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

It hasn't been a smooth week for The Consulting Criminal at all. Nothing went as planned and now he had 2 of his best men behind bars. Leaning back in his chair he exhaled deep. He needed to find a way to A. Get rid of his frustration and B. Get his man out of prison by the end of next week.

Working out his bad mood on anybody wouldn't be satisfying enough. Previous attempts had learned him he needed more than just lying his fingers on a stranger passing by. Only one name came to his mind and as he started thinking about him, a smile grew on his face.

It indeed had been a while since he'd contacted his favourite detective. Nevertheless, he never took his eyes of him. He /always/ had someone monitoring his every move. Ideas of how to get to him this time were already finding there way to his mind. He'd fake a crime, making Sherlock come over and blindly walks in on his trap.

Only 5 minutes later the phone call to his contributor at scotland yard was made. He'd call Sherlock using Lestrade's phone. Bonus he was "on holiday" as well. At least something good happened this week. Once outdoor of his mansion a car was already waiting to drive him off to the so called crime scene.

An old warehouse at the south docks would do. No one ever used it anyway and Moriarty had turned it into one of his own personal torture zone. On the cold concrete floor a body, ripped open tip to toe. Sherlock will love this.

Moriarty went to a dark part of the room, unnoticeable to Sherlock as he'd walk in.

It had been a particularly dull week for Sherlock Holmes. Most days had been spent sat in the flat endlessly trying to find ways to pass the time. He'd already tried shooting the wall but John had got so sick of it he'd started to take his gun into work with him. He'd hacked into John's laptop a total of 9 times. Now that had started to become boring. He'd completed three new experiments but was unable to start another one until the new batch of chemicals he'd ordered arrived through the post. The last couple of days he'd taken to languishing on the sofa covered in nicotine patches and letting the dreary sound of daytime television wash over his half stoned mind.

He was in one of these states when through the haze he heard the sound of a phone ringing. It took him a while to realise it was coming from his pocket. It was his phone. No one had called it all week, he pondered to himself as it continued to ring. That could only mean one thing. Suddenly he snapped out of his daze and leapt up out of the sofa, and removed the ringing phone from his pocket.

Sherlock was informed by a young officer that a mutilated body had been found at an old abandoned warehouse, and Lestrade wanted to meet him there to get his opinion. He didn't have to be asked twice. After getting off the phone he practically did a somersault whilst rushing to put on his coat and scarf, then raced off down the steps and out onto Baker Street where he hailed a cab and got in.

It was a shame John was at work. He always felt a little lost without him these days. He took out his phone and sent him a text, telling him to call him after he'd finished work...that they had a new case he was on the way to investigate.

Arriving at the warehouse, Sherlock was surprised by the lack of police presence. There were no other cars, no officers, no forensics team. He turned round and was about to ask the taxi to hold on a minute, but it had already driven off and was disappearing into the distance. Something didn't feel quite right. He pulled his collar up further and began to walk towards the open door of the warehouse. He hesitated a little at the entrance.

"Lestrade?" he called out into the darkness. All he heard was his own echo.

He stepped inside, casting his eyes all around. He saw no one. In front of him there was something lying on the floor. He walked closer and realised it was a body. A body of a mutilated girl. So where was everybody else? Sherlock wondered. He crouched down next to the body and looked at it through his magnifying glass.

He let Sherlock do his work for about a minute before slowly stepping out of the shadow.
"Shame she had to die, I did offer her a way out." He said, as if he actually felt sorry for her.

"Hello, sexy." Once his face was close enough to be seen he grinned. "Don't look at me as if you saw a ghost. This was too easy, Sherlock." He shrugged. it indeed was easy. The lack of police gave him away, honestly.

"Sooo, what have you /deduced/ about our lovely girl over here?" He was close enough to nudge her hand, making it crunch onto the cold concrete floor.

Sherlock stood up from the dead girl, taking a couple of steps back in shock, genuinely surprised to be facing his nemesis once again.

"You..." He glanced over his shoulder. Definitely no one else around. "What do you want?"

