Hey! Just wanted to congratulate Shadow Cat17 for her fabulous timing- she is the 250th reviewer! YAY FOR COINCIDENCES! I also want to thank OryonUK for unofficially beta-ing (is that a word?) this chapter for me, as it was being particularly troublesome. YOU GUYS ROCK!

I thought this chapter was going to be the last of this particular crime, but the plot dragon (who I have christened Smaug in light of recent Benedict Cumberbatch news :D) had other ideas. So, there'll be two chapters before the next crime starts. Usually I go for a three-chapter arc per crime, but the Smaug will have his way.

Speaking of Sherlock news, there has been a lot recently, hasn't there? Very pleased to hear that the adorable Russell Tovey will be playing Henry Baskerville in Series 2! I've loved him ever since Being Human first aired :3 *GEORGE LOVE*

ANYWAY. I'm getting rambly again. This following scene just popped into my head, and monopolised the chapter. Still, hopefully it's good enough to make up for it. This chapter gets its name from an REM song, which is ever so lovely, and it was covered by the equally lovely Radiohead. Yeah, I will work them in whenever I can.

WARNING: It's darker than I usually go. There's some sweary-BAMF!John. And there's a lot of UST flying around. Wear the appropriate protective gear, for your own safety.

The snowflakes grew bigger and bigger, until at last they looked like great white birds. All at once they swerved to one side; the sledge came to a halt, and the driver stood up-. The white fur coat and cap were all of snow, and the driver- ah, she was a lady, tall and slender, dazzlingly white! She was the Snow Queen herself.

"We're come far and fast," she said. "But you must be frozen. Creep under my bearskin cloak." She put him beside her in the sledge and wrapped the cloak around him; he felt as if he were sinking into a snowdrift.

Sherlock snarled, glaring at Moriarty. "Get out."

He pouted. "Don't be angry, Sherlock. I haven't been here long. I just had a look around. I had a chat to Mrs Hudson, in fact…"

"Don't you dare touch her," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

Moriarty grinned. "Make me."

Sherlock gripped a hand to his throat, enjoying the small splutter Moriarty made. "You don't come here, that's a rule."

Moriarty gagged. "I don't play by the rules."

Sherlock tightened his grip. "What's to stop me calling the police?"

He felt a large, solid object pressing against his stomach. "This," Moriarty choked out, his gun in hand.

Sherlock reluctantly let go, backing off with his hands above his head.

Moriarty rubbed the edges of his neck, almost pleased that he'd gained a reaction. "Tut tut, Sherlock, that was too easy."

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

He chuckled at that. "Many, many things, Sherlock."

"With me, I meant."

Moriarty picked up a mug of tea that he had apparently been drinking. "Everything."

Sherlock flinched at the word. "If you shoot me, I won't finish the game."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "Go figure. I'm not going to shoot you, Sherlock. Unless you really annoy me."

Sherlock rested his hands on the kitchen worktop. "I want you out of this house. Now."

"Well, we can't all get what we want, can we, Sherlock?" Moriarty took a step closer to you. "Like me, for instance. I want to screw you. I want to hurt you. I want to kill you. But I can't- not yet, anyway. And John- he wants to fuck you too, probably even more than I do." Sherlock couldn't help but grip the edge of the worktop tighter at that, his knuckles whitening. Of course, he knew it was a cheap jibe, but the image… Well, it was a very inappropriate time to be getting aroused; he was supposed to be taking this seriously. "And you want to break him."

Sherlock glared. "I do not want to break him."

"Au contraire!" His sing song drawl chimed as he took another step closer, pushing Sherlock against the sink. "If you let yourself love him, you will destroy him. And you know that." His eyes glinted. "Now, let me have a look at you."

He placed his hand on Sherlock's chest, stroking it gently. The gun returned to his stomach, harder this time, making him wince. "You are a work of art, do you know that?" Moriarty muttered. "I mean, you are really, really beautiful. And I could do anything I wanted to you right now. Anything at all."

He felt a shiver down his spine which had nothing to do with his bare chest. "You wouldn't dare," Sherlock spat.

