Before I get any complaints about not continuing 'A Study in Scarlet' there's a reason. 1-it has 3 votes, and 40 views. That's a lot worse than it's surrounding stories. So, if you want me to continue that story, go vote on it. Because I'm not going to spend another two hours writing a story no one likes. Warning; Smut ahead; including masterbation, and sexual interactions. So, yeah. You've been warned. Love y'all.

Sherlock's gun aimed directly at him. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. To Moriarty; Sherlock was insanely predictable. His phone call should be coming in 5...
4... 3... 2... 1..
Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin' Alive! Stayin' Alive!
Moriarty forced his groan to be believable before asking, "D'ya mind if I get that?" Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to seem quicker witted than Moriarty knew he was.
"Oh no, please. You've got the rest of your life." Moriarty flipped the phone on, ready to speak with his current 'girlfriend'. She was great at her job, but he couldn't wait to get rid of her.
"Hello? Yes, of course it is, what d'you want?" It seemed like any other business call. Moriarty mouthed and apology to Sherlock, who did the same, only saying it was alright. Moriarty spun on his heel as Viorous began listing off jobs. To be blunt, it was boring as hell. Maybe dying wouldn't be so bad... He'd go down as the worst criminal England has ever known. Sounded good.
"Say that again!" He shouted the scripted words, "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will ssssskin you!" His voice was forceful, and he literally hissed the word skin. He always was one for dramatics. He held his hand to the receiver, his face looking a little gravely shocked, staring down at the bomb.
"Sorry," his eyes moved up to Sherlock, "Wrong day to die..."

-1 year later, Moriarty's POV-
My grey Westwood still looked perfect, as I always keep it, as they read my verdict. Not guilty, of course. My plan had been brilliant, a little boring, but brilliant. All that was left to do was pay a little visit to my good friend, Sherlock Holmes. He'd want to know how I broke into all those places, after all. And I'd 'tell' him. *Evil giggle* Oh, how he always wants everything to be sooooo clever. Pitiful. Of course Sebastian was waiting with my car to drive me there. I missed this. Prison was absolutely abhorring. The smooth leather brushed my fingertips as I slipped in, the snake of the seatbelt immediately being pulled across. Safety first, am I right? Sebastian was sure to make the ride as smooth as possible. He knows better. We pulled in front of the cheery building. I didn't bother knocking as I strolled right through the door, the smell of earl grey quite apparent. Sherlock is such a gracious host, made tea and everything! I sat down confidently in Sherlock's chair, grabbing an apple as I passed, I was sure he wouldn't mind. The waterfall of the tea hitting the bottom of pale china. I didn't bother to look if it was him, I was sure of it.
"Sherlock? I believe you've a visitor." It was definitely a woman's voice, it was soft, yet defiant. It came from the hallway area to my right. I knew Sherlock didn't live with a female. I would've noticed. So, who was she? I adjusted my bracelet so it'd be a little less unbearable.
"Yes, y/n. I know. I've been expecting him." Ah, Sherlock. How sweet. He knew I'd be coming, what a nice 'friend'. I looked to the woman leaning against the door frame with as flirtatious of a smile as I could muster in this moments notice. It was actually quite a bit, I take pride in being flirty. It's fun. She was absolutely stunning. What was her relationship to Sherlock, exactly? The new bracelet on my wrist moved to an uncomfortable angle, and I adjusted it once more. The Chinese symbol on it dug into my skin. Why the hell did Viorous believe this was necessary? I looked her over to see what I could find out. My eyes trailed for usual signs of different habits, different lives and backgrounds. Her h/c hair was in soft, purposeful waves, her e/c clear, yet dark. Not in a mean way, more of, well, almost a seductive way. Her body curved in all the right places, and her tight clothing showed off her figure. Her shirt was a simple crop-top, that was tight around the area it covered, but hung loosely above the area it didn't. She were an army green jacket, it simply hung off her shoulders softly, like it was more protection than warmth. Her nylons had a criss-cross pattern. Her shorts hugged her hips and thighs, and though her outfit was skimpy, it didn't look slutty. She was attractive to say the least, but there was something about her, something that kept my eyes on her even after I realized I couldn't figure out anything about her.
"So. Your girlfriend seems to think you're going to dump her." She said it as if it were blatantly obvious, and my eyes narrowed at her. Looking closer, it was obvious that the shirt was made of a softer fabric, linen, maybe. It flowed like swirling waves down her bare stomach. Her jacket was basic polyester, it was a bomber jacket, and it seemed a little American for her clear British accent.
"Oh, really? And how would you assume that?" I couldn't stop the heat beginning to burn in my chest at her abrasive behavior. This isn't normal. What the hell was happening here?