"No hello?" He whimpered " no it's good to see you again?" For a second he stood pouting his lips, making a fad face. "I'm disappointed..... Already." The last word came out more serious than the other had.

"What do I want? I want you to answer my question, to begin with." He calmly said. "What have you /deduced/ about her?" He repeated while whispering.

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips. Something about Moriarty always unsettled him slightly, although of course he'd never admit that. He glanced down at the body.

"She's dead." he said bluntly then looked back up at Moriarty. His unmoving facial expression told him what he already knew - he wanted a bit more than that. Sherlock sighed wearily.

"OK OK...you want me to show off. Fine. Late 20s. Office worker. Sits at a computer all day. Bad eyesight but doesn't like to wear her glasses and often forgets to put her contact lenses in. Married but having an affair with someone in a higher position at work, most likely her boss. Left handed but uses her right hand to smoke, a habit she's trying to give up. Everyone always tells her smoking kills and in this case it truly does because she was outside having a fag when one of your men bundled her into the back of a car. Oh, and she had a tuna baguette for lunch. With mayonnaise. Happy?"

"Well of course she's dead, thank you captain obvious." He rolled his eyes back at Sherlock's blunt words.

As he stood listening to the detectives conclusion he nodded and smiled approvingly. He always found it quite interesting to listen to Sherlock's mind twists. Unaware of his actions he slipped his hands into his pocket.

"Goood." his insane high voice echoed to the room. He could sense Sherlock being proud of his own deduction, he liked showing off. "It always gets me when you're able to say so much with just one look." He complimented the taller man.

His feet shuffled a bit closer until he found himself directly looking into Sherlock's deep eyes. Only the body between them was holding him on a distance. "Not so bored now, are we?"

Despite himself Sherlock couldn't help but enjoy Moriarty's compliments. Yes he was rather good wasn't he? And yet he still hadn't worked out the reason he'd been brought here. It was obvious that the police phone call had been a set up...one of Moriarty's men on the inside...and it was obvious that he was up to no good, but then again, what was new about that?

Sherlock stood his ground as Moriarty took a few steps closer. He looked him straight in the eyes.

"You didn't bring me here to deduce useless facts about a dead woman whose death you arranged so why? Why am I here and what do you want?"

"2 of my people ended up behind bars this week." He started. "/you/ are going to help me getting them out." Not that he needed Sherlock's help, he could easily get them out there in no time. Though, he figured how much it would angervate him, having to work for Moriarty.

"No isn't an option, though." He shrugged. "Well, you could always try but you'll end up on the same spot as this one here." Once more he nudged against the body. "Along with some other beloved people of yours." He quickly added, knowing Sherlock wouldn't care much about dying. Once mentioned John, Mrs Hudson, Molly or Lestrade, he would be willing to spare their life.

Sherlock was unmoved by Moriarty's empty threats. He shrugged.

"I don't have any 'beloved people'," he lied. And what's more Moriarty knew he was lying. He could see right through him sometimes. Sherlock hated that. "And even if I did, I wouldn't let you get to them. Surveillance has been pretty tight round Baker Street since the poolside incident. Big Brother is watching."

Sherlock played with his coat collar, attempting to pull it up even higher than it was already. He enjoyed the mysterious look it gave him. Then he gave Moriarty his best cold uncaring stare.

"I would never help you. Never."

James laughed obnoxious at the detectives attempts. "I'm sure big brother is watching, I just happen to believe his telly is set on the wrong channel." while speaking he uninterested slid his phone out of his trousers's pocket, tapping onto it before showing Sherlock the screen.

"John looks rather kinky, tight up, doesn't he?" He jokes as he now turned the screen again, looking at the picture of John tied to a chair. "Not to mention how good Molly would look on the table of her own morgue." He shrugged while his whole face radiated insanity.

"Never is such a strong term, for something so useless. And it's meaning is SO overrated." The serious edge in his voice gave away he wasn't playing anymore. He wasn't just here to talk.

Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat and he felt a powerfulsickly feeling begin to creep round his stomach. How? How had this happened? He swallowed hard and tried to maintain his cool exterior. He hoped Moriarty wouldn't notice his immediate reactions of shock and pain but deep down knew his hopes were in vain - of course he'd noticed.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the picture of John feeling so much anger and hatred, feelings made all the more frustrating with the knowledge that he could do nothing to hurt Moriarty without hurting John. He was powerless. At the mercy of his arch enemy.

"How" didn't matter now. "How" was easy. No one was protecting John when he was at work. Snatching him would be child's play for someone like Moriarty. It had happened. That was all that mattered now. It had happened and Sherlock knew the position he was in. This first move had, he confessed, taken him by surprise. He'd have to play along with Moriarty's game for now, and hope to catch up at a later stage.

He took a deep breath and faced the grinning Moriarty.

"What do you need me to do?"

He loved the terrified look in Sherlock's eyes. It made him feel soo powerful. He was going to squeeze the life out this man. Hr was going to take everything he'd got. His body shaking lightly from the thrills this was giving him.

"I need you to go down on your knees." The criminal demanded. right now he first needed to get rid of the frustration that had been building up inside and Sherlock just fitted that plan right.

"NOW." his voice shouted, as he found Sherlock still standing 1 second after he'd spoken his previous words.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure he'd heard correctly and it took him a moment to register the command. He was extremely reluctant to belittle himself in this way. He had never got down his knees for anyone. Ever. He looked around the empty warehouse, as if to make sure no one else would see him humiliated in this way. His mind quickly searched for another way out but he couldn't get the picture of John out of his head. He knew that one phone call was all it would take for his friend to be hurt, tortured, made to suffer, killed...whatever sick plan Moriarty had in mind. There was no way out.

Moriarty's shout made Sherlock jump. He was serious about this.

"OK OK. I'm doing it!"

Rolling his eyes, he slowly crouched towards the floor, laying one knee down, then the other, before looking up at Moriarty with a hateful look in his eye. He would get him back for all this. He had to.

"Good boy." He whispered, staring at sherlock as he went down on his knees. "One stab less for Johnny boy." He laughed sadistically.

The body in between them now was only getting in his way. With a smooth motion he took out a box of matches. "Sherlock dear, you might want to move a bit, but stay on your knees though." He grinned, giving Sherlock a few seconds before lightening up one of the matched. "My pleasure." He spoke directly to the body as he dropped one of the matches, setting the woman's dress on fire. He didn't gained her another look.

"Soooo" He said while turning on his heels, skipping over to Sherlock. "You look even better from up here." The Irishman said, knowing it would turn Sherlock off. Though, he did squatted to level Sherlock's face, his fingertips running over the detective's sharp cheekbones.

Without a warning he got up, taking a step back and slamming his fist into the previous touched cheekbone. A groan escaped as he felt his hand meeting the pale skin. Pressure falling off his shoulders, this /was/ satisfying.

Sherlock had been warned to stay on his knees, and he didn't want to risk anything just yet. At the sight of the flames rippling up the dead woman's body, he shuffled back a little bit, the heat of the fire beginning to burn him...

He hated Moriarty teasing him...and was just about to open his mouth to offer a jib remark when the fist came pounding into his face. It was quite a punch and Sherlock was thrown back. He rolled off his knees and onto his side. He was sure he heard the crack of a cheekbone breaking. A sharp pain, then a dull throbbing ache eminating round the whole of the left hand side of his face. He gingerly lifted a finger to touch it and saw it was bleeding.

Well...humiliating him was one thing but physical punishment was quite another. Sherlock wouldn't stand for it. Still a little dazed and shocked from the punch, he used his hands to begin to help himself up...

The sight of both horror on his left and pure pain right in front of him made adrenaline pump through his veins. He regained energy from these kinds of things. The fact it was Sherlock lying at his feet was only making this so much better.

"Stay exactly where you are." He demanded as he saw the tall man trying to get up. "Unless of course you'd like John to receive twice the amounts of hits that you're about to get." He shrugged. He couldn't even feel his fist pounding from hitting.

He took a few tiny steps closer to Sherlock while stretching his fingers and rolling his neck from left all the way over to the right. His face had an insane smile forced onto it and his lip twitched.

