Sherlock was at a bar.

It was graduation night for the seniors of his high school, and only those who were eighteen or older were allowed to attend. Though, Sherlock was sure that some were underage and managed to sneak in.

Sherlock wasn't there to converse or make friends. He was there for the alcohol and drugs that the seniors most likely snuck in with them. It was obvious who did it, some looked skeptical and others were too drunk to even care what they were taking. The one thing Sherlock did was guard his drink carefully, making sure no one would touch it or tamper with it. He had seen plenty cases of date rape, he didn't ever have to experience it in his life if he could help it.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned his head to see a very, very shitfaced John Watson stumbling his way over to him, clapping an arm around his shoulders and Sherlock nearly tumbled off his seat when he did so. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his best friend's drunken antics, but he let him do what he liked, despite the fact that his breath reeked of Bailey's. "Enjoying yourself, are you?" He asked simply, and John giggled at his words, the swelling in Sherlock's heart happening regardless of the fact that he knew that his best friend was drunk. "Go back to Mary, you bumbling oaf." He declared, lightly pushing his friend in the direction of the blonde woman who gave him a look of thanks.

"Byyyyyeeee..." John faded off through the thumping music and the growing distance between the two men, Sherlock raising a hand to wave him off and a ghost of a smile on his face.

The smile soon slowly faded into a frown, one that stayed on Sherlock's face almost permanently as many people assumed. Sherlock Holmes rarely smiled unless he had found something particularly interesting or catchy to him and to him only. No one shared the same entertainment or interest in the things Sherlock found joy in, which was probably one of the reasons John Watson never had the briefest interest in starting a romantic relationship with Sherlock. They would drive each other crazy. But then again, who didn't Sherlock drive crazy?

Well, one man.

James Moriarty, two years older than Sherlock and had graduated two years prior to Sherlock. He was at the celebration, since his two good friends, Irene and Sebastian had graduated, so he was there to support them and probably get just as shitfaced as everyone else there. Thank God for cabbies.

James Moriarty was an interesting fellow. He was going to college, declared that he would be the one to solve every crime that had been left cold, going for a PHD in criminology and Bachelors in forensics. James Moriarty was brilliant, quick, and far too smart for any prestigious college in the entirety of the world--and he knew that. He was good-willed, though his ways of presenting it might've been odd, especially when someone had caused grief for any of those that he loved.

Sherlock never really understood why no one chose to stick around long after choosing to pick on one of Moriarty's gang, but the reason why some teenagers transferred from the school was a bit disturbing. Part of Sherlock wanted to think it was because of Moriarty's influence, the other part of him took a darker turn in the reason why it all happened.

Sherlock never engaged in it. There was something that Moriarty had that no one had ever been able to do. Make Sherlock Holmes afraid. Sherlock was never disturbed of upperclassmen, in fact, it sometimes invited the reason to make Sherlock prove them wrong and throw it in their faces. People like Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, and Graham Lestrade didn't understand his brilliance and he just had to prove how vacant and dull they were. Was it Graham? Perhaps it was Glen?

It didn't matter to Sherlock, he didn't care about how they thought of him or how many people called him a psychopath, he would prove to them that one day the world was far too out of their depth and that they should learn to listen to those that observe instead of just seeing.

"How much have you had to drink?"

Sherlock turned his head at the voice, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the person beside him, the booze causing his vision to blur in the slightest. He had dark hair, short and slicked back with what looked like gel, a significant amount of product in his hair as well. His eyes were deep and sunken in and they looked tired, but one could tell that his eyes were naturally like that if they looked closely enough and saw how bright those beautiful irises were.

He wore a grey v-neck, his thumbs tucked into the band of his tan trousers, which was where Sherlock's eyes trailed down. His underwear was pulled up higher, an alarming shade of neon green. Gay. And what was the realization?

Why, this was James Moriarty!

James was looking to him with a small smirk, his adorable face deceivingly cute which hid the mischief and devilish look in his eyes. Sherlock blinked a bit before clearing his throat and looking up as he opened his mouth to answer James's question, only for his gaze to wander to the v in his shirt, the genius clearing his throat as a blush pushed its way onto his face. "Pardon?"