"You keep adjusting the bracelet on your wrist. Your not accustomed to wearing one, obviously. Could've been a present from a friend or family member, but the symbol on it is Chinese. It means 'forever yours', so girlfriend. Why would she buy something suddenly like that? Elementary, she thinks you're going to dump her. Which, she has every right to. You are." I crossed my legs, leaning back into the seat. My hands clasped to my chin. She was good. Very good. Then, something I couldn't control, nor have I ever experienced happened. I started... Picturing her. It was odd, she was in front of me, and there was no reason to see her in that way. Sexual relations were more to get what I want than for pleasure. So why now? Why was she in my head like that. In absolutely nothing. I turned away from her, forcing my thoughts aside. She didn't know what I was thinking, at least. Finally, Sherlock came in, bringing tea. She butted out of most of the conversation then on, but I could feel her eyes gazing upon me every time I spoke. Every time I knew she wasn't looking, nor Sherlock for that matter, I'd sneak a passive glance in her direction. There were small details that just completely drew me in. One, I couldn't figure anything out about her, other than she was around my age, and was clearly very intelligent. Two, those eyes. They were a brilliant shade of e/c, and the little light in the grungy flat didn't seem to lessen the sparkle and shine in the remarkable irises. Three, the overall fact of what she did to me. Heat swelled through my body, the once controllable fire went rogue, ravaging throughout me.
"So you have two now? Perhaps I should get myself a live-in one!" Instead of telling me who she was, he asks another stupid question. I turned to look towards her, a little more outwardly this time, and it just so happened to be when she was peeling off her jacket, hanging loosely over the back of her seat. The thoughts forced their way through the doors to the front of my mind, the sight of her bare shoulders along with her low cut shirt making the heat burn me inside, and pushing me away from the task at hand.
"It'd be so funny..." Even I could hear the distance in my voice. She was absolutely gorgeous. I could feel my blood sprinting through me, sending my heart trying to force itself from my chest. That damn heat!
" What's it all for?!" Sherlock was desperate, and I had to try and finish this conversation. God, this was impossible! What was she doing, was this purposeful? It had to be! I finished my spiel, carving 'I O U' into the apple, and was almost finished with Sherlock, when she finally said something. Her voice wrapped around me like smooth silk, forcing me to stay at the edge of her words, waiting for them to let me fall off the edge.
"So, if falling is just like flying, is that why it's called 'falling in love' despite the feeling of flying filled euphoria of it all?" She was obviously joking, but she was being very flirtatious, which seemed to only confuse Sherlock. I turned my attention to her, a small smirk tugging at the edge of lips.
"Why? Feeling euphoric?" I could practically feel my irises adjust to let the dark centres expand. I stared her in the eye, knowing she would see this, and though from the distance it was hard to see clearly, I swore hers did, too. We just stared for awhile, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to hide what she was doing to me much longer. Sherlock moved to return the empty tray to the kitchen. I quickly stood up, handing y/n my card, winking at her as she took it. She slipped the card into her jacket pocket, and I slipped out without a sound. Quiet as silence. I spent the whole ride to my estate thinking about her. I tried to force the thoughts away from me, but she just kept coming back. And with her, things I prefer not to mention. Or admit. She was an angel, for god's sakes! She was good in every sense of the word, and part of it drew me in, the other part made me feel horrible for even thinking it. What of my reputation if this got out? It wouldn't exist. I ignored the burning desire deep within me well into the odd hours of the night. When I could no longer distract myself, she returned, as much of an angel as I remembered, and I could practically feel her careful touch. This wasn't going to go away... Just needed to find an outlet. Seeing no other possible choice, I resorted to tactics from my adolescent years.

-Three days later, 3rd person POV-
You couldn't stand it any longer. He was set on destroying your brother, he was a criminal of the highest extent of the word, but that just excited you more. You repetitively swirled your fingers across your stomach, imagining his hands undoing the buttons of your shorts as they slid from your body. It was sickening, and you couldn't stand how you thought of him. Issues like these were supposed to be avoidable by having absolutely zero sentiment, yet you rationalized this being other than sentiment, more closely related to lust. You pulled the card from your jacket's pocket, being sure Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and dialed the number. It was a few rings, and he still didn't answer. You decided on a different method, one that if it went good, you'd be done with this, if it went bad, you could blame it on Sherlock. You dialed once more, this time hooking your laptop to the router, and triangulated where the call would be received. You quickly scribbled down the address, and closed everything up, putting it away. Sherlock couldn't know you had this. His address. It didn't take you long to find a cab, and they were happy to take you to the address, seeing as you were a Holmes child.

It was happening again. He couldn't help it. Images of scenes he only wished could play out in his head as his hands fumbled underneath the restricting suede. Some scenes were less intimate, though, further confusing him, but the ones that were, drove him to madness. Pleasured grunts fell from his lips as his hand traveled down before immediately shooting back up. She was a bloody angel, and he couldn't get enough of her. He had seen her habits first hand, and at first, they all seemed pretty typical. Until yesterday. Yesterday, she was on her usual walk, looking in oddly specific places, he never thought much of it, until a van came from nowhere, and four men tried to force her inside. With deadly precision, she took them all out, and the van sped off. That's when it hit him. The 'strolls' were that of a block check. Like one would see performed by government officials when protecting a minister. Under further examination, he found himself correct. Not only that; he found her last name. Holmes. That's when his heart sunk. All his daydreams and fantasies drawing ever farther away, yet seemed to be multiplying. He knew she'd be the type to tease, to take things either painfully slow, or full of angst. His fingers slid over the top before his hand slid back down, before he forced it to jump up once more. More grunts, until he had almost reached it.
