AN: Ok-Here's the chapter everyone's been waiting for…I'm glad I was able to post it earlier than expected. You may recognize some of the elements from "The Final Problem" by Conan Doyle (thanks to Newboy for that idea). I am just stunned by everyone's positive reviews. They are greatly appreciated.

Chapter 10

Gregson cursed Holmes as he tried one more message. The consulting detective hadn't responded to either messages or calls since his last communication. He reached the brownstone and took the steps two at a time. The door swung open when he touched it, and he felt his stomach drop. He examined it carefully and saw it hadn't been kicked in. A closer focus on the tiny scratches on the new lock revealed it had been expertly picked. He was full of worry, but he drew his gun smoothly and proceeded inside.

Everything seemed in order downstairs, until he glanced down at the front hallway and saw a few drops of blood on the floor. "Damn it." He cursed. Looking up the stairs, he saw two more drops on the third step. He avoided them and followed the drops upstairs to the bedrooms. He glanced into one room, definitely Joan's room by the perfume bottles on the dresser and the clothing in the closet. There were a few drops of blood there, but there was a larger amount in Sherlock's room. The consulting detective had already been on his way to the meeting, so he had to assume Joan was the one who had been attacked and taken. There was a note from Sherlock on the bed. He read it, then grabbed his cell phone.

Gregson called Bell and told him to get over to the brownstone with three or four deputies as soon as possible. Sherlock hadn't wanted backup, but Gregson was going to see he got it anyway.

He ended the call and went back downstairs. So…what did he know? He tried to imagine Sherlock standing in this same room, looking around at the evidence and deducing the whole story. The detective wasn't on Sherlock's caliber, but he had to give it a try. If Moriarty's people who had Joan got Sherlock too, then he was the only one who could tip the scales in the good guys' favor.

He closed his eyes and thought a moment. Joan here. Alone. From his quick analysis of the blood drops, probably in Sherlock's bed. That thought surprised him for a moment, but then he was back to the evidence. Whoever took her must have been waiting to see Sherlock leave, because they pounced as soon as he was out of sight. The front door had been picked. Joan had been hurt, but not enough blood to warrant a gunshot wound. Most likely the kidnapper or kidnappers surprised her while she was sleeping and then roughed her up a bit.

When he heard the police sirens, he went outside to meet them. New York was a big city and he had no idea where to find Holmes or Joan, but he had to start somewhere.

Sherlock looked up at the glass and metal structure of the museum. There wasn't a large crowd because it was a few minutes before opening. He glanced at the nearby windows and rooftops. No sign of anyone, but he knew Moriarty's men would be a bit more circumspect than to be easily identifiable. He started to walk around to the front, all the while keeping eyes open for anything not quite right. All he saw was an elderly woman, in her late 70's, feeding the pigeons in the small green space near the museum, along with the generic flow of New Yorkers on the sidewalk outside the museum complex .

At ten, he went inside. A young woman in her 20's, probably an art student by the textbook open on the desk in front of her and the faint stain of paint on her fingers, asked his name and gave him a pass. Sherlock put it on his coat, and began a self-tour of the museum, keeping a careful eye on the scattered patrons around.

He made his way past a display of Frank Lloyd Wright furniture, some generic looking blobs of sculpture and large color block paintings by Malevich. He examined Black Circle which apparently was this Malevich's idea of art. It seemed pretentious; a close up view of a punctuation mark. It was difficult to concentrate on any of them; his mind was fixated on the impending meeting.

He was standing by an exhibit of German Expressionists when a work finally did catch his eye. A version of The Scream, rendered in oil pastels was on display. He'd seen it before, of course, but in real life, in person, it was different. The picture was ghastly. The garish colors and horrified expression on the main subject's face were almost too hideous to look at. It reminded Sherlock of too many terrible moments in the past, and he was mesmerized, staring at the blue and bloody orange colors.

"It's wonderfully horrid, isn't it?"

"Artwork is irrelevant." Sherlock said simply. He then turned his head slowly to see the smiling face of Professor Moriarty. His iron control allowed Sherlock to seem at ease, but he was not. Every atom of his body was on alert. He glanced around for Moriarty's henchmen, but saw no one.

