As always, I feel obligated to thank you all for the reviews and the favourites since the latest chapter. That chapter—was so difficult to write. It's basically the turning point of this story and I can't stress how many times I re-read and re-wrote it, trying to make it as perfect as I've been planning and seeing it in my mind since I started this. So I'm so happy that you guys thought it wasn't an utter failure :) I feel around another four to five chapters left of this, perhaps more. I'm not sure, but yes, there will be more after this one.

Just a quick side note: when I write I listen to music. Music evokes the correct emotions in me to put myself in the position of the characters, and so I was thinking maybe mentioning a song or two for you to listen to as you read this? It may also help you see where I'm coming from. In this chapter, whilst concerning Moriarty, the song 'Horror of Our Love' by Ludo, which is very haunting, really fits with him and his feelings towards Sherlock. At the end of this chapter, I may mention some other songs that helped me write this. If you find this sort of thing helps you, let me know.

[SH]

"Surprised?"

Sherlock smirked. "Me? Never. Just relieved you decided to make an appearance now rather than later."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because I feel like breaking something," Sherlock said. The words were jolting out of his mouth before he had time to reanalyse or study them, so, for the first time; everything he said was naked and utterly honest. Moreover, it was blatant to the two men in the room.

The man in black, whom Sherlock still hadn't leaned his gaze towards yet, let out a short, musical laugh. "Oh, in time, my dear, in time. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"That we do," Sherlock drawled in response. He was staring fixedly out of the window. It was raining heavily out: he hadn't noticed. It was also quite dark now, suggesting it was possibly close to the evening.

"Aren't you going to look at me?"

Sherlock didn't want to for he feared that if he did, the figure would vaporize, and he would come to realise it was all an illusion. He didn't want that. He wanted this to be real. He couldn't trust his mind anymore, not since it had played such a cruel trick on him. His jaw clenched as he recalled John's confused expression when he'd mentioned their first kiss. That first kiss they had shared had never happened, and even though they had now kissed, Sherlock felt betrayed. He felt betrayed because when their lips had met that night in his room, it had been the first time something had stirred inside of him. He'd finally felt something, and to discover that it was false—it was agony.

He heard the person moving closer towards him, and saw the blur of black drawing slightly nearer. Sherlock swallowed hard. Despite being heavily intoxicated, he hadn't completely lost his senses. If this was, who he thought it was, if this wasn't a delusion, he was going to be in danger. That little thrill zipped through his system and the fear was cast briskly aside. It was replaced by excitement.

Sherlock turned his head ajar for his eyes to connect with Jim Moriarty's, who was now practically touching him, his chest brushing against his upper arm. A repulsive sneer crawled across Jim's mouth like an insect, his dark brown eyes standing out on his face like two foreboding and oppressive clouds that held the threat of a storm brewing behind them. Neither said anything.

[SH]

"I'm going to Baker Street," John declared, practically leaping into his jacket, hands shaking as he pulled up the zip. "He has to be there."

"I don't see how he could've made it all the way over there," Lestrade pointed out. "By the sounds of it, he was virtually unconscious."

"Well, I don't care if it seems impossible," John partially snapped out. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." he flushed. "That's what Sherlock's told me all this time anyway and let's face it; the man's bloody right about everything!"

Lestrade nodded, gaze tilting towards Sarah who was sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, looking in a completely different direction. The party had deflated not long after they had discovered Sherlock had gone, the guests dispersing quickly. Sarah was clearly displeased with the situation. Greg knew she was worried about Sherlock, however, otherwise she'd have left the room or even the flat entirely. Instead, she lingered, listening in and feigning indifference. She stiffened when John said the last part.

"I'll go with you," Lestrade said, opening the door. He paused before leaving and called back: "Happy birthday, Sarah. Sorry about all of this."

Sarah glanced over her shoulder at him, blushed, and then nodded, offering a tiny smile. John, seemingly only just remembering her, gave her a hasty kiss on the top of her head and then followed Greg out. As soon as the door closed behind them, Sarah buried her face in her hands, tears spilling down her face.

"We have to walk it," Lestrade said as John edged towards the side of the road to stretch out his arm for a taxi. When John turned to him, brow furrowed, he added, "Just in case he collapsed somewhere. We don't know for certain he managed to get back to Baker Street yet."

John was reluctant. He wanted to get back to Baker Street as soon as humanly possible. It was as if there was a tether in his heart and on the other end was Sherlock. He liked to think that he felt a tug in his chest, urging him to get to 221B, but what Greg said made more sense and he was forced to oblige, waving off a taxi that had sidled up to the curb. The doctor and the detective inspector started their walk to Baker Street.

