I won't kill you. (SherlockxMoriarty, violent)

"Seems like you highly underestimated me." His voice edging sad as he stepped closer. "You leave me no choice but hurting you." He was now whining, as if he actually cared about hurting the detective. He stretched his arm and pressed his fingertip right onto Sherlock's wound. He pressed a bit harder making him step back into his room.

"Well, since it seems like you're all better anyway... You might as well already start on getting my people out. Because you see, the sooner they are, the sooner you, perhaps, can go." He stared into Sherlock's deep blue eyes.

"John's barely holding on Sherlock. He screamed your name twice today." As he raised one eyebrow he continued speaking "It always broke my heart."

Sherlock let out a groan as Moriarty pressed his fingers into the wounds on his chest. He backed into the room slightly, retreating from the pain, trying not to give him any more pleasure by crying out. He knew he had no choice. but to help Moriarty get his people out of jail.

When he heard about John it was all he could do to stop himself pounding his fists into Moriarty's insane face right then and there. He felt his hands clenching and his muscles twitch. But he knew it would do no good to either him or John. He had to stay calm.

"You bastard," he muttered. Then, barely audible..."I'll do anything you want."

"You already know what I want. I just need to discuss some of the rules..." He once more stretched out his arm, holding his hand open for Sherlock. "Your phone, please." He said politely but still demanding.

"No attempts trying to escape, we both know where that ends." He looked around the hospital room. "No subtexts, no silly messages or signs to anyone about me or my network. Clear?" He didn't need Sherlock to say he understood. Out his left pocket he got an envelope and handed it to Sherlock. "Details in there." He turned on his heels before heading to the door again. "I will hear when you're done. Ciao, Sherlock." He opened the door and disappeared around the corner.

Sherlock reluctantly handed over his phone. He always felt a bit lost without it...no contacts, no internet. He listened calmly as Moriarty explained the 'rules', knowing his options were few and far between, the wounds in his chest still smarting from the recent intrusion of probing fingers.

Watching Moriarty walk away, he once again had to fight the urge to run after him and beat him to a pulp. He'd get that chance soon enough. But for now he turned his attention to the envelope he now held in his hand. He tore it open and scanned through the scrap of paper inside. It contained the names of the two criminals, their charges and the prison they were being held in. Stapled to the back of the sheet was a photograph of John, tied to a chair looking bloody and badly beaten up. Sherlock winced at the sight of it.

There were no instructions as to how Sherlock was to secure the release of the two men, but an idea had already formed in his mind. The implications of what he was about to do and the possible damage it might do to Sherlock's good reputation with the police force made him feel a little sick. He stared at the picture of John once more, steeling his nerves. This was only temporary, he told himself. He'd be able to switch the tables back on Moriarty.

He walked out the building and got his bearings. It was quite a walk to the main road but once he got there he was able to hail a passing taxi and order it to take him to Scotland Yard. On his way there he pondered whether he could possibly pass a note to someone on the Force, with a quick explanation of what was going on. He took out his little notepad and wrote one out just in case. Then he had another good idea. He leaned forward to the driver.

"Can we go to 221B Baker Street first please? I just need to pick something up, I'll only be a second."

Sherlock sat back with a smile. Thank God he knew where John kept his gun.

Sherlock wasn't going completely free through. Moriarty saw his every move. He'd know exactly where Sherlock would be at what time. He did tell him not to pass any notes to anyone. Sherlock better listen to him or bad, baaadddd things would happen. And not just to John.

Moriarty would't do much at this point. He had to wait and see what Sherlock would do. And he had to prepare in case things weren't according to plan. And something inside him did tell him that was exactly what would happen.

After a short stop off at Baker Street for Sherlock to pick up John's gun, the taxi took him on to Scotland Yard. He wasn't exactly sure whether he would need the gun or not, but with the type of people he was dealing with, he thought it would be better to be safe than sorry...and if at some point he had the chance to point that gun at Moriarty...well, he wouldn't think twice about pulling the trigger...although he had to admit, he would be kind of sad to lose his only intellectual equal.

