A/N: Hi, folks. This is the first joint venture of Dark Magical Socres and Merdealors. We created this new alias (Dark Arts Rising) for it.

We want to do in turns, one chapter from Sherlock's point of view (written by Merdealors), the next from Moriarty's (written by Dark Magical Socres). Please forgive any language mistakes, as at least one of us is not a native speaker.

We hope you enjoy the story. Please R & R!

Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock (it's a pity, though)

The unwilling guest

1. Sherlock, my dear

Sherlock Holmes stood in the hidden corner behind the doorway and watched the house on the opposite side of the backyard. The collar of his coat was folded up, his hands dug deep in his pockets and his face was almost hidden in the scarf. And yet the cold rain was dripping on his neck and he was freezing.

Damn the villain for not showing up! Damn John Watson for being down with the grandmother of all flues! Damn Lestrade for being on holiday in some sunny resort in the Mediterranean whilst some unfortunate Consulting Detective cooled his heels – and very literally so! – in the dreary drip-drip-drip of a persistent November rain in the outskirts of London, waiting for a serial killer who didn't want to come.

Damn, damn, damn!

Why on earth had he not chosen a cosy little office job like his brother Mycroft? Central heating, regular fees, no 'leg work' except for the daily walk to the cafeteria. If one could call brother Mycroft's activities 'work'!

But no, Sherlock Holmes had to spend his life in misery; to be sure it was a law of nature!

Six times the serial killer had struck, regular as clockwork. Always red headed young women, always in the outskirts of the big city, always on a rainy day. The only ingenuity of his 'method' was the escape route.

Christ, with Lestrade away and Anderson (oh but for crying out loud, Anderson!) in charge of investigations it had taken Sherlock even longer to convince the official safe-keepers of the law that the killer entered and escaped from every crime scene through the sewer system of which he obviously had intimate and profound knowledge.

Three days, three boring, exasperating days Sherlock had talked, talked, talked, like to an especially dump horse – which, of course, Anderson was – before the forensic specialist, for some inexplicable reason of his own trying to change his path of career by becoming a detective – had finally got it into this thick head of his that Holmes had found the ideal trap for the 'red head killer', as the yellow press had nicknamed him.

And what was the result of it? Anderson and his men were stuck in a traffic jam, Anderson had successfully annoyed each and everyone who'd be able to get him a helicopter and Sherlock was here alone, to plough a lonely furrow.

Great. Just great!

And the worst of all – Sherlock's trap did not work. Thrice the young policewoman who'd been brave enough to act as bait had contacted him, asking for orders, as nobody showed up.

Holmes made up his mind – five minutes more and then he'd call it a day, tell the young woman to go home and admit defeat to Anderson. It would make the imbecile's day but Sherlock would have the last laugh as he already had another tack in mind to capture the murderer. One which didn't include Anderson or The Yard at all. Besides, it would beware the Consulting Detective from freezing to the spot!

The minutes ticked away, one by one and Holmes reached for his mobile when suddenly something stirred in front of the other house. A man in a grey jumpsuit became visible, entering the backyard from the left side.

The side were the sewer system ended!

"I think he's coming!" Sherlock whispered into the mobile and the woman acknowledged the warning.

When the murderer – Sherlock had no doubts that this was his man – furtively entered the house, the Detective sneaked inside in his wake and followed him, without a sound, upstairs.

Once he'd reached the upper floor, Sherlock gave his prey a second to open the door with a lock pick. A minute later Holmes heard a short, sharp scream, then the sound of a brief struggle and the shot of a handgun. He dashed forward, taking the remaining few stairs with one leap and darted head first into the flat.

Where he froze! Just this time it wasn't from the cold.

The killer, one shoulder bleeding from what could only have been a graze shot, was bent over his victim who had at some point of the struggle been knocked out. At the sound of Holmes coming in, the man turned quickly but not without taking the girl up with him; using her as a shield.

The weapon he pressed against her temple was definitely not a police gun. The Yard usually did not use 357 Magnums.

Sherlock gulped down a lump of apprehension. Never before the man had used a firearm! Just his fists and, later on, a surgeon knife.

"Thought I'd come somewhat well prepared" the killer said, smirking. "You meant to catch me that easily. Thought I do not pick my lady-friends carefully. But I'm not a fool."

"Seems that I'm the fool here" Sherlock cursed himself, all of a sudden hilarious that Anderson wasn't here to witness his utter disgrace. However, on the other hand, the police's absence – except the unconscious woman – did nothing to improve their situation.

"Let her go" Holmes said as evenly as he could. "If you're here for a duel, that's fine with me. But not with her in the fire line."

