Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

Hey guys! Thank-you guys sooooo much for the reviews, favorites, and followers! It makes me so happy seeing that you guys like this story! It makes me want to upload faster :)

Disclaimer: (Sadly) I don't own Sherlock. :'(. First off, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffast and Mark Gatniss (sorry if I spelt that wrong) own the AMAZING BBC show Sherlock. I only own oringinal characters. Oh, wait. There isn't any really. Oh Well!

Sitting in Sherlock's and John's chairs and couch around Sherlock and John's flat are the bodies of Lestrade, Sally, Mrs. Hudson, their landlady and close friend even if she was much older than the two, and Molly Hooper, a woman who works at St. Bartholomew's Hospital and has quite the crush on Sherlock, who is very unaware of this and just thinks Molly is enthralled whenever he is in the room because of his massive intelligence. They sit in the same position and have the same wound on their temples, clean and small.

The two stand at the entrance of their living room, staring at the bodies. They don't know what to do and are frozen solid with fear as they stand there. Multiple tears creep into the corners of John's eyes and slide down his cheeks. Sherlock himself gets a couple tear in his eyes and wipes it away before John can notice. I mean, come on. Lestrade and Sally were way below him, intelligence wise, and Sally was so bothersome, but they were people and he knew them. Mrs. Hudson was so sweet to Sherlock and John! She was their landlady, (not their housekeeper, she made a point of saying) but she was also a close friend, not to mention they'd known the older woman for years. Molly could be a bit obsessive with Sherlock, but she was kind and again, they knew her.

Anger welled up inside Sherlock. It formed inside his chest and threatened to blow him apart if he didn't take it out on someone or something soon.

So he took it out on a nearby teacup, throwing it against the wall and shattering it.

John stares at Sherlock. "Well, th-that was… nice."

"Can you b-blame me?!" Sherlock yells. "Look what he d-did!"

"I know," John shakes his head. "What do we do?"

"I don't kn-" Sherlock stops midsentence as he notices yet another envelope sitting on his desk. This time is says, "To My Sherlocky-Wocky" on the front.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock opens the letter and begins to read, dreading what new plan Moriarty is hatching.

Hello, My dear Sherlock!

How are you, sweetums? I see you've figured out that these are dolls with your "massive intellect" and all, right? You haven't? Oh, awkward. Well, there you have it, honey! Oh, and thanks for the prints! I'll have LOTS of fun with them.

Forever you're dearest,

Moriarty

Sherlock passes the note to John and John reads it hurriedly, he lets out a sigh. "Oh, thank God!"

"That's makes me think," Sherlock says, "that what if those other bodies were fake, too?"

"But what about the blood?" John asks.

"It's really easy to make something that looks like blood," Sherlock explains

John raises his eyebrows.

"I watch a lot of horror movies," Sherlock shrugs.

Higher still the brows go.

"I point out how things in them could never happen when I'm bored," Sherlock says. He walks over to the doll fashioned to look like Mrs. Hudson. He took a sample of the blood and walks over to his magnifying glass. He inserts the sample and nods. "Yes, this isn't blood. It's a mixture of one part water, three parts golden syrup, corn starch, and red food coloring. Clever!"

"And horrible!" John exclaims. "But what was the point of this? To scare us?"

"He wouldn't have gone to such trouble just to frighten us," Sherlock states, looking at the intricate dolls. They look exactly like Lestrade, Sally, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. It must have taken a while to make these. So why would he to such lengths to make them?

"I don't know," Sherlock admits. Just saying those words is foreign to his tongue. "Wait."

Sherlock picks up the letter again and rereads it. "'Oh, and thanks for the prints. I'll have lots of fun with them,'" Sherlock echoes Moriarty's cryptic words. "John, what do you think that means?"

John furrows his brow and thinks. "Well, did you have any pictures? Some people call those prints."

"I don't think I have any tha-" Sherlock stops midsentence as he realizes what that probably means.

Sherlock turns abruptly and stalks over to his safe. To his dismay, the safe is slightly off kilter. Sherlock stands and runs a hand through his dark, black hair and letting out a long, deep sigh.