"Drinking. You haven't drank too much, have you?" James asked, his head tilting to the side as he inspected the young genius. "What're you doing alone? Would've thought that, um..." James trailed off, trying to remember a name as he tapped his chin, soon helplessly turning his eyes to Sherlock for an answer.

"...John." Sherlock said, James nodding his head in response to the answer, looking a bit frustrated that he didn't know it. "And no, I haven't, just a few glasses is all." He claimed, straightening out his dress shirt before glancing to James.

Either James was underdressed or Sherlock was overdressed. It was hard to tell with the crowd as it was almost evenly split between fashion styles that night.

"Hm, you've been sat here for..." James looked to his wrist, squinting a little to get a better look at the time. "About an hour now and you've only had one drink and your working on your second—though you've barely sipped it." James reported.

"Oh, so you're watching me, are you?" Sherlock questioned, raising a brow to the elder and the other just shook his head. "Why ask if you already knew the answer."

"So I can know if I can buy you a drink without getting you wasted."

|××××××××××|××××××××××|

Sherlock awoke the next morning with a sore body. At first he thought it was the alcohol, until he felt the cut on his lip as he licked his dry lips. He brought a hand to his lip, drawing it back to see no blood, but having felt a scab due to dried up blood. He glanced at his wrists, recognizing the bruises and skin rubbed raw from restraints.

Had he...? Oh he had, hadn't he?

He experienced being on the receiving end of that, and just thinking about it made the genius a bit excited.

"Morning."

Sherlock looked up in surprise to see James Moriarty, dressed in a shirt and sweatpants, carrying a tray of food with a teapot and two tea cups on it. "Slept well?" He asked, setting the tray down onto the bed.

Sherlock sat up and winced a bit, feeling the soreness on his behind and what felt like a bit of a stinging feeling on his back. His gaze dropped to the tray in front of him before he turned his head slightly to the side, a red blush creeping up his neck and ears.

"You're not hurting too bad, are you?" James asked, his head tilted to the side as he looked to the younger. "Do you need anything? Aloe?"

Well, he was far softer this morning than he was last night, not that Sherlock was complaining.

"No, I'm okay." Sherlock muttered, wronging his hands together a bit nervously as he looked around, trying to adjust himself to the home. It was James' home, he was pretty sure. It wasn't his rich, extravagant bedroom, it was instead plain, simple, probably a common cheap flat in London that James had found and was living in at the moment. "Just didn't really expect this treatment after last night."

"Okay, I'm dominant but I'm not a monster." James said, his accent drawing out and his voice sweet, giving Sherlock an equally sweet smile. "And you did so good for me last night," he said, moving to caress Sherlock's cheek, which he uncharacteristically leaned into. "You were lovely."

"I'm glad that I didn't disappoint." Sherlock claimed, giving James a smile. "Will I see you again after this?"

For a moment James froze before his movements continued, making Sherlock's tea just the way he like it and handed it to him, to which the other took gratefully. "Thank you." He muttered, taking the tea into his hands and sipping it.

He glanced up for a moment, seeing the other man looking at him as he drank the tea. "...what?" He asked, trying to stifle a chuckle as James then rested his face onto his hand, just looking at Sherlock.

"Mmm, nothing. I just think you're very handsome." He said. "I think I'll paint you a portrait."

"A portrait?" Sherlock echoed, curiosity piquing at James' words as he set the teacup onto the dresser beside him, crawling a little closer to the other. "And where did you learn how to do that?"

"I grew up painting, a hidden talent I had." James informed, and the closer Sherlock got to him, and with every inch the cover slipped off of Sherlock's body to reveal his beautifully toned, naked body slowly. "And, I could always show you." He whispered, his voice husky and his eyes dark, Sherlock's eyes darkening in the slightest with every word that James said.

The white sheets fell and Sherlock's body was revealed to the fullest extent, the last straw before James had the stunning man pinned onto the bed.

Sherlock didn't complain.

|××××××××××|××××××××××|

Their affair had gone on far longer than either anticipated. It was almost like they were addicted to each other, the only things that could ever keep them apart was the sheer will of the universe to stop the other from returning to their nicotine. In the end, both ended broken and in shambles, by the will of the universe, that was what Sherlock believed at least.

Sherlock and Jim, Holmes and Moriarty, William and James. They were the pair that was dynamically and systematically set up to fail would they ever engage in romance, yet the two danced out of the chances and expectations of the universe and defied the odds. They remained together, entranced by the other and seduced by the other's motions.

