Woah, reviews :D Thank you so much for anyone who's read the story, you guys are stars! I'm not too pleased about this next chapter though, so just to warn you

The silence in the cab wasn't uncomfortable. John had nothing to say to Sherlock and Sherlock had nothing to say to John. They weren't mad at each other, they just respected each others' right to just think once in a while. Of course, Sherlock thought practically every minute of every day, but John didn't mention this. John clenched and unclenched his fists, trying not to let his anger overflow.

Moriarty glanced at the gun in Sherlock's hand that was now pointing at the bomb. He giggled. "Now you've got my attention Sherlock."

"Why are you doing this? What do you get out of this Moriarty?"

"Call me Jim. And I've told you before, Sherlock, you've got to learn to listen. I'm bored, just like you. We'd make such a good team, if you'd just let me help you."

"I don't need your help." Sherlock's voice was void of emotion, despite the tense situation.

"Oh, I think you do. Play the game Sherlock, and you might enjoy it."

"This isn't a game, Moriarty."

"I told you, JIM!" A brief glimpse of the man's violent temper shone in that moment, and the word rang in the silence of the pool.

"I will never call you Jim."

"Come now Sherlock," he said, reptilian grin once again plastered on his face. "The only way you're coming out of here alive is if you play my game."
"What is it with you and this GAME?" Sherlock growled, anger threatening to cloud his judgement.

Moriarty grinned. "All of this is a game, and I can see you're sick of playing fair. Now I will give you one, last chance to join me and kill that wretch of a man you call a flat mate on the spot."

"If you hurt him I'll kill you," Sherlock murmured, his voice dangerously low.

Moriarty smiled. It was deeply unnerving, like the smile of the Cheshire Cat. Sherlock allowed his mind to wander.

We're all mad here.

Sherlock returned to earth at the sound of Moriarty's musical tone. "I see you've made your choice. Fortunately for you, I was bluffing." He laughed at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face. You're too much fun to kill Sherlock. I'm going to leave now, and let you keep your little pet too, but be warned. I will find your weakness and then I will tear you apart."

Sherlock kept his hand on the trigger of the gun. "What if I blow us all up?"

"You wont. There are approximately 50 armed men currently approaching us now, including your brother and Lestrade. You wont kill innocent people."

"I don't care about Mycroft."

"But what about Lestrade? And let's not forget, Johnny boy's in here too." Sherlock glanced at John, still leaning against the wall with a gun pointed at his chest. Moriarty laughed. "You know I can get out alive, and that if you shoot me I will trigger the bomb. Don't make me spell it out." He was made even more irritating by his sing song drawl.

Sherlock lowered the gun. Moriarty smiled. "You're such a tease. Don't leave me waiting next time!" He walked calmly towards the doors, stopping only to blow Sherlock a kiss before leaving. Sherlock dropped the gun just as Lestrade and his men burst in to the pool.

"Sherlock! John! Are you alright?"

"We're… fine. He's gone, you wont find him."

"What? Why did you let him leave?"

"Because the only way we can win is if we play his game. And I have a feeling this is just the first round."

The taxi skidded to a halt. Sherlock moved swiftly out of the car, John close behind him, and into the trendy, North London flat. Clearly the guy was doing well for himself, it was all white walls and white carpets. Even a white cat was purring on the sofa, blending in perfectly apart from two large yellow eyes. It seemed unaware of where its owner- scratch that, cats never really let anyone own them- was. Modern art hung on the walls, which John personally had never seen the point in. Donovan appeared from behind a rice paper partition.

"Hello freak," she said, scowling at Sherlock as he entered the room.

"Ah, Sally. You've been over at Anderson's again I see?"

"You're guessing."

"I never guess Sally. You're wearing ill fitting clothes, ones that you've had for a while that you bought when you were thinner. These are the clothes you keep in your locker that you've never bothered to replace, so you've not been at home, so where have you been? You've also taken extra care to drench yourself in perfume to cover the smell of male deodorant- you've been with Anderson again. Tut tut." She frowned at him but said nothing. Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock?" It was Lestrade. "Through here please."

John followed them through, annoyed that no-one seemed to have noticed he was here. Then again, who would notice him next to that impossible, infuriatingly brilliant man? John stopped. Since when did he describe Sherlock like that? He shook his head and carried on. They arrived in the bedroom of the flat, Anderson giving Sherlock an icy glare, which he ignored.

"So, who is it?" said Sherlock, glancing at the body of a young man, face up on the ground. He was attractive, with dark hair and large brown eyes, but his face was contorted in fear.