Sarah gripped the sides of the sofa, inhaling deeply and shakily inwards. She felt so idiotic right then; John had suddenly appeared in her life seemingly at the perfect moment and she had kept telling herself it was too good to be true. She was an independent person, but she had allowed herself to believe that he was the one. It was becoming abundantly clear that that wasn't the case at all. John had found the one he would give everything up for, the one he would go to the ends of the world for, and it wasn't her.

Sarah made her way to their room...well it was only her room now, and started to pack his stuff. She did this hurriedly and without much care as the act itself was intensely painful. John's phone, which was sitting on the bedside table, hummed and swerved a bit on its side. Sarah saw it was a phone call. She respected his privacy and was initially going to ignore it, but due to the circumstances, she decided to check who it was in case it was Sherlock calling. It was Mycroft Holmes. Judging by the surname, she connected this to the consulting detective and, hesitating for a moment, answered it.

She had only just brought it to her ear and had no chance to offer any greeting for a voice was already speaking frantically and loudly to her.

"John, I need to speak with you immediately. That boy, Raz, was found dead this morning. We found him in his mother's attic with a bullet wound to the head. His mother made the call, and she isn't guilty of doing it. No, there is someone else who did this. What's more, he's been dead for more than a couple of months, and there wasn't a phone on the body. Raz didn't have his phone!" Sarah was too dumbfounded to point out that this wasn't John. Assuming the lack of reaction was due to the doctor's slowness, Mycroft groaned in exasperation. "Sherlock has been texting Raz's mobile phone and someone has been providing him with drugs but it hasn't been Raz! Someone murdered him, took his phone, all so they could become a dealer to Sherlock! I have a strong feeling Moriarty is behind all of this."

Sarah, panicked by all the overwhelming information being thrown on top of her, hung up and turned the phone off. She brought her hand to her mouth, staring at it in shock Leaving John's bags on the bed, she grabbed her own coat, pulled it on, and headed out. When she managed to hail a taxi, she requested that it take her to Baker Street.

[SH]

"Look at you," Jim Moriarty hissed, starting to circle around Sherlock, eyes dragging themselves up and down him in an almost critical way. "Look how messed up you are...how ugly you are now. Do you want to know why you're ugly, Sherlock?" he stopped as if waiting for an answer yet he knew full well he'd receive none. "Because you're so vulnerable now. You're pathetic aren't you? You let someone under your skin and now you're just—you're ruined."

Sherlock didn't dare blink. Panic prickled up his skin as the shorter man disappeared for an instant as he went around behind him, and it didn't ease even when he was back in sight again. It was like a shark slicing the surface of the water with its fin, only revealing part of itself. It wasn't so much the 'fin' that terrified Sherlock; it was what he couldn't see. What was under the seemingly calm surface of Moriarty? Something monstrous with its jaws agape ready to devour him whole? That image made him tremble.

A yelp bolted to his lips when Jim reached out a hand, and he only just managed to suppress it by clamping his mouth tightly shut, watching the other intently, and waiting for that first ripple of insanity to quiver across his features. It never came, and the hand gently touched his cheek, tender as a lover's touch. Sherlock didn't allow himself to relax or let his guard down for a split second. Jim, still maintaining that gentle approach, tilted Sherlock's head to one side. The consulting detective abided, beginning to feel increasingly defenceless.

Jim said nothing. He leaned forwards, inquisitive like a small bird with his head cocked to one side, gaze digging into Sherlock's flesh right down to his very core. Sherlock noticed how Jim licked his lips and, ever so slightly, nipped at the meat of the inside of his mouth like a starving creature who was struggling to be patient, who was hardly suppressing the urge to consume the one before him. Jim, noticing Sherlock studying him, met his gaze and gave a crooked half smile. His eyes, burning into Sherlock like cigarettes being pressed against him, suddenly darkened and he drew his nails down Sherlock's cheek.

The action left Sherlock's skin seething and he draw in a short breath, though made no other sound, and no movement. The marks flamed bright pink against his cheek, and at the dent of where the other's nails had been, miniscule beads of blood raised their heads. Jim's jaw, which was tightly clenched, slackened slightly. He was practically quaking with anticipation.

"It pains me to see you like this," Jim managed hoarsely after a deadly silence. "I just want to wring your neck..." he said this through gritted teeth. "Put you out of your misery...it is the kindest thing to do. I bet you'll look beautiful when you die, Sherlock..." his eyes were practically alight.

Sherlock could say nothing; only frown at what was being said to him. It was disturbing to say the least, and the words were tightly ensnaring him like barbed wire around his throat.

"You're stagnating...Sherlock..." Jim whispered right against his ear, his breath, like a poisonous fume, was boiling hot and crawled down Sherlock's neck. "Your beautiful mind is withering away. It's a pity. I was hoping you'd figure it all out, that you wouldn't be so—easy. Even now, you have no idea what I'm talking about. It makes me angry..."