When time carried on, they drifted. Jim was estranged and Sherlock was left to try and understand why. It ended with Jim appearing at the hospital when Molly had said that she had a boyfriend.

When their eyes locked, it was like the sparks from the past reignited once more, sprouting behind Sherlock's eyes as he gazed upon him once more. He didn't want to solve the crime anymore, and the moment Jim left the room, Sherlock was quick to follow, dire to understand where he had gone, but he had disappeared.

Jim disappeared into thin air, and a kick to the wall is what resulted.

It was at the pool where Sherlock finally learned the fate of his estranged lover. His psychotic ways had come to life and he had become the mastermind behind every criminal and the king of crime. That moment when he put John Watson's life in danger is what told Sherlock he had changed, but that side that had seduced Sherlock in the beginning was still there.

"The flirting's over Sherlock, daddy's had enough now."

Sherlock remembered John's shocked face when Jim had left and Sherlock had flung the bomb away before grabbing John's arm and sprinting away as fast as he could, the stinging of his tears mixing with the stabbing of the cold, London air. When they returned to the flat, Sherlock was rendered speechless as he slid down the wall beside the stairs and pulled his knees to his chest.

He hadn't spoke, cried, and hardly breathed no matter how much John had tried to coax him, resulting in him going to get Mrs. Hudson for help. The landlady sat beside the man, trying to understand what had happened to the indestructible Sherlock Holmes. No one was able to crack him.

Sherlock had gone up to the flat and curled up onto the couch, his silk robe wrapped tightly around him and three nicotine patches attached to his skin. He was like that for days, only getting up to play the violin and compose. John had to force Sherlock to drink water and eat food, though, John had to practically pry Sherlock's mouth open in order to get him to eat.

The only time Sherlock moved was when he was given a case involving Jim Moriarty.

It was like New Year's Day, Sherlock had sprung to his feet and attacked the case like a madman, back to the way he was before though more tired and skinny. He was unfazed by the harsh comments by Donovan or Anderson, and he jumped for joy when he was given serial killings.

It was like Moriarty knew exactly what made Sherlock Holmes happy.

Sherlock was the most observant person in the world—but he was an idiot. John Watson knew that the best.

John Watson wasn't an idiot and he was aware of Sherlock's fascination with Jim Moriarty. But it ran deeper in his opinion, and it seems to have involved far more than just terrifying him to the bone. Sherlock Holmes had never been more invested in his life. And John Watson? He was concerned for his friend.

When John had decided to spend the night at 221B Baker Street, he awoke in the middle of the night to Sherlock Holmes grabbing his coat and leaving the flat. And with curiosity, the ex-army doctor followed after his sociopath of a friend.

Sherlock didn't hail a cab, instead he walked, his eyes set on what was in front of him and never glanced back to check behind him. He had his gaze set firm and his step coordinated perfectly. John wasn't sure how long they walked, but it was longer and would have been smarter to use a cab.

They were back at the pool, the pool where Moriarty made his first appearance. Why were they back here? What were they doing here?

John hid behind on of the many walls that the facility provided, and he didn't make a sound. He was thankful he went to the military, even if he was just a doctor, he knew the various protocols and procedures that any soldier knew, so John knew how to keep his steps silent and his breathing slow.

"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" Moriarty's voice rang out in a sickening feeling of nostalgia, John felt as though he would be sick in that very moment.

"...The latter." The baritone voice answered, his tone cold and monotonous, but the way he sounded sent shivers down John's spine. Did he come with no weapon? No gun?

And he hadn't told John that he was planning on meeting with Moriarty, the man behind all of the twisted crimes that kept Sherlock going. Is that what Sherlock lived for? To obsess over these gruesome and horrible crimes cause by a man more deranged than anyone in the world?

"Really? Would've thought you brought your pet with you." Was he referring to John?

"Hmph, you really think so little of me, do you?" Was that an insult?

"Oh no, I think highly of you."

"Still?"

Still? What the bloody hell was that supposed to mean?

Pulling in a deep breath, John peeked around the corner, not seeing the two far apart, no, instead they were close together, Moriarty's hands on Sherlock's waist and the consulting detective caressing his face as if they were lovers.

They weren't...were they?