Once he'd arrived at the police station he asked to speak to Lestrade. After being informed he was currently away on holiday, he asked for Dimmock. He gave the names of the two prisoners. He explained that he really needed to question these two prisoners with regard to a case he was working on. At first Dimmock suggested he could help Sherlock get a visiting order at the prison...but Sherlock asked whether the two men could be brought to a private interview room at Scotland Yard. He would only need half an hour with them at the most, he explained. He could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be and within a few minutes he had it all arranged.

Whilst Dimmock was busy on the phone, Sherlock fingered the scrap of paper in his pocket...wondering whether he should hand it over. He glanced around the office. He knew that at least one person working here was also working for Moriarty. /At least/ one. Possibly more. The hand in his other pocket felt around and got hold of the photograph of John. He slipped it out and had another look, although this time he was looking at the background of the photo, ignoring John and trying to work out his location. He saw Dimmock's mobile phone on the desk. Glancing around furtively, he picked it up, took a quick snapshot of the photograph he held in his hand, and sent it off in a text message to one of his Homeless Network. The photo would get passed round and he was confident one of them would be able to recognise the location. He pocketed Dimmock's phone without him noticing and slipped off to the interview room, to await the arrival of the two prisoners.

Moriarty knew Sherlock would do anything to keep ahead of him. So he was planning things as well. If it came down to a show off in case Sherlock would find out, his chances were limited.

Though he grinned. How long before Sherlock found out John wasn't actually hurt? John was doing the same thing as Sherlock, working for Moriarty to keep Sherlock alive. Adorable, 2 lovers fighting on the wrong side. Oh, well, Sherlock's look of surprise will be satisfying enough to keep going for another couple of weeks.

Sherlock was stood at the window of the police interview room plotting how he would help the two criminals make their escape. He released the catch on the window and peered out. They were on the second floor and the drop down wasn't too bad, only the window didn't open wider than a few inches, for security reasons. It would have to be smashed. Smashing it would attract rather a lot of attention. He walked to the door and casually opened it, glancing around the corridor. He knew the third door on the left was a fire exit. He also knew it was alarmed. Both plans were risky, but they couldn't exactly just walk out the front door....or could they? Sherlock grinned, having just come up with one of his good ideas.

He calmly left the room and headed off down the corridor in the direction of the police locker rooms. He was aware of the security cameras but he was well known at the station and no one would think anything of him sneaking around. They all thought he was a freak so it didn't really matter if he behaved oddly. He returned minutes later carrying a plastic bag containing three police uniforms. He hadn't worried too much about the sizes...they would serve the purpose. He placed the bag under the table...and sat and waited for his prisoners to arrive.

He didn't have to wait longer than an hour before the two of them were shown in by a young officer Sherlock hadn't met before. They were placed on two chairs in front of him and Sherlock asked that they should be left alone with him for questioning. The officer nodded, but explained he would be waiting outside in case he needed anything or in case they were any trouble. As soon as the door was closed, Sherlock turned his attention to the two prisoners, who were already sneering and making snide remarks.

"Shut up. Don't say another word and do exactly as I say, otherwise none of us will be going anywhere." he snapped. He eyed the camera in the corner, knowing that what he was about to do was not only a criminal act, but an act that would implicate him and the police would quite possibly never trust him again. This was a move that could destroy his whole career...everything he'd worked so hard for...He felt a bitter, angry taste in his mouth. He wouldn't just make Moriarty pay for this...he would make him die a slow and painful death....

He rubbed his fingers along the photograph in his pocket. He wasn't sure he would want to go on anyway, if anything ever happened to John....how could he live with himself, knowing he could have done something to save him but chose to save himself instead....no...he would do this...he had to do this. Sherlock took out Dimmock's phone, and set the timer on a 3 minute countdown. He removed his lock picking kit from his coat pocket, then took his coat off completely and in one swift move flung it over the camera, then pressed the button to start the countdown. Knowing he only had 3 minutes before they were discovered gave him quite a thrill. The pressure was on. His current lock picking record was 57 seconds. He would have to do both of them in less than that now. He fell to his knees and got to work, speaking quickly as he did so.

"There's three uniforms in a bag under the table. As soon as I've released you, grab one and put it on. Be as fast as you can."