Moriarty kissed the side of Sherlock's neck dotingly, and then ran the tip of his nose against it up to his jaw line, where he grazed his teeth along it. Sherlock's chest felt as though it was caving inwards, the rubble of his bones crushing and suffocating his organs. Tears swelled in his eyes. Tears of fear, tears of frustration, or tears of anger—he wasn't sure, but either way they were there, with full promise to fall down his face. His entire body tensed, muscles bunching together as if they were shying away from the sickening touch being forced upon him.

"It hurts me Sherlock that you'd only ever return my affections—when you mistook me for your little pet..."

One single tear skidded down Sherlock's cheek. He let in a brittle, ragged breath and closed his eyes as if to shut out the truth that a segment of his being already knew, but refused to admit. He'd known since John had looked at him that way, from the moment John had pulled away from him in confusion, but Sherlock didn't want it to be true. He relived that night, sitting up in bed to find a face inches from his own. It was so dark, though he must have been aware that it wasn't really John, mustn't he? He'd discarded fact, common sense and all of his sharp intelligence, just to believe for a split second that John had come back for him. That John wanted him, and needed him just as he did. Now he was being forced to face the grotesque truth and his stomach turned and his narrow world that he had built to secure himself and keep everyone else out, shrunk even further.

"We're two halves, you and I," Moriarty breathed, kissing the tear away. "You—complete—me."

Sherlock refused to peel his eyes open. He would prefer to never see again than to look into that face, knowing that that was the person he'd first felt anything for. When Jim had kissed him—he had felt something, and that notion made him want to fall down and never rise again. He wanted to tell Jim to stop talking, to leave him alone, that he had succeeded in burning the heart out of him, but he couldn't muster the strength to. His head started to turn foggy, and his head felt incredibly heavy as if his neck could no longer support it. Sherlock knew that the drugs had really started to kick in, and he knew it was dangerous to be out of it and high with someone like Moriarty around, yet he could scarcely bother to care anymore.

"But as I said before...you're ruined..."

Pain. Blinding pain and a pressure as powerful as a punch, impacted with his abdomen. All oxygen that he'd stored in his lungs was kidnapped and stolen away from him. His eyes snapped open and his features went taut, lips pressed firmly against one another. A ghost of a whimper managed to just about sneak out, but no other sound left Sherlock. He couldn't bear to look down; he already knew what had happened.

"Shh, dear, shh," Jim cooed, his cheek touching Sherlock's as he brought their heads together. "Shh, I hated doing that to you...it hurt me more than it hurt you." He let out a chuckle. "I confess, though...I rather enjoyed it."

Sherlock could see his own reflection in the window, and recognised the darkness spreading around his stomach to be his own blood. Jim twitched the knife that he had plunged into the detective ever so slightly. The cry of unmistakeable agony that burst from Sherlock brought a wild smile to Moriarty's face. Sherlock was only just able to stand upright, leaning forwards so to ease the pain. Moriarty was holding him up, preventing him from sinking down to his knees; his hand pressed boldly directly over Sherlock's heart, which was beating so unsteadily and frantically.

Sherlock couldn't process how much blood he was losing. He was accustomed to seeing a dead body. Blood itself didn't bother him at all, but this was entirely different. The blood soaking through his shirt was his own. It wasn't as if he'd never seen himself bleed before. It was just the amount that startled him. It struck him how bad an injury this was. If he concentrated too hard on it, he fancied he could feel the blade embedded inside of him, the chill of it radiating through his body, and he did his best to abort this thought.

When the weapon was withdrawn from him, Sherlock's body gave way and he sagged down onto his knees. Moriarty didn't even attempt to prevent this; in fact, he had removed his hand from the detective's chest when he had pulled out the knife. He turned his back on Sherlock altogether and walked over to a bag he had set down on the floor by the door, knelt in front of it and starting rummaging through its contents.

Sherlock was hardly managing to stay on his knees, winding his long thin arm around his stomach as if he was trying to hold everything in. His body pleaded with him to lie down, but he rejected the idea. Doing that would make him even more exposed than he already was. He would feel ten times more at Moriarty's mercy that way, and he wasn't about to lie down and give up. He still had some strength, and whilst some would call that pride, he would call it a sense of dignity.

Jim pulled out a garment of clothing from the bag and wiped the knife clean on it. He then flaunted back over to his plaything, and dropped what appeared to be a shirt in front of him. Sherlock flinched when he recognised the black-and-grey striped jumper. His vision blurred and swayed in and out of focus.

"Just a little present for our soldier," Jim planted another kiss on Sherlock's now freezing cold cheek.

