Unexpected

Chapter I

TRIGGER WARNING

seriously guys, take care of yourselves :*

Sherlock and John were just coming home after closing their latest investigation. John could barely wait to write down all this uninteresting nonsense of family mess. Sherlock was too annoyed by the human nature of his latest employee to notice the obvious signs in the stairwell, only when they entered the flat, Sherlock froze.

"Someone's been in here."

Smell. Unknown scent. Extraordinary. Male. Somehow familiar... but from where...

Coffee table is slightly out of place. Someone bumped into it. Careless or fast Intruder.

Blood. On his violin. wait. Interesting. Trail on carpet confirming the path to the fireplace.

Sherlock laid down on the ground to inspect the drops of dark liquid. Fresh. Too fresh.

"I think he might still be here."

Alarmed, John pulled out his gun.

The drops led to the kitchen that the two men carefully entered now.

Counter. Handprints. Weak, but not dangerously injured.

Sherlock froze in his motions again. Without a noise he pointed at the knife block. Watson immediately noticed and understood the empty slot. Someone had taken a knife. And much to their misfortune, John had the habit of keeping those sharp like a razor blade.

The detective quickly signified John to check his bedroom, while he would take the bathroom. Of course John had not noticed the obvious signs leading to the bathroom, but their recent case would lead to the conclusion that the intruder's aim was Sherlock, so he preferred John out of the line of fire for now.

The scent of the strange, but familiar perfume, mixed with blood grew heavier as the detective approached the bathroom door that he now slowly opened.

The scene that was presented in the small room was even for the experienced detective a surprise.

A small body was lying in the bathtub in an increasingly growing puddle of red.

Knife. Safe out of the bathtub. Bloody.

Person unconscious. Wrists.. slit. Still bleeding heavily. The man could not have lied there for very long. In fact he must be still alive.

Sherlock rushed towards the limp body and as he kneeled down the face of the burglar became visible.

This definitely was the last thing Sherlock had expected.

Unconscious, bruised and soaked in his own blood laid the criminal nemesis of Sherlock.

James Moriarty.

It was a split second that Sherlock needed to decide. Moriarty was still alive. He seemed to have tried to kill himself. Sherlock could let him bleed out and he would have won their game. The big Moriarty would vanish from the streets of London... That was when Sherlock noticed the message. With his own blood, Moriarty had written a note on the tiles above the bathtub, just before he must have passed out... dramatic diva.

'CONGRATULATIONS'

His decision was made.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock had already tied his scarf around Moriarty's arms and lifted them in the air, when John entered the room with his weapon raised.

"Wh...", was the only thing he was able to bring out at the absurd scenario, "This is..."

"I know", Sherlock cut him off, "Get bandages, disinfection and your medical sewing kit."

"We need to call an ambulance."

"I'm pretty certain that would be his death, now GO!"

John winced at the harsh tone of his flatmate, but ran off to get the tools. Sherlock could not care less. Moriarty would not die. Not that easily. Not now. Not here.

Shortly after, John returned with everything they needed. The doctor had operated in many extraordinary situations during the war, not none had been as strange as this one. He stitched up their biggest enemy in their own bathtub. Still it all worked out. Much to their fortune, or better to Moriarty's, the criminal had a far too dramatic attitude. Unless any smart suicide, he had not opened his veins with one long cut down every arm. No, Moriarty needed to be special. He had carved an S on his left and an H on his right forearm. This whole situation was far too absurd to be real.

It all looked good. Watson had been able to stop the bleeding and took care of the wound on Moriarty's forehead, but he still was not sure if the criminal would make it.

"He lost too much blood Sherlock," was the first thing John said in a long while.

Obviously the detective had come to the same result, he simply nodded and disinfected the crook of his arm.

"What are you doing there??"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"But you don't even know his blood type!"

"But I know his chances. Go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson and get her blood thinner, then you need to produce saline solution."

"Sherlock this is crazy."

"0.9 percent or he will die, John."

There was something in Sherlock's eyes that John could not really decipher. This might be the worst man in the history of crime, but John had once sworn to protect and save every life.

When he came back with Mrs Hudson's meds Sherlock was already injecting his blood into the wreck of a man in front of him.

"Quick."

John gave Moriarty two pills and then rushed off to get the saline solution. It would have been impossible for him to create the perfect percentage, but thanks to his flatmate their kitchen was more of a laboratory.

"He looks good," John said as he connected Moriarty to the extemporary infusion in some random plastic bag. Sherlock made no attempt to react in any way.

"So what are we going to do with him?"

Sherlock showed off in his typical thinking pose, putting his stained hands together and pressing them at his chin.

"He stays here. We have to keep it secret until we know more."

"But this is Moriarty! The most dangerous man in England!"

"Oh John... He came here. Bruised everywhere and obviously beat up but not dangerously injured. Before he decided to rest in our bathroom, he first took a rather sentimental tour through our apartment and then decided to give up his life over just a beat up? I don't think that Moriarty is the head of anything anymore."

"So why don't we give him to the police."

"We all know that he had men among them and whoever took over his seat would be more than delighted to finish their work, don't you think so. And I, personally, would much rather learn who they are and what happened. Until then James Moriarty stays and he stays alive."

John might still not have been convinced, but Sherlock could also not tell him the truth. The thought of his one worthy opponent being finally dead scared the detective to his bones. John did sigh dramatically but agreed, "you clean up the bathroom."

Both of them knew Sherlock would never clean it up, but it meant he had won.