He had the first man out in 32 seconds. The next took a while longer....44 seconds. He was a little behind time. He quickly pulled on his own uniform, beads of sweat now forming on his face and dripping down, stinging his still raw wounds and broken cheekbone. After 1 minute 30 seconds all three of them were dressed and ready to go. Sherlock opened the door, grabbed the young police officer from behind with one hand round his throat and the other over his mouth, and hauled him into the room, spun him round and threw a punch that knocked him straight out. Sherlock noticed the two men were taken aback.

"Well? Don't look so shocked. Didn't Moriarty tell you /anything/ about me?"

As a final act before leaving, he quickly grabbed his coat off the camera, shoving it into the empty plastic bag along with the rest of his clothes. They left the room and started walking swiftly down the corridor, Sherlock leading the way.

"Just keep walking," he muttered. "Don't look at anyone. Don't talk to anyone. Just keep your head down and follow me."

He checked the timer on the phone...37 seconds remaining....the front door of Scotland Yard was in sight and they were almost home and dry when - "wait a second!" he heard someone shout.

"Run."

The three of them set off running and dashed out the door into the street. Sherlock hailed a passing taxi and they all piled in...the driver gave them a bit of a strange look. "It's Tony's stag night..." explained Sherlock. "Right Tony?" He ruffled "Tony"'s hair affectionately, giving one of his best acting performances. He felt the adrenaline coarsing through his body. He checked the timer on the phone. 3 seconds to spare. God he was good.

He stopped the timer and fired off a text to Moriarty....he didn't need a phone book....he knew practically ever number off by heart anyway.

Got your men. We're in a taxi. Can't go back to Baker Street. Police know I helped. Where do you want us? -SH

When Sherlock had been busy getting his men out, Moriarty took the time to check in with John. He had been using the same technique on the Soldier. He told him he'd captured Sherlock, used false pictures and actually showed him a video about what happened in the warehouse. John's heart broke in front of him and Moriarty was only adding more fuel to this fire.

These 2 were SOOOO playable. And this game of him was the perfect way of distraction. John didn't receive the same beautiful chest sign Sherlock did. Though he did had received some good punches from Moriarty's employees.

Everything was going according to plan. By now Sherlock would of already spoken to people to get his people out. Clearly he didn't know anything about John working on a case of Moriarty as well. He just had to wait to hear from Sherlock before he could order John what to do next. And the next step /will/ be grand.

John was sitting in a guarded room, waiting for his next order. He said he'd rather give his own life to than hurt Sherlock. How cute, Sherlock nearly said those exacts words. As Moriarty's phone buzzed, he already knew who it would be. Clever Sherlock would have gotten a new phone anywhere. It made him giggle slightly. His first informed John about what he'd like him to do next. Something very simple.

"John." He started, walking in to the room he'd been keeping this soldier. He had a black eye and a broken nose, though he still looked very fit, even more. "Sooo, Sherlock is.. well on the edge. He'd giving up slowly." He started, making John feel anger and sadness. "Though, after this one, I'll let both of you go, promise." He said while circling around. John agreed he'd do whatever it took.

"There's a taxi driving around with a person I need to get rid of." He started, but he would tell any names. "The job is simple." He shrugged "Shoot from a distant, straight through the front window and hit the cabbie right between his eyes. Make the car crash. I believe that wouldn't be hard for you, would it?" John shook his head, knowing that it would be easy considering his aiming and ability to shoot. He agreed and together with another man he left. Sniper and everything else were arranged.

Just after John left he grabbed his phone and answered Sherlock:
Make them leave the taxi right now. You stay in and meet me at the warehouse again.

Sherlock's new phone beeped as a message came through. He asked the cabbie to stop the car.

"This is where we part boys," he said to the two criminals. "I'd say it's been a pleasure but...well, y'know." One of them offered out his hand to shake, thanking Sherlock for helping with their rescue. He reluctantly took both their hands in turn and shook them. "I guess your boss'll be in touch when he needs you." And with that they got out.

He gave the cabbie the new address and sat back in the seat. A new text message came through on his phone. It was one of his Homeless Network giving him a possible location of the warehouse in the photograph of John. He contemplated whether to go there immediately but reasoned he should meet with Moriarty first who may, after all, have John with him.

As the taxi approached Southwark Bridge suddenly the windscreen shattered dramatically and the vehicle swerved, veering towards the oncoming traffic. Sherlock grabbed onto one of the railings for support and looked at the driver to find out what was going on. To his surprise he saw his head slumped and his body limp, lolling from side to side, blood seeping slowly from a single gun shot wound in the middle of his forehead.