[SH]

John had run for his life before. He had run for the lives of his fellow soldiers. He had run away from home once as a child. He had run to his most likely death...but never had he ran so fast. It wasn't just his life on the line. It was everything. Not just his literal life but also everything he cared about, everything that he needed to keep him going. It was startling to find that he attached those things to someone as unstable and as emotionally stunted as Sherlock Holmes, but it was a fact. Not debatable, not a matter of opinion—it was solid and unalterable.

Lestrade kept calling out to him, telling him to slow down and to check the streets properly first, though John was paying him little heed. Reluctantly, Greg paused to reclaim some of the oxygen he desperately needed, the back of his throat absolutely raw and his chest heaving. John didn't even glimpse over his shoulder to see if the detective inspector was still in tow.

221b Baker Street sat like a gleaming beacon, and John had never imagined how relieved anyone could feel at the mere sight of a building. His pace slowed momentarily, his legs turning weak in pure relief. This lapse was only a millisecond long as he remembered the purpose behind his having sprinted over there like a lunatic on fire. He paid no heed to the fact that the door was partly open—he assumed it was because Sherlock was too tired or something, and besides that was a sign that someone was in and this raised his hopes like no other.

John tripped up the stairs, only deterring from falling down by gripping tightly onto the banister. Again, the door was open and he burst in, eyes frantically scanning the room for any sign of Sherlock. Immediately, his attention was gripped by a pool of liquid on the floor. His world crumpled. Everything seemed to fracture inside of him, and he staggered forward towards it. Blood. There was no mistaking it. He ripped his eyes away; his heart perched at the back of his mouth threatening to tilt backwards into his throat and choke him. On the floor by the window, something was crumpled up. John cautiously and stiffly approached it.

In his head, all he could think was Oh God...please if you exist...oh God no... please...please God...

John picked it up and held it up, straightening it out. He identified what it was right away. Dimly in the corner of his skull, he heard his own voice from that morning...

"Where's my jumper, Sarah?"

"Which one? Be a bit more specific, will you? You own every jumper ever made."

"Alright, ha-ha. My striped one. The black-and-grey one."

"I haven't a clue. Maybe you left it at Baker Street?"

And there it was now, in his hands before his eyes, and staining the front of the aforementioned jumper, was even more blood. John didn't want to, but he knew he had to in order to tell how fresh it was. He brought it back down, cradling it in his arms like a bundle of a child, and traced his fingertips lightly over it. To his disdain and horror, it was wet and shone its furious red against his skin. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger against one another as if to erase it entirely, to deny its existence, yet it only spread. John's limbs turned numb and he straightened out his arms without caring if the jumper fell down at his feet.

John lurched forward to the window, trying his hardest not to be sick. He struggled to tell himself that it might not be Sherlock, it might not be Sherlock, it might not be Sherlock—, but he wasn't in the least convinced. In fact, he became even more certain that it was the consulting detective's and that made him feel like he was sinking. John stared outside, watching the steady movement of the clouds so to calm himself so he could think clearly. He spotted Lestrade jogging towards the building, and he started to wonder what he could say, or rather how he should say it.

He brought a hand to his mouth, sternly ordering himself to pull himself together. It didn't mean Sherlock was dead...there wasn't too much...was there? No there wasn't. It could be blood from anything...head injuries in particular bled profusely...this didn't make him feel better at all. John felt like yelling out of the window to tell Lestrade to hurry up, as the detective inspector seemed to be taking forever to get there.

Abruptly, John froze. His hand dropped from his face and he leaned forwards until his forehead was practically against the glass, eyes wide. He blinked rapidly as if to fix his vision, as if it was just a figment of his imagination, a trick of the eyes. It wasn't. A red dot was dancing against Greg Lestrade's back.

"Oh God," John gasped, mustering as much strength as he could to swing himself around and tore through the room, down the stairs and stumbled outside.

Greg saw him. He raised a hand, frowning at the mortified expression on the doctor's face.

He mouthed the words 'what's wrong' and then that sound...that terrible sound that seemed to split the sky in two, filled the air.

John flew to his side.

Passersby shrieked in shock and ducked for cover, searching for the culprit and the next bullet.

Greg Lestrade lay still.

TBC

Another difficult one to write especially with so much work to do. The next chapter may come sometime next week. I have an exam next Wednesday so a lot of my time will be dedicated to revision. Also with Christmas drawing ever closer, I will find less and less time to sit down to write. Don't worry though, the next chapter will be coming up and will be up by next week I swear. Please let me know what you thought! Moriarty varies in everyone's stories and I tried to remain loyal to that short amount of footage of him at my disposal. I do think he is quite twisted, and is infatuated with the idea of Sherlock. He views Sherlock as this figure, who is immortal and untouchable, so seeing a human side of him is somewhat disturbing to him. I hope that came across in this chapter. Everything will be explained in time, don't worry. And yeah just continue to support me and continue to enjoy this story because I am definitely enjoying writing it. It's my favourite one I've written thus far. Thank you again