Moriarty laughed. "Wouldn't I?" He gently placed his fingers on Sherlock's long, swan like neck and pulled him downwards, with surprising ease. Gently, Moriarty kissed the side of Sherlock's neck, ramming his gun into Sherlock's stomach and making him whimper. "I don't have boundaries, Sherlock," he whispered into his ear. "They're for amateurs." He licked his nape. "Be mine." Slowly, painfully, he sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself crying out. Blood glistened there as brightly as it did on his neck, catching Moriarty's eye. He raised his stained mouth. "You look so taken." He kissed Sherlock forcefully, ignoring Sherlock's continued struggles to break apart from him. Moriarty's teeth scraped against his mouth, aching and tearing even more so than before.

Finally, Moriarty released him, grinning. "You have no idea how long I've waited for that." He took a knife from his pocket, allowing the blade to reflect in the half light. "Pretty, isn't it? The way it glimmers."

Moriarty left the edge a centimetre away from him, almost daring Sherlock to let it pierce his skin. Sherlock's breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling dangerously close to the knife.

"Let me go."

"No." He pressed the blade to his chest, making Sherlock cry out. Moriarty's face was somewhere between a smile and a glare. "If you scream, I'll kill you. I swear to God, I will."

"You're so... changeable." Sherlock managed between pants.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, and a cruel smile played on his lips. "That's the problem with me, Sherlock. You never know what I'll do."

He dragged the knife downwards, the shallowest of wounds etched onto his chest. Sherlock whimpered a little. Moriarty grinned. "This," he said, moving the knife again. "Is what you are, Sherlock." The pain was excruciating, the cuts barely there but scratched against such a sensitive area. Moriarty stopped cutting him, standing back to admire his handiwork. Sherlock glanced down at his chest- the word 'mine' was carved into his chest, blood slowly oozing from the wounds.

"You sick bastard."

"Oh, I do love it when you're like this." Moriarty put the knife to his neck, glancing down at Sherlock's trousers. "Take it off."

Sherlock blinked. "No."

Moriarty dragged the knife across his shoulder again, making him yelp in pain. "Don't make me force you."

Sherlock calmly tugged his trousers off his legs, leaving them pooled on the floor. He felt horribly exposed; Moriarty was positively eating him with his eyes.

"I was never going to kill you, Sherlock. No- I need to cut you up into little fragments, and shatter them, one by one. Like little bits of glass under my shoes."

Just as Moriarty made a move towards Sherlock, they were interrupted by the sound of a gun being loaded. They both turned to see John standing in the doorway, his gun raised calmly.

"Back off," John said, his voice perfectly level but dangerously low. "Or I will kill you."

Moriarty smiled, pleased to see a new dimension to his game. "What's to stop me killing Sherlock first?"

John gave him a small grin. "You need him."

Moriarty glared, and then the corners of his mouth began to twitch. "Alright. Here you go." He removed the gun from Sherlock's stomach, and put it back in his pocket with his knife.

"John," Sherlock hissed. "Shoot him. Shoot him now!"

John's gun was still level at Moriarty's head. "That won't achieve anything. All that would mean is that we will have killed an unarmed man."

Moriarty laughed. "Such honour! Well, your little dog isn't very well behaved, Sherlock. Are you going to punish him?"

Sherlock started, but John threw out his other arm to stop him, still with his eyes locked on Moriarty. "Get out," he said calmly. "Or I will shoot you."

Moriarty chuckled, but backed away. "Another time, boys." He shut the door quietly behind him.

"Fuck!" John shouted, panting a little. He slammed his gun down on the table. "Fuck!" He strode across the room, grabbing a first aid kit from a cupboard and threw the box down onto the kitchen side with a crash. "Are you alright?" He said fiercely, hands scrambling to find what he was looking for. He was giving Sherlock such a piercing stare that he felt pinned to the wall.

"John. It's ok." He tried to move but John blocked him, throwing his arm out suddenly.

"No, Sherlock." He grabbed a washcloth and ran it under the tap for a few moments, before lightly cleaning the area on his chest."