"His name was Dawson Edwards. 31, and drummer in some up and coming band. The Unloved I think it was. He's a bit of a sex symbol; Donovan's got a picture of him on her desk." Sherlock made a mental note to torment her about this later. "We're interviewing the family and friends to see who has a motive-"

"You wont find one. This is Moriarty and you know it."

Lestrade sighed. "You know we can't just leave it at that Sherlock, we have to ask-"

"There's no time to ask!" interrupted Sherlock. "Moriarty's out there and he's going to kill more people."

"We know. Look at his right hand." Sherlock glanced at the corpse's cold, bony hands. The number 12 had been cut onto it.

"Made after death then. And I see he was an addict?"

"Yes," Lestrade deftly avoided mentioning Sherlock's own drug problem. "But how did you know? His arms are-"

"Well, he was in a band I suppose." Sherlock took out his phone. "That's how Moriarty got access to him, through his drug problem, though he's been trying to quit. I imagine one of his people was dealing his the heroin-"

"How do you know it was heroin?" said Lestrade. "And that he was quitting?"

"Oh please," snarled Sherlock impatiently. "His pupils were dilated at death, a sign of heroin withdrawal. He has bags under his eyes, but he hasn't had a late night in a while- no concerts, no parties, or he would have been shown in a newspaper recently. No, Edwards has been off the radar for some time, trying to get off the heroin I suppose, so the only other reason is insomnia, another symptom. Unfortunately for him, his shirt is drenched in sweat but the door wasn't locked, so withdrawal. He'd been up all night, extremely restless, and sweating too, two more symptoms of heroin withdrawal. He has traces of a runny nose and tear tracks down his face, and judging by the slight discolouration of his lips he vomited at some time before his death. Need I go on?"

John and Lestrade stood in stunned silence. "Er, no," Lestrade managed eventually.

"Good. Now we just have to figure out why Moriarty is doing this," he muttered to himself, head in his hands.

"To get at you," John said quietly. Sherlock looked up, startled by the tone of John's voice. Was he worried about him? "This is all about you Sherlock, he wants to impress you."

Sherlock said nothing, but glanced around the room. He looked at Edwards's hand again. "He's bitten his nails, but only on one hand. So he was nervous at the time of death, probably just from the withdrawal seeing as the door wasn't locked." He got up, staring at the spatter of blood against the opposite wall. "He's around 5 foot 6, 5 foot 7 but the blood is higher than where his neck would have been." He glanced at John. "You're around the same height, John. Could I have your assistance?"

John looked wary. "What are you going to do?"

"Just an experiment."

"Fine." He walked over to Sherlock.

"Right. So, the killer entered the room, probably through the front door as there is nowhere to climb from out of the window. He came up behind Edwards, alone in his room, and grabbed him." Sherlock forced his arm tightly around John's neck, and he instinctively tried to pull him away. "Edwards put up a fight, so the killer had to lift him up," He raised John with ease, "and slit his throat." John noticed how oddly warm it was in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock put him down again. "But if I had attacked him, the blood would be higher up the wall, so your killer should be around 5 foot 10 or 11."

"How the hell did you figure that out?" said John, still rubbing his neck.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Right," said Lestrade. "Sherlock, can you and John go back to Scotland Yard? You'll be more use there to find out about Moriarty."

"Fine," Sherlock's coat swished as he left the room, John struggling to keep up.

"You're angry, aren't you?" It was afternoon. John and Sherlock sat in the laboratory with two black coffees John had fetched, but neither felt like drinking them.

"What?" said Sherlock distantly.

"You're angry. About Moriarty."

"Oh please," he snarled. "He's not worth being angry over."

"Then why are you in such a shitty mood?"

Sherlock said nothing, and just stared at John. Finally, he spoke. "So maybe I am angry," he said quietly. "I'm only human."

He sounded so, terrifyingly human at that point that John's mouth went dry. Without speaking, he got up and embraced Sherlock. At first he was taken aback, startled by the contact and John thought about breaking it, but just as he was about to pull away Sherlock wrapped his long, bony around John and nestled his face in his shoulder. John wasn't sure what to do. This wasn't the kind of hug he'd had with other male friends, but, then again, this was Sherlock. And besides, Sherlock was a better friend that he'd ever had before. He was lost in his thoughts and barely noticed that Sherlock had pulled away. John noticed a faint blush painted on his high cheek bones. "We'd better be going," he said, returning to his normal, smooth baritone. Sherlock got up, and left John alone in the laboratory. John sighed, and followed him, as per usual.

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Also, extra points to anyone who spotted the Minchin reference

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