Sebastian Moran, head sniper and right-hand for Jim Moriarty. Untouchable due to his own training. A wall of mass and muscle, who killed a tiger with his bare hands, and could shoot a paper plate from a mile away. He was a ruthless killer, and could mercilessly torture anyone- sinner or innocent. Jim wasn't any better, except he didn't like getting his hands dirty. That was what Sebastian's main reason was, but that wasn't his only purpose, either. They were best friends, really. Maybe that's why they both felt equally responsible for the petite, h/c haired girl known as y/n Moran. The small girl who was so painfully shy, and innocent, that she could barely look her own step-brother in the eye when they spoke. The same little Moran sister that when she was sixteen, for just over four years, Jim stopped thinking of the young woman less as the adorably innocent little sister that'd follow them everywhere, and more of gorgeous woman he more or less fell in love with. He came to his senses not long after, and instead of their relationship becoming awkward, they became closer. She wasn't just Sebastian's little sister, she was his, too. Of course, that wasn't something that just happened. It was a few realizations of age difference (about five and a half years), and a very pissed off Sebastian, who nearly fed him to the tiger, rather than killing it. That, and that time he saved you from this rapist, and he realized how fraternal his love for you really was. And that's all that was. Of course, this sentiment towards you made both the criminals excessively "weak". Something they both weren't aware of until the day Sebastian took you out for coffee. You were just enjoying each other's company, waiting for Jim to finish some work back at home. That's exactly when it happened. It was a clean shot, straight through the shoulder. A flesh wound, especially compared to some of his injuries, but the moment he saw the blood seeping into the fabric of your soft blush dress sleeves, his heart stopped. You'd instantly fell into his arms, and as he carried you to the car, he was already calling Jim.
"I'm a little busy, Seb. Sherlock needs a new game, and-"
"Shut the bloody hell up, Jim! She's been shot!" It was a harsh crashing sound, as Jim scrambled out of his falling chair as he heard. He didn't want to admit this had happened, but they both knew they couldn't take you to hospital. It was dangerous. For one, they could find out your name, and your last name being 'Moran' would hold many flags for police. The moment they heard it, they'd assume you were Sebastian, the infamous sniper. That'd just lead to your arrest. Second, they could refuse to treat you if there wasn't any ID given. Which was the worst case scenario. None of the doctors they had on hand were close enough, and you needed help now.
"Okay, okay. Take her to Baker Street, take her wallet and any form of ID, keep her phone. I'll change the names from here, uh, and I'll tell Sherlock it's part of the game. His pet can help her..." They both knew it wasn't the greatest plan, but it was all they really had at the moment. Sebastian spun the car around, in which was likely an illegal way, but honestly- criminal. What did he care?
By the time he got to Baker Street, he was in tears, and you were fading quickly. You hadn't gone into shock, he could thank your brilliance, and Jim's teachings, for that. He just didn't know how much longer you could hold on. When he got to Baker Street, he quickly stripped you of any identification, and moved you swiftly to the flat's door, and ringing the bell once before making a quick escape, hiding in his car. He watched as John immediately panicked, pulling her in the moment Sherlock received a call. Jim. That's when you blacked out...