Damn it! He'd been too slow. The first punch had taken him by surprise and his reactions weren't quick enough. Reluctantly, he remained on his knees and stared up at Moriarty, towering over him smirking.

"Decided to get your hands dirty for once?" he quipped.

He saw the twitching of Moriarty's fingers as he stepped towards him and braced himself for the second punch he knew was coming. But he was prepared this time. He could retaliate faster. He closed his eyes and turned his head slightly, offering the other cheek in an attempt to avoid getting punched in the same place twice.

He smirked out loud at Sherlock's comment. "I get my hurts dirty more often then you'd like, though, only when I'm seriously frustrated." He admitted.

As he came close enough he kicked Sherlock onto his back his foot hitting him right at his collarbone, followed by another softer kick to make him look back into James's eyes. Just a few seconds later he bowed while swinging his fist straight onto Sherlock's lips. "I'm not John, honey, I don't avoid your teeth and nose."

He felt another crushing feeling lifting off from his chest. He decided he should do this more often when feeling frustrated. Sherlock Holmes, his own personal punching bag... Yes, he did enjoy that thought.

Sherlock had been expecting another punch so receiving Moriarty's foot right in his collarbone knocked him straight onto his back and his plans for retaliation were once again dashed. His arms supported him slightly and he was able to sit up a little, just in time to see Moriarty's fist heading straight for his mouth. The pain reverberated round his head along with the familiar metallic taste of the iron in his blood.

He slowly turned over onto his stomach and got himself up to his hands and knees with his back to Moriarty, before spitting out a mouthfull of blood onto the dirty floor of the warehouse. Sherlock was breathing hard, his heart racing. The blows were painful but adrenaline was starting to kick in. He waited till he could hear Moriarty approach him again, then he swung himself round, grabbed both his legs and yanked them from under him...

unexpected he fell hard onto the concrete floor. A hollow sound of him collapsing onto the floor filled the room. He yelped but managed to stop half was through.

As a reaction he smiled obnoxious. "I don't even need to call someone. We're making live television" He hissed. "Only 3 viewers though." He referred to John and his own 2 people. "So go on, hit me." He challenged Sherlock. "Give me your bessssttt shot."

His eyes were dark and filled with pure evil. His whole body was shaking from the adrenaline. He stared deep into Sherlock's eyes, waiting for him to move.

Sherlock was up on his knees, towering over the fallen Moriarty, fist already raised in the air ready to smash into his pretty grinning face any second...

At hearing his words he paused, raised fist still hanging in the air. He glanced around the warehouse looking for cameras. He couldn't see any but then...that would kind of defeat the point of hidden cameras.

"You're bluffing." he challenged, now holding Moriarty by the collar of his shirt, unwilling to let go just yet.

"Perhaps I am, but would you take that risk?" He said cold, not showing any fear or emotion at the fact Sherlock was about to hit him.

He carefully ran his eyes over what he called his work of art. Blood dripping from Sherlock's blue swollen lip, his fractured cheek was already shading dark as well. His face looked SO much better this way.

"Try me." He whispered, nearly groaning as he saw the hesitation in the detective's eyes.

Sherlock agonised over the decision. He wanted so badly to pound his fist into Moriarty's smirking face...to make him bleed like he was bleeding, make him hurt, make him suffer. His fist shook with frustration but remained exactly where it was, until finally he collapsed back onto his hands, giving in.

"Damn you James Moriarty." he muttered. He couldn't take the risk. Not with John's life in the balance.

The first thing he did was brushing of his clothes where Sherlock hands used to be. He lifted himself back onto his feet. His shirt now covered in blood that had been dripping from his enemy's lip.

"Silly detective." He glared at him. At that point something popped into his mind that made his eyes flicked with joy. "OOoooh, I am /keeping/ you, Sherlock. You'll be my little pet. Yesss" He said, half to himself, half to Sherlock.

He pointed out to a chair across the room. "Please, much more comfortable than this floor." He grinned, gesturing Sherlock had to go and sit down on the chair.