Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games

Warning: Spoilers for 1st season of Sherlock. Don't read if you haven't watched the show yet and are planning on doing so.

Copyright: I don't pretend to own Sherlock Holmes, though maybe I would pretend to own Benedict. *Sigh* And I don't pretend to be nearly as talented as Moffat or to own any of the characters that he's created or those that belong to the ingenious Arthur Conan Doyle. The only thing I own is my imagination, some characters and parts of the plot if you squint and read it upside down.

Prologue:

They were caught in a stalemate.

The silent hush that pervaded the room was as deadly as the bomb lying before them. So much depended on the pile of explosives resting scattered on the floor. A matter of life or death. So trite, but too true. Time was frozen around the group standing where paramedics had once furiously attempted to resuscitate Carl Powers. They had failed, and the young boy had lost his life to the poisonous mind of Jim Moriarty.

I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.

Sherlock grimaced as he kept the gun trained on the explosives. Only moments ago they had been strapped to a jacket which John had adorned. A walking bomb; an attempt to get at Sherlock, to get where no one had ever gotten before.

I will burn the heart out of you.

Moriarty had assumed, had heavily relied on the belief that John Watson meant something to him. He wasn't incorrect. John Watson was somewhat of a novelty in his life, someone he could trust as a friend. The devestation of seeing him blown apart...

Sherlock shuddered uncontrollably. He tried to return to a calm sense of being, but the gravity of the situation was fully pressing down on him now. Only seconds ago, Jim Moriarty had played them, leading them to believe that he would let them continue to exist. And then he had stridden back in like nothing, ready to claim two more victims.

His senses had never been so astute, standing in the dim light of the swimming pool, inches away from death, seconds away from an act that would hopefully claim only two lives.

He glanced now at John and nodded as indiscreetly as possible towards the nearby door. A blink. John understood perfectly what was required of him, Sherlock had no doubt. When he pulled the trigger, John would have to be quick to make it safely out of the room before the explosion could claim his life as well.

If he were really lucky, his act would only take one life.

His eyes fell on Moriarty once more. Jim, Jim from the hospital. What an insufferable man? Sherlock could still not decide if he felt Moriaty to be worthy of praise or detestation. Definitely, abhorrence came from the horrid game that the man was playing, but admiration came as well, admiration of the sheer brilliance of the plot that had drawn him so cruelly to this place. Hate or love him, Moriarty was a genius.

Moriarty was sizing him up now too, his face teeming with a number of various emotions. Surprise had been the strongest when Sherlock had first marked his target, but the expression had been a fleeting one. Now a mixture of admiration, intrigue and doubt were flooding his features.

"Do it," he whispered tauntingly, "Blow us to hell."

He froze. For a split second, Sherlock's mind blanked. Confusion flooded in like a bad nightmare, infiltrating his dreams. Confusion was his waking mind's nightmare and staring at Moriarty, Sherlock could not help but falter to bewilderment.

Was the man standing in front of him bluffing? Was he toying with them, forcing them to pull the triggers on themselves? A suicide, not a murder? If he wasn't bluffing, then why hadn't those snipers shot him yet? Why?

Sherlock's mind began to race at a fever pitch. If Jim Moriarty really wanted them dead, he could have already had them shot. A single bullet would cut them down without remorse. Instantly dead, there would be no chance to pull the trigger, there would be no explosion, no chance to drag a third man to his grave. But no. There had been no command and time continued to pass at a snail's pace as the stalemate lingered on. Life and death hung in an unsteady balance with any single decision a perpetual chance to lead to their untimely demise.

And what if John was the one holding the gun now, and not he? Would he have already taken the shot? Most likely...probably...definitely. And Moriarty would be dead...or would he?

This interesting, new possibility burst through him like a blast of light in the darkness of his bewilderment. But before he could further develop the idea, the unmistakeable sound of a rifle going off penetrated the silence of the darkened swimming pool. A sharp cry of immense pain followed, sending a wave of chills sweeping through Sherlock's body. He turned, his mind blank now, erased of any thoughts of Moriarty and the bomb. Horror took over the calm composure he had been struggling to maintain as his mind registered only a single thought. John.

Blood was spilling profusely out of a wound in John's side. His eyes were closed, his breathing laboured as he desperately tried to staunch the bleeding with his own hands. But, despite his best efforts, the blood was still seeping mercilessly through his fingers.

"John!" his voice was hoarse as he gazed at his friend...yes, friend, lying on the ground, pained and helpless. The feeling of sheer terror rising in chest was not unlike the sentiment that had enveloped him when he had first seen John strapped to the monstrosity of explosives.

Time slowed even more, if that was possible, to a point of excruciating sluggishness. Moriarty had made the decisive move, and all resolve that Sherlock possessed was crashing away. In a fluid movement, he raced towards John. As he did, the piercing sound of another bullet being released rang through the air. The shot, intended for Sherlock, narrowly missed his head, if anything, by luck, and, instead, the bullet continued on its trajectory and finally came into contact with the set of explosives.

As the bomb was detonated, the snipers unleashed a hellfire of bullets. Many zipped harmlessly past Sherlock, but one caught him on the shoulder. He forced his mind not to focus on the thrilling pain that stung his entire left arm as he finally reached John.

I will burn the heart out of you.

He could feel the heat of the explosion as it ripped apart the pool behind him. And then, he was lifted off his feet, flying in mid air, flying out of the room.

His body was thrown through the door. Glass shattered around him as he crashed through, tiny shards of debris impaling him as he went. And he seemed to go on forever, a body in the air, controlled only by the laws of the earth. Finally, gravity sank in and he hit the ground, hard, only a few feet away from the exploding room

Sherlock groaned in pain as his head collided with the cold floor. Every inch of his body ached. His mind was malfunctioning. He couldn't think, couldn't reason, couldn't compute. His hard drive was failing. But he needed...needed what...needed something...what?

'Sherlock, run!'

'John'

He tried to raise his head, but his strength was dwindling. Consciousness was slowly slipping from his grasp, but he couldn't let himself fade away before knowing if John...seeing if John was...believing that there was still a chance that John...

By some luck, his eyes settled on a shape lying still, a few inches away, covered in debris. The limp, contorted shape of his body was hardly promising, hardly a reason to rejoice, hardly...

I will burn the heart out of you.

A.N.

Hi all! Yes, I'm back. That's right. A million years later I've made my return to Fanfiction with a new fandom: Sherlock, BBC. For those of you who have never watched the show, you simply must. It's incredible and unique and one of the best shows on tv. The first season just ended and you have a year to catch up before the second one airs so scurry to your computers and watch now. It will blow you away :D

Anyway, I'm trying my hand at a what comes next because I can't wait a year before knowing Moffat's scenario. I know it's probably terrible, but if you'll just give it a chance, I promise it will get better. And to help me get it to that stage, I would love feedback. Feedback makes me smile, makes me write more, inspires me to continue. I don't plan on not finishing, unless people think it's terrible, so let me know with a helpful comment or a constructive critique and a friendly suggestion.

The next three chapters are already done being written, but I need to type them up and edit before they become fanfic material. I hope to have a chapter up a week, but that might fail with midterms breathing down on my neck. But please stick around because I will :D

God Bless,

Faith Rivens