A Chance To Stay Alive - Johnlock

4) Party Fever

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The night sky had grown dark now, covered only by a blanket of stars. Sherlock paced down the empty road, listening to the sound of music growing ever closer. He himself had never been a party person, with all those years locked away from socialisation, the man had never had a chance to be invited to one. Sherlock cautiously nudged open the front gate and advanced towards the door, watching the silhouettes dance around from inside. He gave a brisk knock and was immediately greeted by a stout-looking man with glasses and black hair.
"Sherlock I presume?" He asked cheerily, a beer bottle held firmly in his left hand.
The man nodded modestly.
"Come in, John's in the kitchen. And I'm Mike by the way, Stamford. Me and John met in college."
However Sherlock was only half-listening to this, instead his eyes were scanning around looking for his fateful flat-mate. The man followed Mike inside of the house and slipped off his coat and scarf, hanging them up gracefully on the silver coat hooks. John's old colleague shuffled off towards the living room while Sherlock made his way into the kitchen where his roommate was evidently sat clutching half a bottle of whiskey.
"Sherlock!" he called, obviously pleased to see him.
"Didn't think you'd turn up."
Sherlock walked deeper into the room, stopping besides an empty chair.
"Sorry, got caught up in something," he explained awkwardly, eyeing the rest of the alcohol sat on the table.
The music that was being pumped around the house was deafening, and Sherlock was trying his hardest not to crack under the strain. John was leant back against the chair watching him, and eventually pushed a drinks can in his direction.
"Go on, just one."
The skinny boy stared it for a moment before picking it up slowly, and cracking open the lid. The smell itself was enough to make him vomit, although he felt as if he was going to do that anyway. Sherlock held the can in his bony fingers and took a large gulp, regretting it instantly. He placed the drink back onto the table and glanced back up at John, noticing that something else had caught his eye. That something being another girl.
"I'm just going to the toilet," Sherlock mumbled weakly, walking off towards the staircase. He made his way past the masses of teenagers before heading up the dark staircase and into the bathroom.

Sherlock's first reaction, as soon as he had locked the door, was to throw up. Immediately he staggered over towards the toilet bowl and fell onto his knees. The wretching sound was only concealed by the pounding music from downstairs. A few seconds later the boy pulled himself away and held a shaky hand to his mouth, shocked at what had just happened. Sherlock clambered slowly to his feet and stared reluctantly into the mirror. His face was a sheer mess and he quickly scrambled around, splashing a pool of water onto himself to clean up and running his fingers through his curly brown hair. At last, the boy dried himself off with a towel and made his way sheepishly back outside, longing to go back to the comforts of his own flat. But as Sherlock rounded the corner of the kitchen a few moments later he was met with a slightly odd sight. John's back was pressed against the wall, and he was in the process of making out with the blonde girl from earlier. After the initial confusion, the boy decided that the garden would be the quietest place. He drifted silently past the two lovers and slipped a single cigarette out of his pocket, closing the door behind him. Sherlock embraced the cold like an old friend, letting it wrap it's eerie arms around his body. He crouched over slightly and flicked his lighter, watching as the flame instantly appeared, swaying slightly in the breeze. But he couldn't help as though feeling that he was being watched. And to prove the curly-haired boy's point, when he turned around a few minutes later, cigarette between his teeth, he was greeted with two boys. The first was a tall man stood at the foot of a bench, with messy blonde hair and a dull expression, also clutching to a cigarette. The second sat besides him, his face pale and his dark hair slicked  back, his mouth coiled fiendishly into a smile.
"Had a bit too much to drink have we?" The snide man asked with a grin, eyeing Sherlock up and down.
Sherlock watched him cooly, lowing the cigarette.
"None of your business," he replied, biting his tongue.
The first man chucked and took a long draw from his own nicotine-filled stub.
"Really? Well go on, surprise me," the second man continued, obviously enjoying this little scene.
Sherlock scowled at the pale boy, evidently losing his patience.
"Jim," he replied simply.
"Jim Moriarty to be precise."
Jim chucked slightly and rose from the bench, arms by his side.
"Okay then Jimmy, what do you want?"  Sherlock asked with a frown, twirling the cigarette round his bony finger.
The devilish boy smoothed back his hair and folded his arms.
"I've seen your name before," he explained casually, making his way slowly over to the tall boy.
"Sherlock Holmes, the detective. You're all over the newspapers."
The skinny boy watched on, his mind in a state of nervous tension. The boy next to Moriarty had now stepped forward, cigarette clamped between his teeth.
"Sebastian Moran," he said roughly, holding out a muscular arm.
Sherlock hesitantly shook his hand, noticing the strangely firm grip.
"You see Sherlock, we want you to come with us. You'd be very helpful."

"Sniper," Sherlock said sceptically.
"Obvious really."
He turned to face Jim and his blood ran cold.
"And you, what are you? Because you're definitely not human."
Jim chucked to himself and leant back against Sebastian, his eyes shining in the darkness.
"Criminal, consulting criminal," he answered with a sneer.
"And Mr Holmes if you joined us then you could be one too. You could live out your life, get revenge on those who you hate. I know what happened when you were younger Sherlock, and I think you're missing a great opportunity."
Sherlock stumbled back away from the man, the cigarette falling from his grasp and onto the damp floor below.
"I'll tell the police," the skinny boy mumbled weakly.
"Sebastian's sniper has four bullets," Jim hissed.
"One for mummy, one for daddy, another for your brother, and the last for your dear roommate."
Sherlock watched on in horror.
"You're insane," he cried.
"Aren't you?" Answered Moriarty with a dull expression.
He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and made his way back inside with the taller boy, not making a sound.
Sherlock fell back against the wall, his chest beating at a horribly fast pace.
He had to get home, and now. Because Jim Moriarty knew all of his secrets, and if one got out then that could be the end of all things.