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

Sherlock knew he couldn't shoot Moriarty. Shooting him would mean they'd all die. The snipers would fire and him and John would be dead within seconds. He continued to press the gun to his head, weighing up his other options, glancing around the warehouse.

"Just let John and I walk out of here."

Jim rolled his eyes, he at least had suspected something far more complicated from his favourite detective.

"As you please." He said mirthful, as if he didn't care they would walk out.

Sherlock was surprised and instantly suspicious. Surely it couldn't be that easy. Nothing was ever that easy with Moriarty. There's no way he'd just let them walk out of there. Despite being given permission to leave, Sherlock remained exactly where he was, still pinning Moriarty to the ground, still pointing the gun at his head, still dripping his own blood and ruining another of the criminal mastermind's shirts.

"What?" he asked. He didn't believe him. Didn't trust him.

"Let me just..." He reached out his hand and pulled out the piece if glass sticking out of Sherlock's chest. "There you go." He shrugged while watching the blood stream out.

"Go on, find a doctor before you both blood to death." He suggested once more, not a sense of evil audibly in his voice. "I would offer you my services to get to the hospital. But you wouldn't trust me anyway." He shook his head, making the gun scratch against his skin.

Sherlock cried out in pain as the glass was removed from his chest. He rolled off Moriarty and collapsed onto his back next to him on the floor. He glanced over at John. The blood from his shot leg had formed a large puddle around him. He was looking pale and weak. They were ten minutes walk from the main road. He knew they wouldn't be able to make it that far.

"Damn it, damn it." He muttered to himself.

He closed his eyes temporarily to think and almost lost consciousness. Forcing himself to sit up he turned to Moriarty. He was loathe to say the words but knew it was their only option.

"We need your help."

As soon as Sherlock fell off, he lifted himself back on to his feet. "You do look so much better from up here." he pointed out as he tilted his head slightly to the left.

"Wellll okay if you insist." He said playfully before getting out his phone. He made a quick phone call, only mentioned the place and the fact two people were hurt.

He already started to make his way towards the door, just before leaving he turned around again. "You're welcome." He answered as if Sherlock or John had just been comprehensively thinking him.

Sherlock crawled on his hands and knees towards John, dragging himself across the floor, leaving a large trail of blood in his wake. Once he'd reached John's side he collapsed onto his back again and watched Moriarty disappear out of the door. He sighed, bitterly angry and disappointed. But he just couldn't fight him in this state. He needed to get his body fixed up, get well again...have time to think, plot his revenge. With a sudden flash he remembered he could no longer go back to Baker Street. He'd helped two criminals escape, right under the noses of Scotland Yard. Now he'd be considered a criminal too and the police would be out looking for him. He grabbed John's hand and squeezed it.

"I'm going to fix this..." he muttered, before he passed out.

Not much later the ambulance arrived. Not one of Moriarty's but actual 911 services. Once they would recognize is was Sherlock he'd already be in enough problems. Oh, how he loved his own games.


(( Ehhh, any ideas for what's going to happen next? XD ))

(( It's kind of a bit TRF the way Moriarty has forced Sherlock to disgrace himself...we could go the whole way and get him to "kill himself"??? Might need to bring in a John to get the full emotional impact. What d'you think? ))

(( Oooh yes, we could do that indeed! ))

(( OK, sounds good. Shall we advertise for a John then? ))


Sherlock woke up groggily. He had a terrible headache and found it difficult to open his eyes. He was aware of bright lights and the sound of beeping machines. Before he'd managed to get his eyes fully open he'd already deduced he was in the hospital and quickly recalled his recent encounters with Moriarty.

"John..." he heard himself croak, then tried to sit up. Pain shot through his chest. He opened his eyes fully and looked around at his surroundings. He quickly realised he was in a proper hospital this time...not a James Moriarty hospital. He glanced down at his chest injuries. At least he'd received the proper treatment...it looked like he was making a fairly decent recovery. He wondered how long he'd been out for.

"John's fine. Glad you could join us." said a voice. He looked to his left in the direction of the mysterious voice to see a police officer sat next to his bed. In fact...yes, it was...the same police officer Sherlock had knocked unconscious at Scotland Yard. Sherlock immediately knew what had happened, what was going on and he couldn't help but smile. "Clever." he muttered. Of course Moriarty had sent him to a real hospital - so the police could catch up with him, have him arrested. The officer in question was glaring at him quite aggressively, obviously pissed off about what had happened. "As soon as you get well enough you'll be charged with assaulting a police officer, aiding and abeting known criminals, and anything else we can slap on you," explained the officer with some relish. Sherlock lay back in the bed and grinned. Moriarty was good. So good.

He figured he still had a bit of recovering to do...and he'd use the time to work out yet another daring escape. He couldn't allow himself to be arrested after all. Not whilst Moriarty was still at large. He had a duty to protect John. And to clear his own name. He still wanted his revenge.

