A/n: I cannot believe how popular this fic is already. I'm watching Sherlock "The Great Game" whilst writing this so that I can keep Sherlock and Moriarty in character as much as possible. Moriarty is really hard to write for due to his complexity.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

Warnings: Violence, someone dies.

Sherlock wasn't going to make it easy for Moriarty. He wasn't going to wait outside 221B Baker Street and allow the psychopath to just collect him. No, he still had some self respect left. So, instead he was walking around London, stopping off here and there when certain places brought back memories of him and John.

He stopped off at Scotland Yard, the place that was basically his second home, where he would just waltz in, annoy Anderson and Donovan, and then waltz out again, John in tow. Would he ever step foot inside there again? The place seemed dark and empty, a bit like Sherlock felt, and he gave it one last look before heading off down the road.

He called a cab and told the driver to take him to St Bart's hospital. He wanted to see the place where he and John first met, the place where fate intervened and made him meet the most important man in his life. They may not be a couple, but John was the only one Sherlock cared about. He was only doing this for John, sure he cared about Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, but he would be completely lost without his blogger.

The cab stopped and he got out, looking up at the familiar white building. Even this place had a different feel to it. It looked cold, even eerie now, and Sherlock couldn't believe that only a few hours ago the place had a totally different atmosphere. It usually felt warm, and homely - or as homely as a hospital can be - but now it seemed sad, almost as if it felt Sherlock's pain.

Sherlock sat on the curb, his head in his hands and his eyes closed. Memories flowed through his mind; Him and John meeting, John being amazed by him, John saving his life, John's face when Irene kept texting him, John with the bomb strapped to him. If their paths didn't meet then John could of lived a normal life, with a normal person.

Yet he met Sherlock and now he was in danger, again. And by the same person. Moriarty. Sherlock owed John his life and now he was going to pay up.

"I thought you'd be here."

Moriarty stepped out of the shadows, his hands in his pockets. "You can't get away from this place, can you?"

He looked up at St Bart's and smiled.

"I still have two hours to decide," Sherlock growled, his voice muffled by his hands.

"I'm so -"

"Changeable. Yeah, you said," Sherlock interrupted, looking up at Moriarty with his eyebrows raised.

"Be careful, I could still have John killed." Moriarty snarled, before grinning again.

"Why? I'm doing what you want, am I not? Leave him alone."

Moriarty knelt down in front of Sherlock, "You really care for him, don't you? I saw your little goodbye. So sweet. If John's a threat, I will have no choice but to kill him."

"This has nothing to do with John, or anyone else. It's between you and me."

"True." Moriarty shrugged. "So, are you going to come along quietly or am I going to have to drag you, kicking and screaming? Personally I prefer the latter."

Sherlock stood up, checking that the gun was still safely in his pocket, and bowed to Moriarty. "After you."

Moriarty clicked his fingers, causing two men to appear, one holding a metal pole, the other holding an old sack. Sherlock eyed the pole with apprehension. Surely Moriarty wouldn't -

"I told you, I prefer the latter. Now, unless you want to have a banging headache and severe brain damage, put up a fight!" Moriarty barked, his eyes a light with adrenaline.

"No."

Moriarty nodded to the man with the pole, and a second later Sherlock fell to his knees, stars swimming around his vision. Everything in the street doubled up, and Sherlock felt as though his skull was in two parts. He grabbed his head and could feel something sticky running down his hand.

"That was a warning," Moriarty snarled, "Disobey me again, and John will die."

The man twirled the pole around his fingers, chuckling to himself. Sherlock could see his blood dripping from one end onto the pavement and felt his stomach turn.

"S-someone's bound to h-hear this," he croaked, pulling himself onto all fours, "S-someone will come."

"So? I'll just kill them, problem solved. Now, back to you. Resist or John dies."

Sherlock didn't have the energy to resist, he barely had the energy to stand up without falling over, let alone put up a fight. The stars continued to dance stubbornly in front of his eyes, and blood was now pouring into his ears.

He swallowed and leant against a lamp post, praying to god that he wouldn't pass out.

Moriarty held up a hand, "5 seconds, Sherlock," he sang happily.

Dizziness was still consuming Sherlock's mind and he could barely hear Moriarty's voice. He pushed himself away from the lamp post and stood shakily in front of him.

"Four."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer - or at least say something - when he felt another blinding pain in the back of his head, forcing him forwards. He fell with a thud to the pavement at Moriarty's feet, and rolled onto his back. This pain was worse than the last, causing him to cough up blood and grasp his head with both hands.

"Three. Two. One. Times up, Sherlock."

"N-no, Don't," he cried, "P-please, not J-john."

He could feel the darkness swallowing him, the pain residing slightly, and didn't bother trying to fight it. He wanted to die, to escape this pain, this nightmare. What he didn't want was a pair of hands grabbing his shoulders and pulling him into a standing position. His head rolled forwards and his eyes closed. Whoever had hold of him was the only thing keeping him stood up as he couldn't even feel his legs anymore.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. I won't kill John yet, but someone needs to die," Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's ear before turning to the two men, "Put him in the car."

Sherlock woke up to find himself in a small room. The only thing in there apart from himself was a large, flat screen TV. He scanned the rest of the room; one exit, no windows, one small light hanging from the window, before closing his eyes again. His head began to buzz and the memories from last night slowly fell into place.

Where was Moriarty?

The door opened and he heard soft footsteps walking in his direction. He didn't need to open his eyes to know whose footsteps they were. He recognised that sound anywhere.

"I'm going to kill you," he grunted, opening his eyes and glaring at Moriarty.

"Aw, but I have a surprise for you!" Moriarty said, pulling out a remote and flicking on the TV.

The picture was fuzzy to begin with, the image jumping around the screen, before settling on Scotland Yard. It zoomed in on the entrance and Sherlock could see Donovan and Anderson milling about outside, talking amongst themselves.

A second later and Anderson was lying on the floor, dead.

Sherlock watched as Donovan dropped to the floor beside him, her face twisted in agony. There was no sound, but for once Sherlock was glad. He didn't want to hear her screams, the look on her face was horrific enough.

The TV died, and Sherlock turned to Moriarty, his body suddenly numb.

"You killed him," he muttered, unable to believe what had just happened. Sure, he didn't love Anderson, but he never wanted him dead. The image of Donovan's shocked face just before the TV died burned in his mind.

"You killed him, Sherlock. I told you, you disobey me and people die. I can work my way through Scotland Yard, if you like? The more you resist, the more innocent people that die," Moriarty shrugged, fiddling with his suit.

"Why him?"

"Why not? He was nothing special, just an ordinary idiot. You didn't even like him, thought I was doing you a favour."

Sherlock wanted to scream, he wanted to run, go back to Baker Street and be with John. He didn't want to be stuck here, with some lunatic, watching innocent people die for the sake of it.

"I'm sensing a hint of displeasure. Well then, this should be a motive for you. Do as I say and no one else will die. Don't, and I'll kill more and you can watch," Moriarty smirked, opening the door, "See you later."

He walked out leaving Sherlock alone with only his thoughts, the image of Donovan still clear as day in his mind.