"Y/n..." His voice was a horse whisper, and it was impossible to hear outside his door, but he still panicked when he heard three hard knocks coming from the other side of his bedroom door. He quickly redressed, and smoothed his appearance, checking himself over. To the average eye, it's seem like he had been working. Most of his employees were average, and that was the only feasible possibility. His hand turned the golden extension of the door, and his arm pulled towards him to open it. Hitting the floor with a respectable force, his jaw dropped to see you standing there. Words couldn't describe what he felt. But there were three thoughts that instantly rung out in his mind;
'How'd she find me?'
'Why's she here?' And
'Damn, she looks good...'
"Hello, James. How're you today?" You asked a little quickly scanning the hallway surrounding you.
"Well, I'm fine, and you?" He attempted to play off the shock, but his lustful eyes couldn't help scanning your body. A simple black skirt and a ruffled, sleeveless blouse, with a gold zipper in the back. He could feel the need to pull you in and have you grow, but knew he couldn't do anything. If anyone knew...
"I'm good. How was it?" You implied, and he scoffed. In his mind, he knew you would know, but he wasn't going to admit it.
"What exactly?" He smirked, and you resisted the urge to wrap your legs around him and let him send you to the moon.
"Touching yourself, seems like you're pleased with it, but you are you, you know. If you want someone, take them." You blatantly suggested in the most mocking tone you had. He thought about it for a bit, before taking a step forwards.
"Sorry. I would, damn would I, but she's kinda an 'angel'. I'd prefer not to ruin my reputation. That, and I doubt she'd let me." He sang, and you could feel the heat pushed to your face as he spoke. You wanted him. Needed him.
"An angel, eh? Anyone I know?" You stepped forward, too, and he looked down at you, his face with a mischievous smile, and a malignant look in his eye. Suddenly he seemed almost upset.
"God, I can't take this anyMORE!" As he shouted the last part, you moved to take a step back, only to find his hand keeping you near. The scent of his cologne was unmistakeable, and heavenly complicated. Between the zest and floral scents, mixed with amber and spice, there were laces of scents such as musk and vanilla. His lips met yours with a force incomparable, and you loved it. He swung you inside, refusing to put any space in between you two, and shut the door. His fingers fumbled to twist the lock, but he was still set on never leaving your touch. Once he did, he pushed you into the hard vertical surface, your hands climbed up his neck, and started raking themselves through his once primed and proper, raven hair. His hands no longer just pinning you to the wall, more of an extension, a trap, a cell to keep you in place, and damn, was it a turn on. In a snap his hands were undoing the zipper of your shirt, yanking it down with weighted force. Not caring to be delicate. You let the straps slide off your arms quickly as you started to remove his jacket. A moment for breath as you scanned each other, and the thoughts racing between both of your minds fighting an all out war in your heads. Thoughts including, but not limited to, the lust and need for the other, what would happen if someone found out, and how wrong all of this was.
"We probably shouldn't do this..." You expressed your concern, and he looked longingly at you, knowing you were right.
"You're probably right..." He admitted, and you returned the longing stare. You bit the bottom of your lip to the point you were surprised you didn't draw blood, trying to resist.
"Do we really care?" You barely finished the sentence before he was back on you, his hands slipped into the waistband of the skirt, and tugged it down until it could fall freely on it's own. You fingers entangled in the aggravating buckle of his belt until you finally pulled it from its place, and you instantly moved to pull at the buttons, going much faster. His tongue found its way into your lips, dancing around the space. One of your hands slipped to his thigh, rubbing the fabric against it, climbing to rub where the seams met, gripping and caressing. Every move was returned with low growls, desperate for your touch. He forced off the slacks as he moved his lips to cascade down to the tender flesh on your neck. He found that sweet spot, and sucked, and pulled, nipped, and kissed it. Chains of moans and grunts fueled him to continue, as your hand rested on his head, telling him to keep going. His lips left, and the burning moved to your ear.
"You know what you've done?" He pushed his hips to your body, through the fabric of his boxers you could feel it, and you were honestly pleased that it was your fault, "And now you're going to fix it. Right? You're going to be a little angel and fix it for me?" His hands ran laps over bare skin, periodically stopping to caress your still confined breasts. They stopped moving in the centre in between them, and designed twisty twirls on your stomach as they made their way down.
"Yes." Your breath was staggering, and the word was barely recognizable in the smooth moan. He smirked against your cheek, and his forefinger slipped into the black lace panties you wore, playing with the hard nub above your entrance and clit.