You awoke to the man you knew as Sherlock Holmes staring at you quizzically. His eyes were absolutely gorgeous, you'd never seen them quite this close before, but they were. You immediately curled up into a ball, ignoring the small pain in your shoulder as you hid inside yourself.
"Your password is quite impressive. Ms..?" He tried to get your name, like it would solve his mystery.
"L/n. Y/n l/n." Your voice was a small whisper, and his brow furrowed. Someone so timid could never be someone Moriarty would choose to save, no, she was a hint at something... right? No, Sherlock thought, he was unpredictable. He couldn't get a read on her, other than her excruciating shyness, and he couldn't help but take notice of how well she handled just being shot.
"Do you know who Jim Moriarty is?" He continued to question, and noted that you didn't even react to the spoken name. That was a 'no', then. He just got a small shake of your head as a response. He groaned, and though Jim had told you he was a pompous prick, it was just downright rude.
"SHERLOCK!" John snapped at his friend, who barely reacted as he studied you. The littler man, who was to Sherlock as Dean was to Sam, and Jim had never told you about him. Your eyes quickly scanned him, picking up small details here and there. You made a mental note to address him by 'Dr', not 'Mr'.
"Hi, sorry about him. I'm John Watson, and as you've heard, he's Sherlock Holmes." John offered you his hand. You didn't really know how to react, but the doctor seemed nice, and he had to have been the man who patched you up.
"H-Hello, Dr. Watson. Pleasure to meet you." You carefully handed him your hand, not meeting his eyes as you did so. He smiled kindly, immediately feeling even worse about how Sherlock had acted. Obviously, you were very shy, and Sherlock's abrasive personality couldn't be helping.
"Doctor?" Sherlock asked, coming much too close for your liking. John groaned, and pulled his friend away from the pretty girl (you).
"Sherlock, she probably reads the blog, or has seen us in the papers. Leave her alone." He threatened, and Sherlock left with a small huff. The kind doctor stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to say, until he cleared his throat.
"Would you like a cuppa? Maybe some biscuits, as well?" He had these warm, kind eyes, and his hair was cut the same way as Sebastian's. You slowly unraveled yourself from the little ball you'd been in, and trained your eyes on the ground. Why did he have to keep asking you questions.
"Th-That would be very kind of you... yes, tea would be very nice. Please, and thank you." John smiled as your words shivered out, and nodded. He retreated into the kitchen, trying to stop himself from wondering the same thing as Sherlock.
Why did Moriarty have them save you? It wasn't like he wouldn't have helped a person who'd recently been shot in the first place, but Moriarty was in the equation now, and they both were confused.
"So, uh, are you from London, or..?" Small talk. He was curious, and you couldn't blame him, but this was bad. Very, very bad. Any slip up and Sherlock would likely figure you out.
"Yes." Your answer seemed to only peek out before retreating back to hiding, and John was afraid he'd overstepped a boundary.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so invasive, just curious. That's all. I do so apologize." You smiled quaintly up at him as he handed you the warm cup, and you gladly took it with your good arm.
"It's fine, thank you." You were quickly warming up to the nice man, and Sherlock and in, back on the phone, eyebrows scrunched together. He mouthed one word, and you and John had two very different reactions. One, over the moon, the other, sunk into despair.
Moriarty.
"Who is she?" Sherlock demanded, listening carefully to the criminal's response, trying to put the pieces together. It was obvious you never committed a crime. Small, meek librarian who was suddenly shot out of nowhere and put on their doorstep. The stranger part was how you didn't appear to be just anybody. You forced yourself not to go into shock, and though John said it was probably from their fame, you knew he was a doctor almost instantly. It didn't add up. Moriarty had to have chosen you for a reason, but if you, as he was guessing, were above the average level of intelligence, he may have taken an interest in you as an 'enemy'. What was all this about?
"No one you need to be concerned about. Remember the rule, Sherlock; YOU and John have to take care of her. Alone."

~Several days later~
You were still staying in the flat, John had hit on you a few times, and a few cases had rotated through the doors and to the detective. Even more on the point; Sherlock had began connecting with you. He'd be working diligently, and you'd just mutter a word or two, and suddenly it all made sense. Or, once or twice, he'd take you with him to the crime scene, and (in between your slinking around to avoid people) you'd provide some helpful insight to details even he missed. Then Anderson would hit on you, and he wanted to scream. For one, he would do it in the literal most disrespectful way possible, and, number two, it was absolutely disgusting. Plus, when you actually blushed at his frail (futile) attempts at compliments, his chest would do this tightening thing, and he wanted to just take you back to the flat. It was somehow even worse when John did it, because you actually responded. And to add salt to the wound, as they say, you'd sometimes even flirt back. Honestly, it made his skin crawl.
Now, you sat in the flat, John out getting groceries, while Sherlock tried to explore the unique feelings you brought up through use of his mind palace. You just sat and read A Tale of Love and Murder. It was around chapter twelve when you stopped, and the moment you set the book down, you were met with two unbelievably gorgeous grey-ocean eyes, staring directly into yours with such a burning curiosity it flushed your cheeks with the heat.
"Your pupils are dilated. Did you know that?" He examined each of your features, clearly trying to take the upper hand.
"Yours are, too. Did you know that yours do, too?" Now it was Sherlock's turn to have his cheeks painted blood red. He swallowed, as if to swallow his pride, and leaned in a bit, never breaking eye contact with you. He couldn't, not really. He was obsessed with remembering the exact look in your eyes, each and every colour, and emotion. His lips connected with yours, only enough to feel of them, but not enough to be considered a real kiss. His eyes didn't leave yours, even despite how yours grew wide at the sudden sensation. Before you could stop yourself, your lips pressed deeper into his, making it a real kiss. Soon enough, he was on top of you, and your arms were laced around his neck, as his lips attacked yours with a sudden hunger. All the while, he made the mental note of this was the one time you hadn't broken eye contact with him.

When Jim and Sebastian saw the kiss on the camera they installed, nearly two hours after it happened, they were thoroughly stunned. One thing was for sure, though. They both wanted to tear Sherlock Holmes to pieces.