(( Ok, I will put an advert up now ))

Moriarty's plan was working out just fine. Sherlock would be charged, John was recovering a leg injury. He needed to be either in a wheel chair or otherwise limping. He wouldn't be able chase someone. He wouldn't even be able to keep up with Sherlock walking.

Sherlock on the other side, wasn't even supposed to be dead. Busy plotting a new plan he came up with something utterly brilliant. Oh, he couldn't wait for him to get out of the hospital. Knowing Sherlock he'd get himself free of charges any time soon. Either by escaping or just out smarting the police. In a flash of memory he came to realize he was still in the possession of the detective's phone. If that wasn't THE perfect reason to visit him any time soon.

Lying in a hospital bed all day and all night was mind numbing for Sherlock. All he had was the stupid hospital TV playing crap daytime shows endlessly, and a miserable looking police officer who had to sit with him 24 hours in case he tried to escape. They took it in turns of course, but none of them ever wanted to engage in any intelligent conversation. He'd asked repeatedly to be able to have a book to read but this request had been ignored. He didn't even have a phone after the one he'd stolen from Inspector Dimmock was reclaimed by Scotland Yard's finest. He was desperate to get in touch with John, whom he'd been told had been in to see him numerous times but been refused access. It appears they were concerned that if John and Sherlock were together they would invariably try to plot some kind of escape. They were of course, completley correct in their deductions, but it didn't worry Sherlock too much. He was building up his strength day by day and was quietly confident that soon he'd be ready to make a move. After all...even the officer guarding him had to go to the toilet sooner or later.

(( [Only admins are allowed to see this link] i have posted the advert, soo now we wait ))

When John woke up at the hospital he wished with all his might that it had all been a nightmare.
The pain in his leg was real though, and his mind was swollen with thoughts and feelings he could not control.

"Sherlock," he whimpered, trying to sit up, he needed to move, he needed to find him. He went still as he realized his wrist was handcuffed to the bed.
"What the-?" he muttered, and his brain finally reminded him of all that had happened.

He started shaking as he realized he had almost killed Sherlock, a few second of hesitation or zeal could have meant Sherlock would be dead now, killed by him.
God, how could he be forgiven for this?

He hadn't hesitated, he had killed an innocent man just to save his only friend. And now he couldn't even regret it.
He knew something had to be wrong with him, but his side had been decided a long time ago now, and he didn't see to be able to doubt it.
Sherlock's side.
And it scared him to realize just how much he would sacrifice for him.
Even someone else's life...

What would happen now though? Did the police know he had killed that cabbie? Was he in trouble?

Most of his questions were answered when Lestrade came to visit.
He had been handcuffed, because they didn't want him to go look for Sherlock, quite silly considering he was not sure he'd be able to walk properly again, but rather accurate nonetheless.
He would crawl his way to Sherlock's room if he knew he could.

In the days that followed, he concentrated on getting better, and getting used to wheel himself around.
He wasn't allowed to use the stick yet, his muscles had to heal before he was allowed to do any rehabilitation. To this day, he knew not whether he was going be able to stand on his own two feet again.

He hadn't been idle though, nor he let himself go, and eventually he convinced Lestrade to let him see Sherlock.

They took pity of him, probably. For wheeling himself to Sherlock's door every day and waiting like some lost puppy.
No doubt his owner was inside, they thought.
They knew not just how right they were.

He was allowed only a few minutes, he knew, but he just needed to see him.

He swore slightly as he banged himself into the room, he was still rather indelicate with the wheelchair.

"Sherlock!" he called out when he saw him.



((Hope it's alright <3))

((brilliant thanks! John is so adorable!))


Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd been in the hospital anymore. He'd stopped counting. But the doctors were telling him he'd be ready to go home soon, and God knows he'd felt ready days and days ago. Except he wasn't going home. He'd be going to a prison cell, charged with some stupid crime or other. His wounds had healed well. He'd seen himself in the mirror a few times. The puffiness had started to go down round his broken cheekbone. The stab wounds in his chest were healing over nicely, although he was a little worried he'd be scarred with Moriarty's initials for life. In the end he'd decided he honestly didn't mind. It was just a permanent reminder of his enemy and he kind of liked that feeling. Besides, he'd already promised to carve his own initials on Moriarty's chest in return. It was the least he could do.

He'd heard commotions outside his room several times and the sound of John's voice, raised and angry. He knew his friend had been arguing with the police, asking to come and see him. Sherlock desperately wanted to see him too, just to know he was all right and coping OK. He was overjoyed when he looked up one morning to find John wheeling himself awkwardly into his room. The policeman on guard told him they had ten minutes and that he'd be waiting right outside, but Sherlock didn't care, he was just so happy to see his flatmate again.

"John! Are you all right?"

John couldn't help the smile when he saw his friend again, he wheeled himself closer and bumped noisily against the bed. He almost fell on the mattress, but then straightened up. "Sorry, still not used to this," he admitted, and looked him over.