"Good girl." He lightly kissed your temple, his free hand suddenly pulling your nearest leg up, forcing you to pull both legs around his waist. His lips connected to your collarbone, moving along the tightrope of a bone. Your fingers gripped and pulled at his hair, turning it into a mess of flying strands. Without realizing he had moved, he threw you onto the bed, immediately pouncing on top of you. He pecked and pulled at your lips, quickly moving to and from them, heavy breaths in between. He paused after he pulled the lace out of his way. Eyes scanning up and down your body.
"God, this is so wrong." He shook his head lightly as he spoke, but gave you no time to register his words before his lips got back to work. It wasn't long before the last shreds of clothing were thrown aside, and he was pumping into you. With a delicate dominance at first, but as he neared his edge (and you in turn) they became erratic, uncontrolled forceful movements...

You laid beside him, both of you panting and lost of any breath. You both stared up at the ceiling, a mess of two people. It was silent for a bit, neither of you wanting to break the frail bubble separating what you did from the consequences of it. You were the one to break it, finally.
"I am so dead."   The statement was true enough, and it definitely reflected Moriarty's thoughts, too. If Sherlock or Mycroft found out about your little 'escapade', you'd be in a doghouse, six feet underground. If any of Moriarty's clients found out he slept with a woman who was helping to catch them, they wouldn't exactly be happy, either.
"We can't let this happen, again." You looked at each other, and both of you knew that would be difficult. His mind raced through what had happened, and how much he wanted it to happen again.
"Very true..." You thought about it, already wanting his hands trailing your body again, his lips marking new pathways into your lust, and his skin against yours. Everything about it was a drug, addicting to the point that you just couldn't get enough.
"So..." He started, clearing his throat as he did.
"Maybe next time we should plan in advance?" You offered, knowing he would be thinking the same thing. He smirked, trying to stay confident, but the look of blissful relief blanketing him wasn't ignorable.
"Definitely." You immediately pulled your clothes on, hurrying out the door with your possessions, knowing you had little time to get back before Sherlock noticed you were gone.
••••••••••••••••••
The aggressive bites stained purple down your skin. His lips attacked any flesh they could get ahold of as he moved down to your core. His hands pinning you to the hotel mattress by your hips, the soft duvet clasped in your hands so tightly it may rip. Still in his white dress shirt and slacks, it made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and something about that feeling just made it better. A sudden tenderness caressed your folds as he kissed gently. This was the third time you've seen him, so far, and you were still obsessed with how his body moved. His tongue entered and the moans escaping your lips were inevitable as he swirled it around as he found the spot that made you squirm once again. His thumbs traced the bone of your hips as he savored the time he had. He knew you were close as the throbbing began, and he retracted his lips, licking them as he pulled away. He crawled on top of you, hovering with total dominance over your squirming figure. He undid his pants' button, kicking them off without a care. He pressed down, allowing you to feel 'what you've done' as always, knowing he'd soon have a temporary euphoric relief. You glared as he made no move to satisfy either of your's desires. You bucked your hips to meet his, sending a small, thorough pleasure through him. Not even he could deal with the teasing any longer, he tore his boxers from himself, and slammed into you. His pace was slow, but forceful. As the pressure built his thrusts became swifter, and more erratic.
"Don't worry, angel, I promise I've been bad." His growl erupted, tearing through his throat with an unexpected force as he was greeted by the sweet release of you both. He rode it out, before slumping back into the mattress. You both picked yourselves up, and got dressed once again, you leaving before him, as had become habit.
••••••••••••••••••
He patiently waited, checking his watch time and time again. He knew what would happen tomorrow. He just wanted one night. One night to explore if you'd ever feel the same for him as he had grown to feel for you. It confused him, but it was harder and harder to deny each time he heard your name, each time you passed through his mind, not to mention every time he saw you, it was like taking a nose dive. He already could tell that no matter how ordinary you could become, he'd never tire or bore of you. He could listen to you talk about absolutely nothing for hours on end. Not only that, though. For the first time he could remember, he had felt jealousy when he saw the pet Sherlock kept, John, invite you to dinner. And felt over joyed when you rejected his proposal, it sent him to the moon, beyond the stars. He found himself comparing you to every woman he came upon, always deciding you were infinitely times better. He was nearly lost in his thoughts, in his plan for tonight. The door creaked almost silently downstairs, and if he hadn't been waiting for a small motion like this, he wouldn't have noticed. He picked himself up, smoothing out his appearance in the mirror quickly. He was sure to keep Sherlock and John busy this evening, and Mycroft was in Russia. He just had to convince you.
"Ah, finally the angel has arrived! You're late, you know." He sang pointedly as you strode through his door.