"You could have died!" He muttered angrily. "You could have died, and I- I wasn't-"

Sherlock looked down at John's bowed head, a little shocked at John's reaction. "John. It wasn't your fault. He wouldn't have killed me."

"No!" John hurled the washcloth into the sink, shaking a little. "He wouldn't have killed you Sherlock, you know what he would have done. What he was about to do. If I hadn't come in, he would have- God fucking damn it!" He kicked the kitchen cupboard, turning his back on Sherlock.

Sherlock was unsure what to do for a few moments. What did you say in this situation? Gently, he murmured, "He couldn't have. I would have died before he did that to me."

John clenched his fists, his back still to him. "He was- He was going to take-" John finally turned back towards him, the space between them feeling immense. "He was going to hurt you, Sherlock, in the worst way imaginable. How can you be so blasé about it?"

Sherlock glared at John, anger tainting his usual adoration of the man. "You think I don't care?" He muttered bitterly. "It was humiliating, John, what he just did. And you still ask me if I care?"

John was silent, still angry, but a little guilty. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"Then what did you mean?" Sherlock retorted. "How fucking dare you, John. I thought better of you."

Silently, John grabbed a tube of antiseptic cream and began to apply it, a little more forcefully than strictly necessary.

Sherlock cursed inwardly, hating himself for upsetting John.

"John."

He did not answer.

"John, look, I'm sorry."

Again he did not answer, simply rubbing Sherlock's wounds with cream. Sherlock winced a little when John pressed particularly hard, the stinging all too reminiscent of what had just occurred. John paused, his hand hovering hesitantly.

"It's fine. I'm sorry- I didn't mean it like that."

He began to reapply the cream, now almost tenderly. He really was a very good doctor, Sherlock thought, he could be so gentle when he wanted to be. He had very soft hands too, Sherlock noted, though he was unsure how this helped him medicinally. Indeed, the very feeling of the good doctor's hands on his bare chest was giving him highly indecent thoughts. He was uncomfortably aware of quite how naked he was, save for his underwear, and it occurred to him horribly that if he was to get a little, um, overexcited, it would be extremely noticeable.

Think of Mycroft, think of Mycroft, think of Myc- "He didn't cut you anywhere else, did he?"

Sherlock wordlessly offered John his neck. A look of disgust and guilt flitted briefly across his face before he regained his composure, becoming the stoic and ever so British medical man he was used to. He leaned across Sherlock's body, their legs brushing, and gently dabbed the teeth marks.

Sherlock shivered, and John retracted his hand. "Too cold?" he said quietly.

"No," said Sherlock abruptly, his voice a little hoarse. "Don't stop." He blushed at his own choice of words, but John said nothing, he simply returned to tending to him.

John picked up a bandage and began to wrap it around Sherlock's chest. "Sorry if it's stinging."

"It was only to be expected."

"Lift your arms." He did so, hating the exposure of his body. John seemed to notice his hesitation. "Are you sure you're not cold?"

"No," Sherlock muttered. "I just- Well. It's a little embarrassing is all."

John surveyed him, his eyes stopping on his thin arms. "You haven't been eating enough."

"Everything else is transport." Sherlock repeated to him, the way he had many times before.

"Everything?" he said quietly, pausing in his bandaging.

Sherlock swallowed hard. The word seemed loaded with meaning. "Almost everything."

John resumed. "You need to eat more."

"I'm not that thin."

John rolled his eyes. "I feel like I might break you."

You already have. "I'm tougher than I look."

John laughed. "I suppose you're right. Maybe you're just lithe." His eyes lingered on Sherlock's chest. His expression was something between disapproval and- well, he didn't really know what else.

"Maybe." Sherlock murmured.

They heard a hammering at the door, and Sherlock gave a small jolt. "Who is that?"

"Lestrade," John explained. "I called him. I thought he needed to know." Before he could cross the kitchen and let Lestrade in, he heard the door splinter. A huge chunk of wood clunked to the floor, a familiar arm reaching through and grasping for the doorknob.

Lestrade burst through into the kitchen, skidding a little on the floor and panting from the exertion. "Sherlock? John?" He spotted them both quickly, laughing with his relief. "Thank God. Did he get away?"

