Moriarty Is Dead

Sherlock pushed back the metal door, the scraping sound echoing in the abandoned warehouse.

Earlier that day, Mycroft had called him.
A small town police department had phoned some higher ups, who had phoned their higher ups, who'd phoned him. Mycroft hadn't explained what'd happened, but whatever had, had resulted in someone being stabbed, likely mortally. The reason Sherlock had been asked to investigate - was that the someone was rumoured to be Jim Moriarty.

Somehow that seemed unlikely. A master criminal without his bodyguards or at least some other company in an old country warehouse in a situation which would risk him being stabbed... It didn't float well with Sherlock.
Still, he'd been working a case relatively nearby and couldn't see any harm in taking a look.

The sound of his steps bounced off of every surface; the wet stone making an almost clapping sound each time.
He looked between the ageing metal pieces of equipment. He listened to sounds of dripping water, swinging chains, his own steps and... soft, uneven, rugged breathing.
Following the sound, he headed for the far right side of the warehouse: making his way between the maze of abandoned works.

It was him.

Moriarty was sat on the floor, leaning against a machine, his hand over the red stain that'd spread on his shirt.

"Hello, Sherlock," He greeted, "Have you come to see what it's like to die?"

"You're not going to die," Sherlock replied, approaching him.

"I am going to die," Moriarty argued. Sherlock knelt beside him.

"It almost sounds like you want to die," Sherlock muttered. The stab wound was in the abdomen, and there was a lot of blood.

"Strange concept that..." Moriarty sighed. There was no way of telling if any organs had been ruptured without actually looking at the wound itself. However, the stomach was likely okay, since Moriarty didn't appear to be coughing up any blood.

Sherlock took out his phone and called Mycroft.
"Is it him?" His brother immediately asked.

"Yes. Can you get a helicopter here?" Sherlock answered.

"If it's him, there'll be no need for that," Mycroft remarked. Sherlock paused. He hadn't expected Mycroft to give up Moriarty's life that easily. Previously, he'd made out that Moriarty was very useful to him, especially in concern to holding information.

Moriarty had clearly heard what Mycroft had said, and was pulling a face which depicted false shock.

"Mycroft, you-"

"Sherlock, you must understand: in the past, he's been very uncooperative. I reckon we have better chance getting what we want from his contacts once he's deceased than we do with him whilst he's alive," Mycroft explained. Moriarty nodded in agreement - his face depicting that he thought Mycroft's point fair.

"Send a helicopter," Sherlock ordered, ignoring what his ignorant brother had said.

"I'll think about it." Mycroft hung up. Sherlock took that as a likely no.
He took a deep breath, thinking what to do. He couldn't just leave Moriarty to die, but he couldn't help him on his own.

Sherlock reached forward, and gently removed Moriarty's hand from covering the wound. There was a lot of blood.
He returned his hand to where it'd been.

"Keep pressure on it," He mumbled in instruction, looking around for anything that'd help. There seemed to only be old machine parts... "Was the blade clean?" He asked.