"Did you like that case I made for you?" Moriarty inquired, his eyes round and full of hope, gazing at Sherlock like he was the world.

"Ah yes, the triple homicide? Yes, marvelous." Sherlock proclaimed, his fingers running through Moriarty's hair. "You know exactly how to make me happy, don't you?"

"Of course, if I didn't, I'd be a terrible lover, wouldn't I?"

"Afraid so, though, I'm gasping for a kiss, would you mind?"

"It'd be a pleasure."

John turned his head away from the scene before they could connect their lips, straight, electric shock coursing through his body as he fumbled to pick his body up and run out of the facility. He didn't look back to see if they had saw him and he didn't care if they did.

If what John had seen what he saw, the two were lovers.

And their reign of chaos was for the other's enjoyment.

|××××××××××|××××××××××|

Sherlock knew that it was time.

He and Jim had conspired to run away together, away from the craziness of London and move to America, where no one would recognize them and no one would would chase after them. After all, you couldn't chase a person that was dead.

They had created a plan, flawless and seamless in any way. They would both die as mortal enemies to the world and they would return to become lovers. They would get away, from the government, from Mycroft, and from England.

So there they were at St. Barts, on the rooftop, holding the other's hands as they pressed their foreheads together, relishing in the moment that they had together. Neither knew how long it would be before they saw the other, only time would tell.

"Will you be there tomorrow?" Sherlock asked in a whisper, and Jim looked to him with a smile.

"I will." He declared, his hand caressing Sherlock's cheek with a smile, moving in for a kiss as Sherlock did too.

Then Jim crumbled to the floor after a gunshot.

Blood blossomed onto Jim's chest as Sherlock's hands shook as he caught his lover, dropping to his knees as he lowered him to the ground, his sea blue eyes filling to the brim with tears. "Jim—."

"Get away from him Sherlock." John's voice ordered, Sherlock's head whipping up to gaze at his old friend, the ex-army doctor poised with a gun aimed directly at Jim, who was breathing shallowly.

Sherlock felt like he was spinning, spinning down a spiral of chaos and despair, his mind screaming accusations and threats to John and crying out for Jim. "What have you done?" Sherlock asked tearfully, looking to John with rage. "What have you done?!" He bellowed, his teeth clenched together tightly as his grip onto Jim's body tightened.

"Sher-Sh—loc—Sherl-." Jim's voice croaked, each syllable seeming like a challenge to overcome as he brought his hand to Sherlock's face and pulled his gaze down to him. Sherlock's eyes eventually met Jim's, the fury fading away as he gazed at his lover, watching the strange light in his eyes slip in the slightest, a tug at his heart pulled Sherlock down closer to him.

"No, Jim--keep your eyes open, its alright! I c-can help, I--I'll get Molly I-I can get someone, I can--" Sherlocks rambles faded as Jim just stared at him, the reality of their situation slamming into Sherlock like a truck, his heart shattering as Jim's fingers trailed over Sherlock's lips. He could feel the slickness and the warmth of his blood on his face.

"I-I lo--ve--love---lo-- y-you." Jim gasped, Sherlock shushing him like a mother with her child, collapsing to the ground and holding his head and him arms.

"Jim--Jim keep your eyes open, keep them.." Sherlock faded off at the sound of footsteps. The consulting detective pulled the gun from Jim's belt, cocking and taking the safety off as he pointed it at John.

"Stay right where you are!" Sherlock demanded, John stopping in his tracks at Sherlock's order, seeing the gun and his finger locked onto the trigger. Sherlock wasn't going to miss if he fired.

When Sherlock was positive that John wasn't going to move, his gaze dropped back down to Jim, suddenly seeing how pale and ghostly the other man looked. Sherlock swallowed thickly at the sight of him gaping for air that couldn't possibly be filled all the way anymore. "James..."

Jim's eyes looked up at Sherlock, and the façade of Moriarty fell to be replaced with James, his eyes tearing. "W--Will you--you be th-ere tomor--rrow?"

Sherlock's bottom lip quivered as the gun fell to the ground as he devoted his full attention to the man in his arms. "I will." He whispered, putting a hand over Jim's on his cheek.

A smile that finally reached Jim's eyes spread onto his face and his eyes slipped closed. Sherlock felt the limpness in Jim's hand but he refused to let go, shaking his head as he stroked Jim's hair, just pleading to the world that he wasn't dead. But he couldn't find Jim's pulse.