"Your guards didn't change shifts on time. You should get that checked out." You didn't have time to turn around after shutting and locking the door before his arms were circled around your waist, teeth and lips nipping at the tender neck flesh. You dropped your head to allow him further access. His hands wandered, slipping off the jeans that perfectly hugged your figure, and the usual loose crop top. He let his eyes examine that gorgeous figure, he pushed his tongue through his lips, moistening them a bit. He wanted to do this slow, he had to. But the ever growing need to have you the moment you walked through the door would be the death of him. He spun you to face him, pinning you immediately against the door. Your hands immediately went to the shiny pearl buttons, pulling them through each of their designated hole. Once his shirt was undone, you shoved it off him, sending it to the floor. He cupped your cheek in a firm, calloused hand, placing the other at the small of your back, taking his lips to yours. It was soft, and tender, unlike what you'd grown accustomed to. Unable to resist the sweetness of it, you wrapped your arms around his neck, hands gently rubbing the back of it, and combing through his hair, to the slow rhythm of said kiss. Without warning the icicle hand from your cheek scooped under you, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. Steadying you on the wall, he moved the hand at your waist to rub the many marks from previous visits. Each movement was purposeful, yet delicate. With each passing second the heat grew and radiated to the other, forcing him to push closer, and you to pull him even more so. He pushed all his force into you, his hands removed temporarily from your body, to force his slacks to the ground. He speedily, and masterly stepped out of them, bringing one hand back under you, the other rubbing and massaging your breasts through their cupped prison. His lips softly made a trail down to your neck, where he continued his end of the kiss.
"You're being uncharacteristically gentle. What's the occasion?" You struggled to say, between moans, gasps, and staggered breathing. He removed his lips, leaving one last lick on the spot, before slowly leaning into your ear.
"My angel, what ever do you mean?" His tone was husky and playful at the same time. It was something that made these nights, risking capture, risking death or humiliation, worth while. That, and him, himself. But what did 'My Angel' mean? It was always just 'Angel', or 'an angel like yourself', never 'My angel'...
"You know what I mean, you're the devil, you know, not an angel." You challenged, wiggling your hands down to brush over his tones chest.
"Don't you know? The devil's an angel, too." He lightly sucked just below your ear, teasing you, daring you to question him again. More you questioned his motives, the longer he'd make you wait, and you knew this was your last chance to enjoy his touch. You hummed in both agreement and pleasure of how his lips and hands moved, letting him have his moment. He pulled one of your legs through your lacy undergarment, then the other, never letting you down, nor his lips leave your skin. His hands then snaked around, unclamping your bra in a single, swift movement. He clasped his lips to yours, placing his hands back on your hips, letting you slip your fingers into the boxers, and drop them to the blood-red carpeting. For awhile he just kissed you, not bothering to get you both off, despite the obvious need for it. After a couple minutes, he was about to explode, and decided that enough was enough. He lifted your hips, placing them just on top of him, letting the tip tease circles at your entrance, before letting your body fall onto it. A long groan came from both of you, and was stifled from another instance kissing session, in which he took the time to move you both to his mattress...
Here you were again, just like that first night. Laying, panting, next to each other, beads of sweat rolling down your body. He was waiting for the moment to ask you to stay, to let him watch over you through the starry time for sleep. Ask to let him hold you close, kiss you goodnight. Your relationship thus far had been purely sexual, and never had either of you expressed even a lick of sentiment towards the other. Mainly because you were afraid to what they'd have to say. Luckily, as escaped droplets hurled themselves from the sky, making a break for the ground, he had the perfect excuse.
"Seems a little gloomy out there." You groaned in self-pity. Sure, you didn't need to go back home tonight, but you figured he'd kick you out.
"Perhaps you should simply stay here." He turned on his side, pulling you into his chest, as if to no longer give you any choice in the matter. You were shocked by this sudden act of affection, but were also desperate for it. Had you not been, you would've noticed how stiffened he became when he first made the movement, as if reserved and worried to. Or, in the very least, how much more relaxed when you snuggled into his chest, allowing your eyelids to slide close.
"Perhaps I should." You whispered for some randomly odd reason, as the world of dreams greeted you. He pulled you even closer, and despite the blatant nudity, he didn't feel his movement was sexual in any way. He rested his chin protectively on your head, and welcomed himself to the world you fell into only seconds before.
"Good." He matched your whisper, unconsciously.

-4 years later-
James killed himself on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's, and even though Sherlock managed to fake his death, it didn't seem like he had done the same. You had accepted his death, finally. Clinging to the memory of your last night together, as a child to a parent. It was what protected you from ever having to truly feel his absence. Or at least, that's what it was supposed to do. Instead, it seemed the hole his departure left was constantly growing, unmendable by boyfriends, or friends of any sort. You never expressed your longing to see him again to anyone, but everyone seemed to notice you had been a little too excited to see Sherlock at first, but after a couple months you swung back into old habits. You waited patiently for Mycroft's black jaguar to come and get you, so you could say good-bye to Sherlock before his six-month sabbatical, to which you'd never see his ebony curls again. You saw the sleek car pull up in front, and a woman you know you've seen somewhere before exited. Her tanned skin and dark hair, as well as her overall features, gave her a distinct Greek feeling. You scanned the car, looking for any sign of it being a fake. Mycroft's cameras focused on the car, and it was obvious that this wasn't the car your eldest brother sent. Curiosity battled with caution, and it was obvious which was thrown to the wind. You are a Holmes after all. You swooped to grab your purse and long flowing black trench coat. You forced it on, pulling the strap of your purse over your shoulders before tying the belt securely around your waist. You flew out of the door, ready to ask where you were going.