"Bloody hell." Sherlock cursed. Due to the unfortunate design of London cabs he was now both unable to get into the front because of the hard plastic screen between the drivers section and the passengers, and was unable to open the door and jump out because of the goddamn child locks. He was trapped, helpless. All he could do was hold onto the railings, keep his head down and wait for the crash he knew was imminent. With the taxi now dangerously close to the opposite lane he saw a red double decker bus approaching furiously beeping its horn at them. He ducked his head down and closed his eyes.

BANG! The two vehicles collided with an almighty crash, the force of the impact tipping the taxi over. Sherlock fell onto the floor and cursed himself for not wearing his seatbelt as the car somersaulted, flipping itself over once, twice, three times. Shards of broken glass rained down on top of him, his body was thrown and hurled all over place, the noise was deafening. He reached out and grabbed onto the seat for support and it all became a bit of a blur until finally the vehicle came to a rest on its back.

Sherlock groaned in agony and gingerly touched the wounds on his chest, now fresh and bleeding again. His face and hands were cut to pieces from the broken glass and his whole body felt bruised, battered and tortured. For a while it was all he could do just to lie there, then finally he became aware of sounds. The traffic stopped all around him, cars beeping at the disturbance, screeching brakes, people shouting. He realised there were peole shouting at him. "Are you all right?" He heard someone ask. He managed to nod, and began to sit up. He was still a little dazed but his mind was becoming clearer again. He had to get to the warehouse. He wasn't far away now, he could walk the rest.

There were a bunch of people at the cab now, all interfering, trying to help him. He heard one of them say "oh look he's a police officer" and he remembered he was still wearing that stupid uniform. He quickly pulled off the jacket, leaving just the white shirt underneath, then fished out his own coat from the plastic bag. He threw it over his head and used it to shield himself from the broken glass in the window as he climbed through it. The people outside grabbed his arms and helped him through, helped him to his feet, asked him if he was OK.

"Yes, yes I'm fine, thank you." He managed to put his coat on and began to wander off.

"You really don't look so good." One of them said, putting their hand on his arm.

"No I looked like that before." He explained simply before limping away. He noticed there was a piece of glass sticking out of his right thigh. It made walking difficult but removing it now would only cause unneccessary bleeding. He chose to ignore the pain and carry on. Every part of his body was hurting, but he had to get to that warehouse. For John.

Jim didn't expect Sherlock to arrive any time soon, so he decided to meet up with John at the same warehouse. Sherlock would either be dangerously injured or not even surviving at all.
"All done. On my way.-JW" Moriarty slipped his phone back into his pocket, rolling his neck around with a grin on his face. He felt victorious.

Only a few moments later he heard the door open and the shape of a smaller man appeared in the door opening. "Aaaah, John." He welcomed him with open arms. "Please, come through.". As John hesitated he changed his voice. "Now." He demanded and the soldier moved in, stopped a few steps away from him.

"What do you want? Where's Sherlock?" John's voice was shaking and his fist were clenched, as if he could hit Moriarty any moment. Jim gave him the most evil smile he had. "John..." He started but just as he wanted to tell him the delightful news his phone buzzed. "Excuse me" He smiled and turned on his heels.

"WHAT??!" He screamed out after a few seconds. One of his employees informed him one person survived the crash. The person who needed to die had survived. "Right, remind me when I see you next time, I'll pick your eyes out with a spoon." another silence fell. "Yes, I'll play golf with them. Now back off and do your job." He smashed down the red button on his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

By now it was too late to avoid Sherlock from walking in. He turned round to John, his eyes ran black and flickered with anger. "You..." He hissed. "You didn't accomplished what I asked." He stepped closer while getting his gun out and pointing it straight between John's eyes.

"I asked you to make sure the passenger didn't survive, Johnny boy. You failed." As he spoke he made the gun bop against John's forehead just after he cocked it. "Shame, now both you and your lover will die..."