Sherlock leaned down to press his forehead against Jim's, the world going silent around him. He couldn't see anything but red.

Sherlock stood from the body, staring at the corpse with tear streaked cheeks before he turned his gaze to John Watson. "You'll burn for that."

Sherlock had never imagined attacking John Watson, but on that fateful day, he did. He grabbed him by the collar and punched him until his face was unrecognizable. Sherlock would've killed him had the police not shown up and restrained him, the handcuffs did nothing against Sherlock kicking at the officers' knees, snapping them backwards or headbutting them and breaking their noses.

He screamed for John's blood and he shouted for Jim to come back to earth. He cried in the back of the police car and was taken to a holding cell, where he cried the whole night. Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived to work the next morning hearing the manic laughter of Sherlock Holmes.

The sight was terrifying, Sherlock was laughing in the corner, curled into a ball so it was easy to misinterpret it as crying. It was when he looked up at Lestrade calling his name was when the fear really set in. A grin as wide as a Cheshire Cat's but it didn't reach his eyes at all, his eyes lifeless, void of feeling or emotion.

Sherlock was sent to court for aggravated assault and the attempted murder of Dr. John Hamish Watson. With some measures by Mycoft, he was not guilty by reasons of insanity and was sent to mental institution, where Sherlock remained.

The genius only received few visitors, and on one day, John Watson had gone with Mycroft. Sherlock stared at him angrily, tied in a straightjacket and his hair cast over his face. He was the most terrifying in that state, insanity eating away at the corners of his mind and fury and uncontrolled rage shaking his body as he bared his teeth at John like an animal.

"Dr. Watson." Was his reaction to seeing him. Cold, emotionless, and lifeless.

He barely spoke the whole time Mycroft and John were there, and it was mostly Mycroft talking. In the midst of one of Mycroft's endearing speeches, Sherlock spoke up. "We had a special something."

Mycroft and John both tensed at his words, already knowing who he was referring to. "We were the same." He muttered before looking up to John. "And your vacant mind could never understand."

Sherlock and John shared a tense gaze. "You will burn--you will burn for what you did, I will make sure of it!"

The former consulting detective had tried to attack him, but his handlers sedated him and pulled him away, dragging his dozing self. John never got that haunting look out of his mind.

So there Sherlock sat, sitting down in the corner of his room staring at the wall in front of him. It wasn't John living his life to the fullest that haunted him, or the way his brother chastised him, or seeing Jim's lifeless body every night. It was the happy moments.

It was months before they allowed Sherlock his violin again. When he was given it, it sat in the corner of the room untended to and dusty. Exactly a month after it was given, Sherlock sat on his stone hard bed tuning it and cleaning the instrument. But he didn't play it.

Sherlock's psychiatrist visited him weekly, and after some time the straightjacket was gone. He would bring the violin with him, resting it in his lap and would sometimes talk as he adjusted and cleaned it, as it was like a "safety blanket", as his psychiatrist called it. He had heard them talk. The psychiatrist said she would never be sure if he was ready for society again due to his default behavior. So chances were, Sherlock should start talking to make his miserable life in there a bit more enjoyable.

"Why don't you play something?" The psychiatrist, Ms. Smith, had said. They had sat there for about thirty minutes in silence. "You bring it with you everyday, and I've been told you play beautifully." She mused.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the table like a toddler, plucking the strings of the violin with his fingers as he inspected the aluminum table. "Play one of your favorites, how about that? If not, you can play something that's been on your mind?"

"Who told you I played?" He inquired. "My brother?"

Ms. Smith didn't answer so that answered his question for him. He knew that Mycroft was the one that was able to get him his violin as some sort of attachment that he could have to the real world. Sherlock blinked for a moment before standing from his seat and raising the violin to rest between his shoulder and chin, bringing up the bow and gliding it across the strings.

Think of Me.

Cliché, but it was beautiful. Phantom of The Opera was always a favorite, due to it's intricacies and the only thing that kept Sherlock in the unknown for a little longer. Though, he was high when he first watched it, which was probably why he couldn't deduce it. As he played, he closed his eyes and the faint sounds of his psychiatrist writing notes faded and the only thing that was there was the violin.

