembered.

"I'll always be watching over them, Sherlock."

His voice is as light as a feather. He takes small steps toward the door, so soft there is almost no click of his slick black shoes against the flat tile.

"Molly and John. They're mine. In time I'll make sure they're aware of that."

And with that, Moriarty slipped quietly through the door, as if he was swept away like dust in a sandstorm.

"And...you're trashing your living room because..."

John presses Sherlock after having been told about the Moriarty incident. Admittedly, he was very frightened for Sherlock and his family, however he still needed to know why Sherlock was here, why he was here. He needed to know what he could do. They were his friends, after all. Some of the only people John had and cared for in his life. Their absence would undoubtedly lead to a glass of scotch and reoccurring bouts of cold hard PTSD. Just to name a few things.

John watches Sherlocks muscles relax slightly. The first time actually, since John had stepped through the door. Sherlock rests all his weight against his hands, both balled into fists, his knuckles kissing the kitchen table. He was rugged looking, John noticed. Unshaven, slim, yet...clunky in areas. His elbows jutting too far out, his cheekbones too defined. His eyes stared too long at things, especially that stuffed bear. As if everything was new to him and he was taking in the world one bloodshot stare at a time.

"Molly and I received lots of baby presents, some we didn't even bother to open."

He extends a bony finger at the stuffed animal,

"This one she mentioned was from my brother, Mycroft. There was a tag with his signature, nothing more."

He takes a thin paper square between his fingers and extends it to John. John takes it, his eyes glancing over a curled 'M,' the letter so eloquently drawn it seemed as if it could just leap up and dance.

"Only my brother doesn't sign with just his first initial he signs with all three. Jim Moriarty however wouldn't use his initials for fear of Molly discovering him. He would use just one..."

Sherlocks lips curl in.

"For all I know there's been a bomb hidden in my house for months and I hadn't a clue of its existence until now."

Sherlock locks his eyes on the stuffed bear again, as if expecting it to blow up in his face. John advances towards the kitchen table as well.

"Well, now...I mean...Sherlock I can guarantee you theirs nothing harmful hidden in that erm...stuffed bear...I mean, if what Moriarty said is true he wouldn't want to kill your baby. He wants to take it from you. He loves the child like its his own d'you really think he'd want to murder him?"

Sherlock protrudes a scalpel clutched in his right hand, where he got it John hadn't a clue and didn't want to take the time to think about. He begins to tear the stuffed animal straight down the middle, the way Molly autopsied at the morgue. He had observed her countless times while she did it.

"You may be right, John."

Sherlock says.

"But there is...something inside it,"

Once he's made a clear cut through the middle of the stuffed bear, he sticks his fingers in it's fat tummy, scooping out wads of stuffing. He pulls out the fluffs and let's them fall to the floor, or rests them beside him on the table top. The stuffed bear hardly looked like a bear, just a flat pancake of fur, before Sherlock found something. It was small, John hardly saw anything in Sherlocks hand until he pinched it between his fingers and held it to the light. Metallic, wired, and blinking red, Sherlock admired it for a few seconds.

"Well, certainly not a bomb,"

John observed. Sherlock shakes his head in compliance.

"Tracking device."

He corrects.

"In case we ever decide to move I assume."

Sherlock places the tiny device on the table. He then proceeds to walk away from John, down the hall where Sherlocks bedroom was. He hears the slamming of drawers.

"Erm, Sherlock!"

He shouts, peeking his head round the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse at what he may be doing. John receives nothing as a response. He rolls his eyes. He still didn't really know what he was doing here. Sherlock seemed to be doing his own thing and John was supplying...well he didn't know really. I guess he was acting as a sound board. Absorbing the information Sherlock was spewing at him. All the facts, the details, logistic problems. Their was a few things that Sherlock hadn't mentioned, more like avoided, that John was about to probe. Things like, how Sherlock himself was dealing with the whole situation. Sherlock, always ignorant, always in denial of his own feelings. If John was here as a sound board, he was going to weed out everything from Sherlock whether Sherlock wanted him to or not.

"Sherlock!"