"Hello, and you are?" You asked as sweet as you possibly could, stepping towards the lady.
"Viorous Phantomhive, please get in, Ms. Holmes. He's waiting." She opened the door, and you took note of her. Criminal, specializes in weapons, guns, presumably. Who could you be meeting? You also noted how she looked at you as if she wished she could stomp out your very life in a second.
"Sorry, but I am a Holmes. I'm on the side of the Angels, thank you. Tell your boss to go take a long drive off a short pier. Thanks." You stared her down, a light smirk coming to your features. Oh, she was fuming now. Her jaw was clenched so hard you could've sworn it'd break.
"Exactly. You're needed." She shoved you into the back, slamming the door, which instantly locked behind you. You were trapped in soft, black leather seats, which had the distinct smell of nobility, and something else. Something you recognized... The heavenly scent of citrus, amber, and paprika, mixed with an almost floral scent, topped off with a hint of musk and vanilla. It was easily recognizable, but you could only think of one person who wore the terribly expensive Clive Christiansen perfume. And he was dead. He had to be. You carefully pulled your phone out, dialing the long out of use number. It was answered on the second ring.
"Jim Moriarty here, and this is?" It almost hurt that he didn't know who you were, who the number on his screen had to have belonged to, but you didn't care.
"Sorry, but I'd prefer to see my brother before he goes on his little sabbatical." You tried to keep your tone grave, and honest, but failed miserably as your anger began to boil over. You heard his phone drop from his hand, the loud sound echoing through your speaker. Their was a bit of shuffling before he picked up the phone, returning to the call.
"Your brother won't be going anywhere. Besides, what would I have to do with that?" His tone proved he wasn't lying, but this was his car. You knew it had to be.
"Because a couple of criminals forced me into a black jaguar that had the distinguishable scent of Clive Christiansen. It's your car, I'm not an idiot." There was a long pause. He seemed to be contemplating what to do next, and your belief was that he didn't want you to know he was going to kill you. Truth being? He didn't send a car for you. They were given specific instructions to leave you alone at nearly all costs.
"Love, I didn't send that car. You need to get out of there!" His tone was hushed, worried. A new sense of fear swarmed through him. Who had you, and how did they get his car?

He still had to make the meeting with Sherlock, even if all he really wanted to do was find you. Your call cut out before you heard him, and now, he was terrified. He hoped that maybe you got away, the phone broke on pavement as you leapt from the speeding vehicle or something. That you were safe. Sherlock and John entered the abandoned pool building, still on edge about where you went. The waves lapped, making soft crashing noises against each other. Moriarty stepped into the light, doing his best to act confident and cool.
"WHERE IS SHE?!" John demanded, desperate to see his friend happy again. Behind his eyes, Moriarty was running wild.
"I don-" He was cut off by the sounds of two pairs of heels clicking, and someone struggling.
"She's right here." Viorous exclaimed from the shadows. Sherlock and his reactions nothing more than heaving a heavy breath to keep their composure as the woman gripped your arm against your back, the gun only a hair from your temple.
"YOU MONSTER! LET HER GO MORIARTY!" John demanded, and Sherlock raised a hand to tell him to calm down. Sherlock looked at his sister who stared straight ahead.
"She has nothing to do with this, Mor-" Sherlock began to turn to the man he believed responsible, but it would be in vain, and you knew it.
"He's not the one pulling the strings here, Sherlock. He's just as surprised as you are." Sherlock looked to Moriarty, seeing his confusion, and something else he hid behind his eyes. What was it?
"Oh, I know who you are! Both of you, now! The youngest Holmes-" there was a lot of cutting off. Your life was in danger.
"Don't even bother. She knows." You avoided eye contact with everyone in the room. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at you, John's brow furrowing in confusion as they stared at you. Moriarty hummed, and shrugged, as if no big deal. It was the best way to get you out alive, and he knew it. If Viorous knew, he knew why she'd take you. Viorous pulled you along, until you were right on the edge of the water, which Sherlock and you both stiffened a bit at.
"I don't see the point, or what she hoped to accomplish." He spoke directly to you, but the message was for her. The plan was to make her task seem pointless.
"That's what I said!" You insisted, getting hit upside the head with her pistol, "GAH! Geez, calm down, I was just saying." Moriarty flinched, but in the commotion, no one noticed.
"So, you mean to tell me you slept with her, without attachment, without using her, or anything of the same?" Voice of hating poison, slipping from her tongue, wanting a reason to put a bullet through your skull. Sherlock's eyes widened at you, his innocent little sister, before looking to the recently re-composed, 'confident', almost cocky-standing Moriarty. His smirk confirming the meaning of the words.