"A duel?" The man seemed to think about the term. "Yes, I reckon one could call it that." His grin widened. "You know, when I spotted you, by sheer luck it was, I thought of a buddy of mine. You jailed him for life. I thought, why not have a wee bit o' fun with the little lassie here and see you go to hell for molesting my friend, all on the same day."

"You'll have to do without the fun part I'm afraid" Holmes replied.

"Oh will I?" The murderer fondled his hostage affectionately. The woman stirred uncomfortably and her captor looked down at her, taking his eyes off his opponent.

It was the slightest chance possible and yet Sherlock was so hell-bent on making amends for his former idiocy, possibly before the woman was able to realize what a half-wit he'd been, that he jumped the killer nonetheless.

The man yelped angrily but let go of his captive, pushing her aside.

Both men were worthy opponents of each other once Sherlock had kicked the gun out of the murderer's hand. Neither of them was able to win the upper hand.

At least not until the killer pulled a vicious looking knife out of his waistband without Sherlock noticing it. The Detective had reason to regret his sloppiness when the blade barely missed his heart and caused a big slash across his chest.

For a moment Holmes lost his rhythm and staggered, which caused a triumphant howl from his enemy and a renewed attack, the knife raised high, ready to kill.

The sharp sound of a shot into the ceiling interrupted the intended coup de grace. "Don't move!" the policewoman ordered. "Hands up!"

Holmes drew a deep, relieved breath, yet the murderer just shrugged. "You won't shoot" he said as he, as quick as lightning despite his injured shoulder, jumped forward and pushed Sherlock towards the officer, effectively blocking her line of fire.

Before anyone could hold him, he ran out and, judging from the sound of it, downstairs.

"Tell Anderson I'm after him" Sherlock screamed, mad with rage and humiliation. He was on his way before the woman could do anything. She hesitated just a second too long, torn between her instinct that told her to not leave the Detective to his fate and Anderson's strict order not to meddle with Holmes' work.

When she finally decided to follow both men, informing a shocked Anderson via mobile about recent events, it was too late.

The sewer cover was removed and the footprints made it clear that both Detective and killer had entered the system. She climbed down the ladder and followed the main corridor; however it split up two ways and alas, she chose the wrong one.

To be honest, Anderson was crestfallen. Especially as he thought of what Lestrade might have to say about the debacle when he came back. Anderson had his whole department searching for Holmes, day and night but they didn't find him or the murderer.

Therefore the police could not know what had really happened in a remote corner of the sewer system, where Sherlock had finally trapped his adversary.

They had resumed their fight and this time Holmes had been on the winning side, as the injury now troubled the killer more and more.

It had just been bad luck that Sherlock had slipped on a piece of slimy, wet and indefinable mud in the last decisive moment. Usually as sure footed as a mountain goat he lost his footing in midstride and toppled over.

The last thing Holmes thought before the murderer's fist hit the back of his head with brutal force was "Mycroft won't like this!"

The killer waited a split second, panting heavily, until he could be sure that Holmes was out as a light.

Finally he swept the sweat from his face. "Going to have my fun after all, won't I" he muttered before he went down on his haunches to tie the unconscious man up with his own belt and scarf. "Can have a redhead any day, but you – that's going to be special."

"Yes, he is special, isn't he" a soft voice said in his back.

The killer shot to his feet and darted round.

A young, dark haired and dark-eyed man was watching him carefully, with a sad little smile. He would have been insignificant, not in the least intimidating, had it not been for the gun in his hand.

"What the hell do you want?" the killer snapped. "Who are ya?"

"This is the underworld" the young man smiled. "Take a guess – who am I?"

No understanding dawned on the killer's face. He still looked ridiculously dumbfounded when the projectile hit him and blew half his head away.

With an expression of utter delight the youngster saw the dead man fall into the, after many a rainy day, rapidly flowing water that took him away, mercifully hiding the gruesome state of his face. It would sure take time before the corpse would show up somewhere in or by the river.

As he put away his gun and strolled towards Holmes, hasty steps approached the young man.

"Sir" a breathless man addressed him a minute later. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine" the young man said. "But it's good you're here, I'll need your help with my friend. He needs a doctor and a nice, comfy place to recover from his ordeal."

Without any questions – he knew better than to question this man's orders! – the bulky newcomer lifted Sherlock on his arms and made for the nearest exit where their van was waiting for them.

When Sherlock passed him by, the young man petted his cheek affectionately, and a bit worried. "Just as well that I keep a close eye on you my dear, isn't it?" he said softly. "Without me, what would the nasty man have done to you, hmh?"

Then he followed his helpmate and added "Take care Sherlock's not harmed any further, you hear me?"

"I will" the other replied eagerly. "I will, Mr. Moriarty."