Something random that popped into my head. I'm not sure where it would fit into the episode - probably the bit with Moriarty, but I like how that scene played out. This is another thirty minute job.

There was a noise behind him, and he whipped around – with more urgency than he'd like to admit. His mouth dropped open.

"No…"

Moriarty. Moriarty. All reason lost his head. Everything he knew was gone. Only the fear remained. The fear. The ultimate, paralyzing fear. He could barely move. It was the man. That man. And he was getting closer.

Sherlock tried to cry out, but instead he uttered a strangled, guttural choke. Unable to speak, barely able to move, he pulled out his gun. Still Moriarty approached, his eyes wide and crazed. He stopped when Sherlock's gun aimed at him. He smiled. That same, sickly, shuddering smile that he had given at the pool, right before Sherlock had been about to pull the trigger. Right before the phone call that had saved their lives.

Moriarty leapt. Sherlock yelped and nearly dropped the gun. The phantom was twisting his wrists, wrestling the gun from his grasp. Someone else was at his shoulder, tugging at his arm, shouting in his ear, but Sherlock couldn't make out what was being said, couldn't identify who it was, couldn't care less, couldn't think of anything but the murderous man he gripped him. The gun fired, and there were several more shouts. Someone pushed Sherlock to the ground, and then there were arms under his, pulling him along the floor. Sherlock screamed, actually screamed, such as he never had in his life. Moran. He knew it was Moran. He shut his eyes and screamed and struggled and was occasionally able to form words.

"John! John! No! JOHN!"

Somebody else grabbed another arm, surely Moriarty. He began shouting louder and louder until he was certain that the whole of Baskerville was awake, and he didn't understand why John hadn't come to help him, why he still struggled against these two men.

The gunshot.

John had been shot. He had shot John. And now he was lying injured or dead. And it was his fault. His fault. He began to struggle more, desperate to reach his flatmate, but the grip just tightened, and he could barely feel his arms, and he didn't know how long any of this had been happening, and he opened his mouth to shout again and then… and then it was over. His would-be captors released his arms and his torso fell to the floor with a soft whump.

The fear slowly disappeared. And he felt foolish.

Someone was gripping his shoulders, patting at his face. Through his shame, Sherlock managed to force his eyes open. They stared straight into those of John Watson. And John Watson's looked concerned.

Just behind his flatmate, Sherlock could see Lestrade, almost as worried, presumably the other person who had dragged him.

His cheeks and eyes felt suddenly hot. It was a drug. He had known it was a drug. He had already worked it out. Why… did he really fear that man so much?

John was still crouching almost on top of him. "Sherlock, are you alright."

Sherlock swallowed hard, nodding, though his breathing was still laboured. "I… I'm fine," he panted. "Where… we need to get back to… to Henry."

John's eyes widened drastically. "Christ, you're right!"

He got up and ran back through the trees, closely followed by Lestrade and Sherlock.

Soon, all three men had been swallowed by the darkness.

Several days later, back at 221b, Sherlock skulked into the living room, wearing his blue dressing gown. John looked up as he entered, and he stopped. John had been completely ignoring him since they got back. He was still annoyed about being locked in the room in the laboratory.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. The army doctor met his gaze, even offering a heartfelt smile.

The young detective 'hmphed', realising that he didn't actually care about John's change of heart. He slunk over to the couch and dropped down, picking up a magazine, which he proceded to flick disinterestedly through. He was annoyingly aware of his flatmate still watching him.

"Yes?"

"I was updating my blog just now," said John, airily. "Writing up the Baskerville case."

"Oh?" Sherlock turned the page. "And I suppose you realised that the experiment was necessary to the case?"

"No, actually. I still think it was an incredibly insensitive thing for you to do."

Sherlock snorted.

"But then I realised that I wasn't the only one who got scared out there."

His flatmate dropped his magazine and sat up sharply. "You didn't."

John smiled again. "No, I didn't mention it, and Lestrade promised not to tell anyone. You're alright Sherlock."

He waited until Sherlock had resettled himself on the couch before continuing. "Look, Sherlock…"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sherlock. Come on. You can tell me. What did you see?"

Sherlock sighed and put the magazine down a second time. "I'd really rather not say."

"Tell me."

The detective rose from the couch and went to the window. "A few months ago, John. You must know what – who – I saw. It's a deduction."

There was a pause, and then "…Really? Moriarty?"

Sherlock didn't react. John frowned. He put down his laptop. He got up. He went over to his friend, stood beside him at the window, hands held behind him.

"Do you want to know a secret, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned his head towards him. "What?"

"I saw him too."

The stood there together, side by side, for several minutes, united as they looked out the window.

John smiled weakly. "At least he's in a cell now, Sherlock."

"Yes. He won't be getting out any time soon."

Reviews welcomed.