"Fingerprints!" Sherlock slams his fist down atop a pile of books, flipping them off the table they're perched upon. "That's what he meant! Why wasn't it obvious to me? Damn it! Moriarty could do anything with those!"

Before John can speak his mobile rings. "Oh, one sec." He answers the phone. "Hello? Yes. Alright. What? No, no that's not- I know what it says, but that's wrong! It's wrong! Your bloody machine is wrong! Alright, yeah, we'll come down. Bye."

Already suspecting something devious is afoot, Sherlock asks, "What was that about?"

John lets out his own sigh now. "Lestrade says that they've found 'your' fingerprints on those bodies. We have to come down, now."

Realization surges through Sherlock's veins. "Moriarty. He must've distracted the police, which isn't that hard, and planted my fingerprints on the bodies!"

John's mouth fell open. "Then they'll think that-"

"I killed those people. Yeah," Sherlock says, boiling with rage. Who does Moriarty think he is? "And Sally wouldn't believe I'm innocent even if Moriarty himself said, 'I killed them!' God, this is bloody awful. I'm so shafted."

"No, you're not!" John says encouragingly. "They'll know you didn't do it! Come on, we better get down there."

"I knew you did it!"

Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Sally are all standing in Lestrade's office. Sally has a triumphant and smug grin on her face as she continues, "I knew it!"

"I didn't kill those people," Sherlock says, with a harsh tone to his voice. "I would never do that!"

"Well, the evidence is there, Sherlock," Lestrade says, rubbing his eyes. "Your prints are on those bodies."

"But the letter-"

"You could've written that!" Sally exclaims. "You are probably in cahoots with Moriarty! Or maybe you invented Moriarty! Everyone knows how much you love these types of things."

Sherlock lets out a sigh. "I didn't do this! Moriarty came into our flat and took my fingerprints from my safe then he put them on the body! He did!"

"Oh, really?" Sally rolls her eyes. "Do you have proof?"

Sherlock's heart lightens at this. Before they had left, Sherlock had slipped Moriarty's letter from their flat into to his pocket. "Yes, I do!" Sherlock says, and reaches into his pocket. Feeling around inside his pocket, his spirits fall.

The letter is gone.

"I-I don't understand!" Sherlock practically chokes out. "It w-was here! I swear!"

"Sure, it was!" Sally rolls her eyes again and walks behind Sherlock, handcuffing him. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest of the murder of Merideth Higgins, Brent Michaels, and Harry Triller. Wow, that feels good to say! Come on, we've gotta' book you now. Oh, this'll be fun!"

John can't believe this. "No! Sherlock didn't do this!"

"Sorry, John," Lestrade says, rising to escort Sherlock to get booked. "I really am, but the evidence is there."

John's temper starts to rise as they escort Sherlock out of the room. Sherlock looks back at John, a genuine look of terror plastered on his face. No. They couldn't do this to him. Sherlock was his best friend. No matter how arrogant and rude the bloke could be, he was his best friend and he had to do something.

"You can't do-"

"No, John. I'm sorry," Lestrade sighs. No matter how horrible Sherlock was, Lestrade considered them friends. Lestrade was actually really sad. And disappointed. Sure, he was a big pain sometimes, well, most of the time, but Sherlock was technically a friend.

John sits there in Lestrade's cold plastic chair. What was he going to do? John knew that Sherlock was innocent, but it didn't look that way. Sherlock could die. They could give him the electric chair or something. Oh, God, just thinking about that makes John's stomach twist into knots.

"No…"

John sighs. There's nothing he can do. No. There has to be! He'll figure out something. He will.

But this time, he won't have Sherlock's help. No matter. He'd get to the bottom of the case, prove Sherlock's innocence, and get Moriarty once and for all!

With his mind made up, John sets off to solve the case and free his best friend.

Hailing a taxi, John slides in the backseat, states his address, and starts to mentally plan out his next move. The taxi twists and turns down alleys and John's eyebrows furrow. Well, this is an odd way to get home.

When the cabby misses his turn he speaks up politely. "Ummm, excuse me. You missed the turn."

"Not for where your headed, mate," A sickly-sweet, almost melodic voice floats into John's ears from the driver's seat.

John's heart stops as the driver turns around. It's not any old cabby doing his job.

It's Moriarty.

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