He was taken back to the night before the incident at St. Barts. The night where Sherlock had sat on the couch watching crap telly with a cup of tea and Jim curled up beside him. He remembered kissing his that night, the scratch of his facial hair and the warmth of his breath on his lips.

Sherlock stopped playing half-way, the bow still poised to play but the music stopped entirely. The bow slid off the violin, leading to a slight groan of music escaping before Sherlock let the bow fall to his side. Ms. Smith said nothing as Sherlock sat down back into his seat as he stared at the mirrored window of the room as he clenched onto the neck of the violin.

Ms. Smith waited patiently in the silence, and it was nearing the time for Sherlock to return to his room. "He loved Christine."

There was a beat of silence between the patient and psychiatrist. "From Phantom of the Opera. He loved her voice, and how her notes were sung perfectly." Sherlock muttered, staring at the violin in his hands. "He begged me to learn this song, so he could ask me to play it whenever he felt like it." A smile began to form at the end of Sherlock's lips. "And I played it, I played it dozens of times everyday and I loved it. Because he loved it."

"...He?"

Sherlock looked to Ms. Smith. "It should be obvious, shouldn't it?" And he was taken back to his room.

Sherlock would play the violin in his room for hours on end, hardly ever stopping for food or a break. He would play the same song, Think of Me, everyday and every hour. He could sometimes hear the security become upset at hearing the same song and it brought a rare smile to his face. It was fun to annoy someone.

And one day he got a visitor.

Sherlock had been confused, and he was escorted out of his room with two security guards in the front, two in the back, and one of either side of him. Ever since that time Sherlock had tried to bite John's head off, the ward had deemed it that Sherlock needed surveillance as much as possible. But the person that was waiting for him was a surprise.

Greg Lestrade.

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade."

|××××××××××|××××××××××|

Lestrade and Mycroft had pulled some strings to get him out of the ward for some time. They needed help on a case and it had been ongoing for a month or so, and a new body turned up.

Sherlock was dressed in his old suit, handcuffed behind his back as he walked to the crime scene with officers flanking his sides. He was the same, but his eyes were cold and lifeless, bags causing them to look deeper and beaten.

Donovan had looked up and saw Sherlock and fear sprouted through her body, as she froze and watched him walk past. There were no hateful glares at him anymore, no, there was only fear.

As they got to the room, Sherlock blinked as he smelled blood, looking down to a man who had been killed, propped onto a desk with a pen poised in his fingers. On a blank sheet of paper, written in blood said 'THE END'.

Anderson had been giving a report to someone before he saw Sherlock, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping into an o. Sherlock stood there unmoving as everyone in the room froze and was silent. "Are you going to undo the cuffs or do you expect me to do my work with my hands tied behind my back?" He claimed, turning his head to the side to look at the security guard who undid his cuffs.

Sherlock rubbed his wrists and rolled his shoulders back, grabbing a pair of gloves and pulling them on. He looked to a police officer he recognized, wearing a knee brace. "How's the leg? I didn't break it too bad, did I?" He asked with mock concern before kneeling beside the body.

He looked at everything, the way his body was positioned, his small scrapes, the slit in his throat, and the way his eyes drooped. As he brushed over the jacket, a piece of paper slipped from the jacket pocket, fluttering to the ground before Sherlock bent down to pick it up, flipping it to look at it.

"Think of me, think of me fondly."

The paper fell from his hands and he clenched his hands into fists as he ran out of the room, shouts from Lestrade and the other officers were unfazed by him as he leapt down the staircase and threw the gloves off. He ran down the streets of London, every street, every corner, and every brick memorized.

He already knew that people were after him, the wails of police sirens were able to tell him that. So he resorted to back streets and alley ways to get the job done before he made it to his destination, a place he thought he would never be at again. 221B Baker Street.

And in that moment, Sherlock felt a tap on his shoulder. A young man in a Westwood suit wearing sunglasses gazed up at him. "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock took Jim's hand into his own, glancing back to see the authorities closing in on their position before sharing a knowing gaze with Jim. "Most ardently."

And they ran.

A/N; wow, that was awesome! This is my first Sheriarty fic and oneshot and I am literally a bundle of joy for the Sherlock fandom and I fell TERRIBLE that I was so late.

I hope you guys enjoyed, and comment and vote to let me know if you guys would like more!