Sherlock oneshots

Sheraiarty~ real

Sherlock ran, his feet hitting the rain soaked ground and splashing up at his trouser legs. He was following the sound of Moriarty's loud footsteps into the darkness of the night.

He'd been waiting for this moment, a moment to strike Moriarty and finish him for good. No more fake deaths. Whatever happened there tonight was real.

Sherlock followed him down an ally, Moriarty chuckling demonically to tease him as he ran faster. Thankfully, Sherlock's hight and length of limb helped tones when it came to chasing short criminals.

The ally became quiet, as the footsteps Sherlock had been following stoped suddenly. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, his rain soaked curls blocking his view slightly.

"Oh Sherlock." Moriarty's thick accent broke the white noise. "You didn't think you could simply get rid of me did you? You didn't think I'd be gone in a gunshot, did you?" He chuckled again, making Sherlock shudder.

"Just give it up Jim, I'm not letting you get away this time." Sherlock yelled, still not sure what direction to face. Moriarty simply hummed in response.

"As you said last time, and the time before that. You see Sherlock? Can't you see that you can't catch me! You can't lock me up you can't, win against me!" His voice grew louder and louder, Sherlock trying to analyse his steps and movements.

Suddenly Sherlock could feel Jim's hot breath on his face, Their eyes finally locking at once. The world seemed to stop around them.

Sherlock said nothing, simply pulling a careless face. Moriarty laughed under his breath. "No defence hu Sherly?" He said in hush. "Fair enough." He turned and began running towards the light of the street lamp.

Sherlock didn't chase. he smiled to himself as he watched Moriarty, Jim Moriarty, trip and fall over a picture frame that had gotten lodged in the ground.

He couldn't help but explode with laughter.

"Criminal mastermind, consulting criminal, most devilishly smart psychopath London has ever seen, beaten by a picture frame." Sherlock laughed as he approached the groaning Moriarty.

"You seriously think I'm doing this again, Jim?" He snarled, kneeling down to his level. "Only one of us is going to come out of this victorious tonight, and I literally have the higher ground."

Sherlock expected some poetic objection from Moriarty, but there was none. He just lied there on his stomach on the wet concrete floor, snivelling and whining to himself.

What game are you playing Jim?

Sherlock rose up and looked around, checking windows above or rooftops for snipers or gunmen just waiting to pull the trigger.

"Very funny, very very funny. Where are they?" He hissed, almost growing frustrated. Moriarty looked up from the floor, his face contorted in panic.

"Where're who?" He asked, his voice strained. Sherlock snorted. "You know who! The snipers, the gunmen, the body guards how about all your clients! You don't seriously think that I believe you came in to this with no backup do you?" His voice rose in anger and determination as he spat each word.

"There are none! This isn't an act Sherlock it's just you and me!" Moriarty yelped, panting at the end of his sentence.

He's really committing to this, isn't he?

Sherlock checked once more. There really was no one around, just him and Moriarty. He sighed, trying to hold back all of his anger as he got back down to Jim's level.

"Don't you dare try anything, I'll have you dead in an instant." He hissed. He lent onto his knees. "Where does it hurt?" Sherlock asked, not with care, but not threateningly either.

Moriarty glanced up, his eyes wet and red, His sharp breaths jolting his body. "W-WhAt?" He lulled. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Where does it hurt?" He tried again.

Jim seemed hesitant, but reluctantly laid his head down on the wet floor. "My ankle." He whinnied.

Sherlock grinned to himself, living with John, an army doctor, he picked up on a lot of safety checks and actions. Ankle injury's were his specialty.

He moved down towards Jim's feet, looking them over from a distance. "Which one?" He asked, already running his finger down the back of his shin.

"Right-t" he moaned. Sherlock nodded and roughly wrapped his hands around Jim's right ankle, making him yell out slightly. He rubbed at all the obvious bones. Not dislocated. He then ran his palm along both sides. Not broken.

"Sprained. Quite badly, too." Sherlock said as he got back to his feet

"Any more time here in such an awkward position will most definitely brake it, the pain worsening more man more every second." He smiled. "So good luck with that!"

Sherlock turned and began walking towards the exit onto the street. "Sherlock no please! Please wait!" Moriarty's desperate helps and scrambles forced Sherlock to a halt.

"Please i-I I know you hate me a-and I know you have no reason at all to help me but- bUt it hurts! Please I need you!" Sherlock turned around, meeting Jim's gaze.

He didn't want to help, he wanted to see him suffer, didn't he? He didn't feel remorse or pain for him, Moriarty was a sick psychopath, no, a spider. So, why did he feel so ill about walking away?

With a gruff sigh, Sherlock moved back towards Jim, scooping the smaller man up into his arms and heading out of the ally. He rushed to his flat at 221 bakers street.

Jim wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and nuzzled his head into Sherlock's chest. "You know if this is an act-" "you wouldn't care, admit it." "-I'll drop you and walk away." "Bluffing, you're bluffing."

—————

Gently, Sherlock placed the sleeping Moriarty onto the sofa at 221 B str. He'd taken more than an hour to walk back, just so that Jim would fall asleep and so pose no threat to John or Miss Hudson.

"You cock, why would you bring him back here?" John whispered in a hiss. Sherlock looked at him and smiled. "We have the upper hand John, he can't hurt us, we won." John rolled his eyes and went to boil the kettle.

He bent down to Jim's sleeping figure, propping his injured ankle up on a pillow. "Careful." Moriarty croaked, his eyes bearly even open. Sherlock smirked as he took a seat next to him.

Sherlock placed a hand onto Jim's forehead, making him shut his eyes and grin. He placed his hand on top of Sherlock's and giggled.

"I love you Sherlock." He hushed. Sherlock lent his head back and smiled. "I love you too." He cooed.

So what happened there that night, really was real.

I keep failing to make these lovey doves, fuck. Promise the next one I do will be more, romantic. This is just and idea I really wanted to write.