"Oh please. It meant nothing. Just sex, no strings attached. People have needs, you know. It's called 'lust'?" You mocked her, and it stabbed through him, the sense of honesty penetrating his heart, ripping it apart.
"Why you, then? You're an angel." She spat in defense to what you said.
"What can I say? Girl's got talent." He messed with her, trying to keep up the act of over-all uncaring. Sherlock was still attempting to process the fact that you had slept together, and he didn't even know how often.
"You know when you caught him in his room? You know what he was thinking of?" That's when he figured it out. The damn cameras. You turned slightly to her, trying to know what significance that could have.
"He had a girlfriend. He had a whole list of whores, just like you, waiting for him to feel anything like that for them. But who's name was he calling when he was alone?" She whispered silently in your ear, the boys couldn't hear, and you felt her hand come around to undo the zipper of your jacket.
"Yours." She shouted, causing you to jump slightly as she yanked the zipper down, revealing the weighted bomb.
"James, do tell, what would you do if I shot her right now?" Viorous cocked the gun, her perfectly manicured nail reflecting the dim light. He froze momentarily.
"Probably nothing. You see, I'm only a pawn. Though, shoot me through the heart and he'll be blown to bits." You pointed out, sending the code to your brother, who's breath hitched. Sensing there was more to what you were saying, Moriarty attempted to quickly decipher the small amount of code. For the first time in a while, Sherlock spoke.
"This isn't black and white you know!" He seemed angered by what you were implying, and the other three were utterly confused. That made the code even more difficult to understand, and he tried to calculate what outcome you could be planning.
"Oh please. You know how I see things, why I win so often." You smirked confidently.
"What're you talking about! How do you think your brother's going to feel when your brains stain this floor!" She screamed, hoping for a reaction.
"He didn't care enough to teach me to swim, nor ride a bike. He wouldn't care." You said with a sweet smile, and innocent shrug, as if talking about what to have for dinner. John stared at Sherlock, who suddenly looked really embarrassed. He was meant to teach both you and Mycroft to swim and ride bikes, but ended up only teaching Mycroft.
"I'm sick of this! How do you feel about her, James, and if you lie, I'll shoot!" She shoved the butt of the gun into the tender flesh of your temple, pulling your arm behind your back tighter than before.
"How'll you know if he lies?" She twisted your arm to the point where it should break, "Oh, that won't work. I grew up with Sherlock, remember?" You egged her on.
"SHUT UP, YOU SLUT!" She crashed her knee into the side of yours, forcing a stifled cry of pain to begin in your throat. Moriarty straightened up, protectively, looking ready to attack.
"Tell me, tell us all, what feelings you house for her, or I'll break both of her legs, then shoot you!" She threatened, readying to send another blow to your knee. He swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to analyze what he truly felt.
"And if I do?" He had no other options, he had to play her game now.
"Depends on the answer. If I like it, I'll let her go, I'll let you all go." Sherlock snuck a glance to the now fearful Moriarty, quickly realizing the details he missed earlier. His pupils dilated, body language protective and fearful, and his pulse racing from what he could tell. Sherlock followed his eyes, realizing they were less on the situation, more so on her, as if checking to make sure she'd be alright. Moriarty seemed to ignore, barely even register, anyone else in the room, all his attention was hers. His eyes were distant, scared.
"She's an angel. My feelings have nothing to do with what we are, and that hurts, but there's nothing I can do about it. Um," His eyes followed an imaginary speech card above his head, his voice tripping every few moments, "Y/n's the sister of my enemy, yet the only regret I feel is that I faked my death. The only thing I regret about it is that I didn't see her for four bloody years. I know what she thinks of me. I'm the devil in Westwood, but hey, I worked for that reputation, but it doesn't change what I feel for her." John was watching intently, seeing something no one ever expected to from the villain. He looked... Upset. Broken.
"Which is?" Viorous snapped, her burning jealousy growing as he tried to explain what he felt. His words seemed like poetry to her, who never was anymore than useful.
"I love you, too." You finished for him, shocking even him with the statement. That was the last straw for the gun-wielding woman.
"Fine. If that's how you feel." She held the gun to aim for the trigger of the bomb. You stiffened as James went through fear, then anger.
"You said you'd let her go!" Sherlock demanded.
"If I liked his answer." James looked so defeated, so worn at this moment. Every piece of him breaking. Never had he cared for anyone that shown him a shred of the same. Now, she'd die. He'd have to watch before being murdered.
"Well, in that case. May I have some last words?" She looked at you curiously, finally deciding to let you. She nodded once with a small hum.
"Thanks. Anyways, remember when I tried to teach you chess, Sherlock?" Sherlock broke at that moment, behind his eyes, his usual emotionless shield falling, but nodded just the same.
"That's when Mycroft and I decided you were the idiot. You couldn't figure it out, but then I found the perfect way to reach your mind. The Kingdoms are at war. The rooks are the negotiators." Your focus was on your brother, who seemed ready to break down.