Sherlock felt like he'd been walking for hours. In reality he knew it was only around 20 minutes. He'd tried to hail a couple of taxis but none of them would take him and having caught sight of himself once in a passing shop window, it wasn't hard to see why. The white shirt he'd stolen from the police station was now completely red; he had quite a large piece of glass sticking out of his legs; the open wounds in his chest had started bleeding again and his face looked like it'd had a sledge hammer hurled into it. He certainly wasn't a pretty sight, and he felt like he was getting weaker by the minute, the blood loss starting to effect his eyesight and the strength in his limbs. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his right hand gripped tight around John's revolver, steeling himself for any trouble that lay ahead.

He recognised the warehouse immediately and approached the door, which was slightly ajar. He pushed it open gently and it made a loud creaking sound. He slowly stepped inside. He saw right away the figure of James Moriarty holding a gun to John Watson's head. Within seconds he had removed the gun from his pocket and was pointing it at Moriarty. He limped swiftly into the room, his heart pounding. Dear God, he'd arrived just in time it would appear.

"Put the gun down, Jim. Just put it down." he demanded.

Jim moved his eyes from John's to Sherlock entering through the door. "Hellooo sexy." He said playfully
"The party was just about to start." He pushed the gun a bit further, making John's skin turn red where he held it.
"Look, Johnny boy, just in time to hear you say your final words of goodbye.

"You can shoot me." He nodded, with an insane smile on his face.
"But within a second there will be someone else doing what I am about to do now." He explained, referring to possible other people around, snipers and hitman to secure his own safety.

Jim laid eyes on Sherlock, scanning his whole body. Broken ribs, use amount of blood loss, glass over his whole body. "Red doesn't suit you." He pointed out to Sherlock's blood stained chest. "Well John, even though you didn't manage to kill him, you did a great job." He nodded once more. His voice edged playfully but serious. Ignoring Sherlock's demand to put the gun down.

Sherlock glanced around the building. He couldn't see anyone but that didn't mean there weren't people there. Moriarty always had people there. He knew that if he fired the gun, Moriarty would fire his and John would die. And shortly after that the snipers would kill /him/. It was an impossible situation. A stalemate. But all the same, there was no way Sherlock was about to lower his gun and give the enemy an upper hand.

"Even though you didn't manage to kill him, you did a great job." Sherlock frowned slightly. What did he mean by that? His mind whirred...but his light headedness was making it difficult to think straight.

"What do you want?" he asked. He reasoned that Moriarty must have some further demands...there had to be something Sherlock could do to bargain his and John's way out of this situation.

"Oh John, why don't you enlighten your puzzled friend." He suggested, wiggling the gun a bit against his head. John started to talk, though he was still facing Moriarty in stead of Sherlock. "I.. I shot the cabbie." He spoke confident. As he meant to kill Sherlock, as if he was just a stranger on the street.

Before John could say another thing Jim interrupted him. "WOOPS" he said as he saw Sherlock's face. "I feel a little domestic coming!" With a grin on his face he fixed his eyes on John again, playfully winking at him. The only reason John was being so cold was probably because he wanted to save Sherlock, showing emotions would only add fuel to this fire. Nevertheless he knew it would confuse Sherlock, since John was more likely to show every emotion on this kind of situation .

"What do I want?" He looked around the room, pretending he was thinking. His eyes scanned the walls around them, as if the answer was written on the walls. "Depends, on how much more you can give." He referred to the terrible state Sherlock was in.

Sherlock frowned, the cogs in his brain attempting to process the information. John shot the cabbie? John caused the crash? He knew John would never do anything intentionally to hurt him, and the fact that Moriarty was pointing a gun at his head only proved to Sherlock that whatever he'd done it was under duress. He smiled slowly, as he began to understand what had been going on. Moriarty had been playing the pair of them off against each other.

"Clever," he nodded, acknowledging the evil genius of his opponent. "Admirable."

He glanced down at his broken, damaged body and wondered how much more he /could/ give. He'd carry on till he dropped down dead if he had to...he would never allow Moriarty to beat him no matter how much he had to put himself through.

"I think I can last a little while longer."

"I'm the best, you see." He shrugged as Sherlock complimented his plan. Sherlock was clever, of course he had this figured out within seconds. Not that he mind, this perhaps was either better then he initially had in mind.

"Physically, perhaps. Now let's see how strong your other feature is." As he finished his sentence he lowered his gun and pulled the trigger, making the bullet hit John in his lower leg. "WOOPS my finger slipped." He laughed obnoxious as John dropped onto the floor, screaming out.