John begins. He makes his way over to the table, finding a seat amongst the mess of baby toys and miscellaneous baby items and sits himself in one.

"You haven't gotten much sleep then?"

He hears Sherlock groan from the other room.

"For God's sake...what is it with you all asking questions with obvious answers?"

He hollers back at John. John, in an almost instinctive way, rolls his eyes.

"Fine. So you haven't slept..."

John glances at the once-stuffed bear lying limp on the table.

"Sherlock you have told Molly about all this haven't you?"

The only response John receives is the bustling motions of Sherlock in his room, looking for god knows what. John sighs.

"Do you think it's better she not know that her ex-boyfriend has come back to kill you and take your family?"

He hears Sherlock pause. Then his heavy footsteps make there way down the hall.

"Yes I think that's much better John."

He says, peeking his head out from the bannister.

"You would?"

Sherlock stares at John. His expression isn't neutral, nor blank. He is almost pleading. He remains this way for a long while.

"You would tell the women you love that your own death was imminent? That as soon as it happened she and her child would be snared into the hands of an insane man? To live the rest of their lives as slaves to a psychopath and obey every sickening order he demanded them carry out?"

John held a stern expression, his teeth clenched. Sherlock was right. Like usual, of course. And usually Sherlock had more of a haughty attitude about proving John wrong. His attitude always triggered John's reaction. He'd roll his eyes, mutter an insult under his breathe. Not this time. This time Sherlock announced a truth that was too terrible to be real. John couldn't scorn at that. Sherlock paces back into his bedroom.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, seeing as you can't maintain a relationship for more than two weeks let alone start a family."

He says, as he walks away. Now there was something John could respond rationally to.

"Oh piss off."

John says, his eyes drifting to that chestnut bear still lying on the tabletop. He didn't know why the toy distracted him so much. It was funny looking, he thought. Its body flat, instead of fat. And it's head while still intact, was way out of proportion in comparison. It's plastic orb eyes seemed to bulge out of its head, like something was pushing them out from behind. It was giant and not perfectly spherical. Like a tennis ball that had been molded out of clay, with bumps.

"Found it!"

Sherlock yells from his bedroom, but John had hardly been paying any attention to what Sherlock had been looking for in the first place. John reached out a hand and squeezed it's head just to see if it would squish between his fingertips. To his surprise, it did the opposite. It was...solid. Rock hard. He frowns, his fingers roam around the toys head, applying light pressure. There was hardly any stuffing at all. He noticed sharp protrudent edges that poked him as his fingers traced along the exterior of the bears head.

"Sherlock..."

John hollers as his mind makes an unsettling deduction of his own. Sherlocks slim figure is caught out of the corner of John's eye and he quickly spins around, clutching the bears head in one hand and letting the rest of its limp body dangle.

"I think their's-"

John's eyes magnify. He watches Sherlock place the tracking dot on the table between his forefinger and thumb. Then he sees the hammer gripped in his hand. Sherlock raises the tool above his head, it's target unmistaken. John has already connected the dots. Moriarty's intrusion to frighten Sherlock. Sherlock panicking. Sherlock wanting to destroy anything that could bring harm to him and his family. Sherlock thought he was getting a step ahead of Moriarty. But Moriarty had already anticipated this. Moriarty knew Sherlock would go looking for a way to end this game. And Moriarty figured this a perfect opportunity for him to execute his plan early.

John knew now why he was here.

He throws the bear across the room and hears the box stashed inside smack against the kitchen wall with a thunk.

"Stop!"

He bellows, too late. Sherlock pounds the hammer into the tracking device, minuscule black shards shattering across the table. I guarantee you their is nothing harmful hidden in that bear. John can't process anything but the fact that what he had said was wrong and Sherlock was about to pay the ultimate price for it. John's instincts take over. He throws himself on top of Sherlock and they slam against the floor as the kitchen is ripped from the rest of the flat in a swift explosion of fire and billowing black smoke.

Well...I hope you enjoyed this! Feel free to give me any constructive criticism ya'll may have. Thanks for being so patient. I will try my best to update sooner. :-)