"I am okay, I am brilliant, how are you?" he asked back, he didn't care about his leg, he wanted to know about Sherlock, he wanted to be sure the tortures Moriarty had talked about had not caused any permanent damage.

"Why are they keeping you here, Sherlock? Lestrade keeps saying you helped some criminals escape, but I can't believe that... I know there must be a reason, was it Moriarty?" he rambled, his hand reaching out to wrap around Sherlock's wrist.
He was fine, he was alive.

Sherlock grinned at the sight of his friend struggling with the chair. "Is your leg getting better though?" he asked. "I hope you're not going to start limping again? I mean....for real this time. And you really must stop shooting cabbies, that's two in the last two years, they'll start to think it's something personal." It was great to be able to joke around with John again, although he didn't really seem to care about himself, all he wanted to know about was how Sherlock was doing.

He kept his voice down low and one eye on the door as they talked.

"I'm fine, honestly. But listen to me John...they won't allow me to go back to Baker Street. Lestrade's right, I did help two criminals escape. Moriarty practically told me he'd kill you if I didn't. I had very little choice. But the police don't believe me, even if they did believe me everything's just black and white to them, a crime is a crime, regardless of the circumstances. I'm going to have to escape again, John. I need to track down Moriarty. He wants to destroy everything I have and that means you won't be safe either. You won't be safe until I've stopped him for good."

At his office Jim laid back into his chair reading today's newspaper. /Someone/ leaked information about the case Sherlock helping to escape two master criminals. Of course every newspaper had hopped on to the story, making it reach the headlines in every paper and television news. He grinned evil to himself as he folded the paper. Now it was only a matter of time....

John hesitated for a moment at the question, he realized then that no one had told Sherlock about his condition. Better that way. "It's getting better," he said quickly, he was rather sure Sherlock didn't need to know he might not walk on it again.

He laughed a bit at the joke: "It is becoming something personal I guess," and he had to fight himself not to apologize to Sherlock for almost killing him. He knew it wasn't his fault, but it still hurt.

John's face darkened considerably at the mention of escaping. "Sherlock, if you run away... they'll just chase you harder... even if you get to Moriarty, what would you do after? There must be a way to discharge you... I will help. You know you can count on me, whatever you choose. I do not need to be safe."

Sherlock was shaking his head in disagreement even before John had finished speaking. He removed his hand from under the sheet and placed it on top of John's.

"No, John. I can't allow anything to happen to you. Even if we can make the police believe us, even if they drop the charges, Moriarty's still going to be out there. He'll still come after me, after you. I'm the only one who can stop him John. I have to confront him again."

John's hand turned instinctively, trying to grip Sherlock's, he had the feeling the detective could slip away any moment.
"No," he protested, adamant. "No, he got the better of us this time because we got separated, Sherlock... you alone cannot beat his whole organization, not in a few days, we have to be together. We have to do it together," he insisted, even though in the back of his head he knew that there was not going to be any help on his part if he could not walk. He didn't want to think about that option.

"You are not alone any more, Sherlock... please don't act or think as if you were, we can get out of this mess together," he insisted, squeezing his hand again. "I want my revenge too, you know," he whispered, his eyes moving on the other's chest, he could see the bandages.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rested his head back on the pillow. Only John could come in here and in two minutes destroy all the plans he'd been making for the past however many weeks. Only John could make him change his mind. Damn him.

"Well what am I supposed to do then?" he asked exasperated, sitting up again. "I can't just wait for Moriarty to come and find us again. I have to do something." Sherlock clenched his fists, feeling the anger burning inside him. "I want to bloody kill him." he added quietly.

"So do I, Sherlock, you have no idea how much," he hissed back, reaching out his hand to grab his shoulder. "Anger is not going to help you think though, you need to calm down..."

He looked at him hesitantly. "I am sorry he could use me against you, you would have won already if you didn't have to protect me," he whispered, looking to the side.

"I trust you though, I know that if you forget about protecting me, if you forget about anger, then you will come up with a perfect plan and Moriarty won't know what hit him," he exclaimed confidently.

Sherlock grunted, but knew John was right. Moriarty knew his emotions better than he did. He knew exactly how to play him, and that his weakness was his loyalty to John. In order to beat Moriarty he would have to forget all that, he'd have to go back to the cold uncaring Sherlock, the Sherlock that didn't have friends. Was it even possible for him to do that now? He wondered. It had to be.

"OK fine. I'll stop worrying about you. Just...don't get kidnapped. And always carry your gun from now on."

The policeman popped his head round the door. "Two minutes you two." He said before closing the door again. Sherlock lowered his voice and leaned into John. "That still doesn't solve our other little problem. How am I supposed to get off with these charges? The police have got it in for me John. You know how many people on the Force I've pissed off over the years, they're not willing to let this drop, they'll be saying all kinds of other shit about me next. The only way I can get away to get to Moriarty is by running."