A/N: Hello everyone, here I am with yet another Sherlock fanfiction! It's funny, because I didn't think I would ever write Sherlock fanfiction when I first saw the show because I didn't think I would be able to portray the characters correctly. But now here I am, on my third with ideas for more. Haha. Anyway. I'll shut up now and let you read.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to BBC. Obviously.

PART ONE- THE POOL

Sherlock forced his eyes open. The bright light sent off a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He closed his eyes. He was lying down, on a tiled floor. His arms were tied behind his back with a rough rope, and a similar rope bound his feet. The tiles were damp, and by the soft sound of lapping waves, he judged he was in a pool room.

Pool.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Sure enough, he lay on the tiled floor next to the pool where he had first met Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock turned his head, ignoring the throbbing pain that sent off fireworks in his brain, trying to take in his surroundings. The only sound he heard was the soft whirr of the air vents and the lapping of the pool. No one stood anywhere in the room.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to remember what had happened. Why was he hear? The last he remembered was walking up the stairs to their flat with...

John.

Sherlock opened his eyes. Where was he? He scanned the room, then tried to crane his neck to see behind him.

John lay stretched out on the tile, tied the same way as Sherlock and eyes closed.

"John," Sherlock whispered, ignoring the fact that urgency filled his voice. He tried to quiet his own breathing, to see if he could hear John's.

The sound of lapping waves filled Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, the slippery tiles making it difficult. He scooted his body over to John's and leaned his cheek down in front of John's mouth.

Warm breath.

Sherlock exhaled and laid back down on the tile. He nudged John with his knee. "John," he whispered. "John."

John's eyelids flickered.

Sherlock nudged him again. John's eyes opened all the way. He blinked and turned onto his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock grunted. "See if you can reach the knife in your left pocket."

John blinked again. "How did you... oh, never mind." He turned and tried to reach his bound hands to his pocket. He sighed. "I can't."

"Turn over to me," Sherlock instructed.

John started to, then paused, wincing.

Sherlock noticed the wince, noticed his shoulder stiffen. He glanced at John's shoulder, relieved that it looked like just his old war wound acting up. "Hurry up."

John sighed, but said nothing. He bit his lip and flipped over, a barely perceptiple gasp escaping his lips.

Sherlock turned over as well, then felt for John's body with his hands.

"Down more," John instructed.

Sherlock felt John's leg, then found his pocket. He reached his hand inside, fingers clenching around John's military knife. He pulled it out. "John, bring your hands up," Sherlock said. He felt John hesitate a split second, then lifted his bound hands to the knife.

Sherlock held the knife in one hand, then brushed John's hand with his fingers in the other hand until he found the rope. He brought the knife down on the rope and started sawing in a jerky fashion. The rope protested, as did Sherlock's sore and cramped muscles.

The first layer of rope gave. Sherlock sawed harder, then the knife broke through the rope. Sherlock dropped the knife. John pulled back and pulled his hands out of the ropes. He sat up gingerly, then took the knife and started working on the rope on his feet.

"Hurry up," Sherlock said.

Sherlock could hear John grit his teeth. "I'm working on it."

John cut through the rope and pulled them away. He turned to Sherlock and cut through the ropes binding his hands, then his feet.

Sherlock stretched, making sure everything still worked, then got to his feet, looking around.

John slipped the knife back into his pocket and stood, slowly. "How did we get here?"

"That's an easy one. Thought you would have figured that out by now."

Chills shot down Sherlock's spine. He would never forget that voice. He turned around slowly to face the door.

Moriarty grinned. "Hello, Sherlock. Surprised to see me?"

Sherlock said nothing. No words came to mind. His mouth grew dry and he tried to swallow.

Moriarty sauntered over towards John and Sherlock. He looked at John. "Still his faitful live-in, I see. I'm just a little bit surprised, considering what he did to you for all those years."

John clenched his fists. "Why did you bring us here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Moriarty's voice rose and he spun around. "I wanted to have a little reunion. A trip down memory lane." He grabbed a chair from up against the wall and dragged it towards them. He grinned and stepped back from it. He turned to Sherlock. "Still speechless?"

"You died," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Yeah, and so did you." Moriarty shrugged. "If you could survive, why couldn't I?"

"But why did you let me destroy your gang?" Sherlock asked. "If you were still alive, you could have stopped me."

"But then you would have thought I was alive." Moriarty tipped a finger at him. "And then this wouldn't have been half as much fun."

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Hand away from your knife, please, Doctor Watson," Moriarty said. Two red dots appeared, one centering on John's heart and the other on Sherlock's forehead.

John grit his teeth, but moved his hand away from his pocket.

"Thank you," Moriarty said. He reached into his suitcoat pocket and pulled something out, keeping his hand tipped away so Sherlock couldn't see what he held. He set whatever it was on the chair, and pulled his hand away.

A small bottle, with a single pill.

Moriarty reached into his other pocket and pulled out an identical bottle and set it down next to the first. "Now, Sherlock. You have a choice to make."

Sherlock stared at the bottles, then glanced back at Moriarty. "There's a good bottle, and then there's a bad bottle. I've heard it before."

"Yes, you have."

"And you know which one is which, I suppose?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Nope." His eyes widened. "It's a surprise."

"I make my choice, and we both take a pill, otherwise your men shoot us," Sherlock said. "Not very original."

Moriarty closed his eyes. "No," he said, drawing the word out. "The bottle's not for me. One's for you." He opened his eyes and looked next to Sherlock. "And the other's for John."

To be continued...