"Yes," Sherlock said abruptly. "If John had just shot him like I told him to, he'd be dead right now."

Lestrade gave a grim smile. "I admire your restraint. I don't think I would have been so admirable." He finally seemed to register Sherlock's clothes, or lack of them. "Sherlock," he said. "I haven't interrupted something, have I?"

"No!" said Sherlock, eager to clarify the situation. John said nothing, but sat down at the table.

"Then why the hell-"

"Moriarty," said John darkly. "He tried- He had Sherlock at gunpoint, and he was going to…" He didn't need to finish.

Horrified, Lestrade sat down too. "But he didn't, right?"

"No," said Sherlock. "I am perfectly fine."

"What about your chest?"

Sherlock leaned back against the kitchen side again. "He got a little overenthusiastic with his knife."

"Jesus," Lestrade put his head in his hands. "Are you sure you don't want the day off or something?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Even if I did, we don't have time. We have a case to run."

Sally Donovan walked into the flat, her eyes on her phone. "There are no signs of Moriarty exiting the building, all our cameras seemed to have-" She stopped midsentence at the sight of a semi-naked Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was a little ashamed to find her stunned silence an ego boost.

"I," She began. "Why is he…"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a silent plea of silence. He did not want Sally of all people to know about this. "What can I say, he's an exhibitionist?" said Lestrade matter of factly. He stood up. "I, for one, want to get this investigation done quickly, so I can go home."

"Such a devotion to your police work, Gregory," said Sherlock drily.

"Shut up you, just get some clothes on. I'll be asking Mrs Hudson some questions. Donovan, come."

They left, Sally still a little dazed. Sherlock smiled and went to pick up his trousers from the floor. He winced as he bent over, chest aching from Moriarty's wounds.

John stood up. "Come on. I'll give you a hand."

Sherlock was wary at first, but he knew he'd never be able to get into his clothes on his own. "Fine."

They walked to John's bedroom, Sherlock a little stiffly, and went inside. Sherlock felt odd being in John's room, it was the one place that he had never been. It was incredibly neat, everything organised with military precision. It was exactly how he had imagined it, prim and proper, with few personal details.

"You're not wearing your clothes, they're far too tight," John said, opening the doors to his wardrobe. "Here. I have some jeans, and a jumper you can wear."

Sherlock frowned at the lumpy wool. "I'm not wearing that."

John gave him a penetrating frown. "Yes you are. If you want to be comfortable, you'll listen to me."

Sherlock frowned. "Fine." He lifted his arms painfully, and John began to pull the jumper over his head. He was annoyed to find the jumper extremely comfortable, and more to the point, it smelled of John. He could not think of anything more agonizing than having to wear clothes that had recently touched John's skin, knowing that he could never… Well, it didn't matter.

"Jeans." Sherlock stepped into them, and John tugged them up around his waist. John's hands brushed lightly against the outsides of his thighs, something so obscenely pleasurable that he felt a little giddy. He did the jeans up himself- no matter how painful, it could not compare to the embarrassment he would feel over his body's physical reaction.

John smiled sadly. "It's never going to stop, is it? It's going to be like this until he's cold in the ground."

Sherlock could not think of a response. He didn't need to. He knew the facts of the situation just as well as John. Someone was going to come out of this dead.

"Are you still cold?" she asked, and she kissed him on the forehead. Ahhh! Her kiss was colder than ice; it went straight to his heart, which was already halfway to being a lump of ice. He felt as if he were dying, but only for a moment. Then he felt perfectly well, and no longer noticed the cold.

The Snow Queen kissed Kay once again, and after that he had no memory of Gerda and grandmother, nor of anyone at home.

"Now I must give you no more kisses," said the Snow Queen, "or you will be kissed to death."

All extracts of 'The Snow Queen' belong to Hans Christian Anderson and Naomie Lewis- who, I have noticed, I called Naomie Harris last chapter, probably due to the latter's various Cumberbatch links. Naomie HARRIS was in Small Island and Frankenstein. Naomie LEWIS is the translator of HCA tales. My bad, Naomie.