"John!" Sherlock dropped his raised gun arm and instinctively moved towards his friend, then suddenly stopped himself. He couldn't risk agitating Moriarty further by getting any closer. "Are you all right?" he asked instead. John managed a nod as he gripped his bleeding leg.

He re-raised his arm and pointed it back at Moriarty's head. "You bastard." he muttered.

Jim just stood watching the scene, Sherlock showed his softer side; "Adooorable." he muttered with a slight smile on his face.

"Don't make me blush." He replied to the detective's insult. His gun cocked once more and now pointed to John's shoulder. "Shall I?" He asked, looking at Sherlock.

"No!" Sherlock took another step towards Moriarty. "No, don't. Please."

He couldn't believe he'd just said that. Please. What had this man reduced him to? His emotions really would be his undoing, he thought bitterly. Once upon a time he was a cold, unfeeling machine. He silently cursed John Watson for making him care.

"Look at yourself, Sherlock." He glanced at him, seeing the pain in his eyes. What a wonderful sight. Absolutely gorgeous. /this/ right here was why he loved to play these guys. "You /care/." His smile now more insane than ever. "Dinky Detective."

"You have something better to offer?" If he wasn't allowed to shoot John, Sherlock could at least come up with a far more interesting offer. He wasn't just going to let this opportunity slip away just because Sherlock was, for once, being polite. No no no...

Sherlock grimaced, knowing Moriarty was right. He did care.

He was pretty certain Moriarty was hoping Sherlock would offer himself up to get shot instead of John. He was fully prepared to do this of course, but wasn't too sure how much more his body could take. He'd already managed to create a nice little pool of blood on the floor where he was standing. He obviously wanted to try and avoid actually dying.

"Hmm. Shooting you wouldn't be a bad idea..." he suggested, playing for time and taking one more step closer. "You'd look even more formidable with a limp."

He grinned at Sherlock. The only thing he had left from their meetings was a scratch on his cheek. And a small bruise on his back. Not bad he came to figure, especially if he saw his other's guest state. Moriarty narrowed his eyes, still wearing his grin. He was aware Sherlock could shoot him anytime. But he was also aware of the debating the detective was having with himself. "If I shoot him, someone else will shoot john, followed by me." He loved to leave very little options for his opponents. Though, Sherlock was a risk taker.

For a few seconds he moved his gaze from Sherlock and gave John a disgusted look. "John, can you stop whining for a second? Sherlock and I are having a moment here." He pointed out before taking a few steps closer to Sherlock. His gun was now pointed at John'd abdomen. His eyes already traveled back over to the taller man, over looking the puddle of blood left under his feet. He stopped his eyes and looked right into Sherlock's gun barrel. "So, you want to shoot me?" He opened his arms wide, suggesting Sherlock should give it a try.

Sherlock licked his dry lips, tasting the remains of his own blood. He could feel the tension rising in his chest as he quickly weighed up the various options, probabilities and potential outcomes, eliminating those that would end in certain death for either him or John. He whittled down the choices and decided on his next move. It wasn't without risk of course but he certainly wasn't going to stand around all day chatting. The adrenaline was pumping through his body, helping him to block out the pain.

Moriarty edged closer, until Sherlock's gun was practically pressed against his forehead. It would be so easy to explode his brains all over the place, but sadly not an option. He carefully eyed the gun in his hand, the gun that was pointing at John...then quickly made his move. He launched himself at Moriarty, grabbing his gun and pushing his arm into the air. The gun went off into the ceiling and the pair of them fell back onto the floor, Sherlock landing on top of Moriarty and pointing his own gun at his enemy's temple.

He gasped in surprise, struggling against Sherlock as he tried to keep his grip on the gun. He fired, hoping it would still hit either John or Sherlock. His hand was already too far up though, so his action was in vain. With a hollow sound they both fell down on the floor. Sherlock's blood dripping onto him.

"Goood." he whined, not particularly happy with the situation. But he was an actor and mastered the skill of hiding that gave away any of his disagreement. He now had 2 options himself; Making his hitman shoot John or Sherlock. Or both. Actually he had so much more option if only he knew what exactly Sherlock was up to. "Go on. Shoot." He hissed provocative, looking into Sherlock's deep blue eyes.