"Interesting that you would say that," Moriarty replied. "I would have said you had an artist's soul."

Sherlock regarded him with an expressionless countenance. "And I would have said that you had no soul at all."

Moriarty chuckled, every bit the kindly professor. It was the same expression he'd worn when called to Scotland Yard to be questioned about Olivia's murder. The same expression that he had used to be taken off the list as a suspect. Sherlock tried to wipe it out of mind and focus on now, instead of the painful wounds of the past, but it was nearly impossible.

"Oh, I can't believe you would say such a thing. That hurts. It really does." Moriarty said, pretending to be offended by Sherlock's remark.

"So. What is it you want exactly?" Sherlock asked, regarding Moriarty with a neutral expression. "I do have a schedule."

"Ah yes. 'Nanny Watson' must miss you. So let's get to it." There was a pause and then the older man went on. "As I have said, I am planning to expand operations. We have…stepped on each other's toes in the past, shall we say? It would be unfortunate if that happened again."

"That's too bad. I rather enjoy stepping on toes, especially when it comes to taking down murderers, gun-runners, and thieves." He fixed his attention on Moriarty the way he would on an opponent in chess. It was vital he stay several moves ahead.

"Mr. Holmes. You are incredibly brilliant. So brilliant in fact, that I have admired you for quite some time. It would be a pity for you to end up on the wrong side of a bullet. Rest assured…if you continue to get in my way, I will have to take the regrettable step of killing you."

"If I died in the process of bringing you to your deserved end, I would gladly make that sacrifice." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Moriarty. "It would be an honor."

Moriarty and Holmes locked gazes for long moments. "What about your 'not a friend?' The sober companion? You don't mind her sacrificed for those principles as well?"

"She has nothing to do with this." Even as Sherlock spoke the words, he knew they were his weakness.

Just then, Moriarty's phone chimed. He glanced at the screen and smiled broadly. "Ah, but yes she does. She has everything to do with this." Moriarty showed Sherlock the picture on his phone. It was Joan. She was sitting on the floor in a nondescript room, hands cuffed to a radiator, duct tape on her mouth. Her feet were bound as well. Her face was bloody, but he couldn't make out where the wound was. Her eyes were open and defiant. Sherlock's mind raced as he realized the danger she was in.

Moriarty glanced at the picture and made a disapproving noise. "My colleague is a little rough around the edges, I believe. I am sorry about that. But you should know Miss Watson has a lot to do with this. She has made you successful at working again and therefore you are a potential problem for me." His ice blue eyes evaluated Holmes. "How long do you think you would have remained clean if not for her influence? I predict you would have been shooting up again within a month. You had quite an expensive habit, as I remember."

Holmes said nothing, so Moriarty continued. "Since this woman is so valuable to you, you need to think about your future actions."

"On the contrary, you should think about your actions." The look in Holmes' eyes was so dark and forbidding that Moriarty stepped back, almost subconsciously. The detective used his tall frame to tower over Moriarty. "If you harm Joan or anyone else of mine, I will take everything from you; your power, your money, your network of criminals. Then, lastly, I WILL kill you."

Moriarty remained staring into his eyes, but a malevolent smile crossed his face. "Oh yes. That's it…Get angry. Maybe you're not such a 'good guy' after all, Mr. Holmes. Maybe we're more alike than you would think."

Holmes took a step back, then casually drew his phone from his pocket and, barely glancing at the screen, texted a few words. He replaced the phone and leveled his gaze on Moriarty before he spoke. "I should think that you'll want to release Miss Watson in the next thirteen minutes. That is the exact response time from the nearest police precinct to The Ibis Hotel, where she is located, in an east facing room, probably the third floor. Since it is a small hotel, it won't take long to do a room by room search. I hope for your sake they find Miss Watson alive and well."

Moriarty held his gaze for a scant few seconds, then turned and left, but not before Holmes saw him take his own phone from his pocket and make a call. Sherlock left from another exit and caught a cab; heading toward the hotel where he knew Joan to be.

Author's note: TBC…. Thanks to all readers for your reviews, and keep them coming! I treasure each one. :)