"The knights are the cavalry." He struggled to keep his stone cold persona.
"I love you Sherlock, by the way. The Queen is final line defense." Your words were sharp, strong, and cold as the Arctic.
"I love you, too, sister mine. The King is the people to be defended, but the pawns are forever remembered." His voice cracked on people, and pawns as the others tried to stifle their confusion.
"For the pawns are the martyrs." You smirked, straightening up confidently, as Moriarty finally caught up.
"No." He choked on his barely audible whisper. Viorous noticed how hurt the two geniuses seemed to be.
"Get to the point! Now !" She demanded. You looked to John, then Sherlock, the man you loved, and finally the woman threatening your very life.
"I guess my point would be; Vat-i-can cam-e-os." You said each syllable, before throwing all your weight back, and sending you both plunging into the freezing water. A gun shot rang out, the water stained with Crimson curls.
"NO!" Sherlock and Moriarty cried. Moriarty threw off his coat, and they both began running to the pool. He threw himself in after you, pulling a limp body, described with the h/c hair he remembered bouncing behind you as you moved, only now it was sticking with water to your skin. He heaved you onto the cement, blood spilling from a wound in your shoulder that narrowly missed the bomb's detonator. He climbed out after you, John and Sherlock falling to your side.
"Sherlock, get the bomb off of her, you, if you want to save her, find something to stop the bleeding, then call 999." Moriarty nodded, moving to the coat he ditched prior, as Sherlock carefully stripped the bomb from you. John checked your vitals. Moriarty pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket before rushing to bring it to John. The two men who were always so composed and void of fear or feeling were the two who scrambled, and stumbled to do as told by the ever so calm John. Moriarty frantically dialed the repeated digit, and waited impatiently for an answer.
"999, how can I assist you?" The woman on the line seemed so calm, so confident, and it was just soothing enough to calm him into explaining his situation.
"M-my, um," he glanced at Sherlock unknowing what to say, he took a deep breath, putting on a British accent, "My sister's been shot. This is Sherlock Holmes, we need an ambulance, immediately." He tried to sound as arrogant as possible, knowing they wouldn't want him to be the one to give a statement when they got there.
"On their way, Mr. Holmes. I need you to tell me if she's breathing, and then tell me where she's been shot. Can you do that?" He watched as her chest struggled to lift itself, signaling a breath.
"She's breathing, we're working on stopping the bleeding. I-It was her shoulder, the right one. Just- hurry!" He turned his head as he heard sirens sounding nearby. He sighed in relief.
"SHERLOCK! SHE ISN'T BREATHING!" They all turned their attention to the woman who'd seemed fine seconds ago. They rushed to her side, John needed to keep his hold on the wound. The ambulance stopped in front of the pool.
"They'll only let two of us in. I have to go, but Sherlock, you're going to have to stay behind..." John thought aloud, signaling that he realized Moriarty would be in the back of the ambulance with them. Sherlock nodded, beginning to make compressions on her lungs. You coughed up a spurt of water, beginning to breath again. You forced your eyes open, refusing to let yourself go into shock.
"Y/n, listen to me, you're going into shock, hang on, the ambulance is almost here." John directed. You simply rolled your eyes.
"John, again, I grew up with Sherlock. I'm not going into shock, but I can be of use if you'll be quiet!" You snapped, pain flooding through your body. John have you a wary look, telling you he wasn't ready to give up.
"That woman, Viorous, she has a remote detonator, get it." You struggled, and the EMTs slid into the room, pulling you on to a cot, causing an exasperated groan. Goldfish, the whole lot of' em. Moriarty and John followed behind, careful not to get in the way, and only panicking when the medic claimed you were out.

You struggled to peel open your eyes, already feeling the bones in your hand being crushed, as if your hand was the last thread of hope, and someone was clinging desperately to it. You were blinded by a bright white light, and suddenly you could hear the undertone of someone whispering beneath the impudent beeping of a bloody monitor.
"Hi, I'm up. I'm alive. Can you turn that damned thing off?" You snapped hoarsely. You tried your eyes once more, finding it was much easier. The harsh hospital lights still hurt, but you managed. The person holding your hand jumped out of their seat, moving their hands to the sides of your shoulders, careful not to hit the bullet wound.
"Hell no! That's what I've been listening to for the last three days just to be sure you're alive! It's music! God, I was worried you may never wake up!" The Irish draw was greater than you remembered, and sounded as if he just drank a jar full of nails, but still sexy as ever. His lips were pressed to yours without a second thought, his wet-stained cheeks brushing against yours. The same desperation from his grip and his voice now pulling your lips to his. Unwilling to ever let go again. He pulled away, bringing one hand to your cheek, using the same softness as one would use to hold a glass rose.
"Oh please, I'm fine." You croaked, your usual Holmes-smirk pulling to your face.
"I said it before, and I mean it, I love you, Y/n Holmes."