We're dead. These words won't stop swirling in my head as I hear the two men enter the room and switch the light on. We're dead. I can feel a drop of sweat running down my temple as I realize our feet are clearly visible from the outside. I cast a glance at Sherlock who seems oblivious to our delicate situation. He is listening to the men, his eyes staring at the door of the cubicle we are hiding in as if he could see right through it.

I try to focus on what they're saying. "He can't speak to you right now. He's keeping quiet until things settle down and this creepy private detective stops running around"

The words are welcome by Sherlock rolling his eyes. I can clearly hear him whispering the words "consulting detective" through pursued lips. There's only one man on Earth who can worry about the label of his job while stuck in a cubicle of a darkened swimming pool. And I share a flat with him.

Suddenly they fall quiet. One of the guy whispers something to the other. Sherlock stiffens, casting me a quick look of warning. All I can hear as I reach for my gun in my inside pocket is the footsteps of one of the men drawing closer. There's no way out. Not this time.

People say your entire life flashes cross your mind when you're about to die. Obviously they never got trapped in a cubicle. Time doesn't slow down in a dramatic fashion. My brain feel completely frozen, I can only register the sound of the footsteps getting louder. I don't think about my family or my friends, nor about the things I regret and the things I would have liked to achieve.

A luck my body doesn't need my brain to react. That's one of the few positive things I learned from Afghanistan : instinct of survival. I draw the gun out of my pocket and point it towards the still closed door, stepping closer to Sherlock. His only weapon is his mind, and all due respect, it won't be of any help in a few seconds. He doesn't even look scared. He keeps staring at the door. There's no trace of fear or resignation in his pale blue eyes, but a glint of anticipation. Maybe he's thinking he's going to solve the biggest mystery of all time.

The footsteps stop next to the door. My heart is pounding in my chest, adrenaline running wildly through my veins. I'm about to fire but a high-pitched voice I wish I didn't recognize paralyses me : "Now now Sherlock, doing dirty things with your pet soldier in a dark cubicle?". I can only stare while the door starts moving slowly. I'm not in charge of my body anymore. "I'm... coming... to get you!"

I wake up to the sound of a gunshot. It takes a few seconds to realize that I'm not dead, that I'm in my bed, that it was only a dream. I try to steady my breathing, repressing a whimper. Bloody nightmares. They won't go away since our last encounter with Moriarty. I lie in the bed for a while, my eyes closed, struggling to calm down. I remember sitting in the study of my therapist : "Nothing happens to me." I snort; It feels like ages ago. I think about the changes my life has been going through over the last few months. About mystery and danger, all the running and the solving. I can't actually remember the last time I slept more than 5 hours in a row. According to Sherlock sleep isn't a necessity but "a choice you would rather not make considering its opportunity cost". I giggle softly. To be honest I wouldn't trade this life for the world.

Maybe that's why I'm so afraid of losing it. I shudder recalling the sound of the footsteps, the deadly and threatening voice, the gunshot... Wait a minute, the gunshot? Panic strikes me when I realize the noise wasn't part of my dream but came from downstairs. After a quick look at the digital clock (4:26 a.m) and still haunted by the voice of Moriarty I get up nervously.

"Sherlock?" Not that I would be surprised by him firing his gun inside the flat, but he's usually considerate enough to wait after 6 a.m to start shooting random things. "Sherlock is that you?" I seize my own gun from the bedside table and head downstairs. "Is everything alright down there?".

My heart miss a beat when I hear a second gun shot and a cry. "Sherlock!" By the time I reach the first floor I already imagined 24 ways Moriarty could have entered the flat and killed him. I don't even bother turning the lights on as I rush into the living room on and nearly stumbles on... Ugh. Never mind.

Sherlock is alone, lying very still on the sofa. As he notices my presence and reluctantly tears his eyes from the screen I curse myself for being so bloody impulsive. He frowns at the sight of the gun in my hand. "John." The voice is quiet, slightly inquisitive. His eyes, previously resting on the gun, begin to scan my face.

"You're... Watching telly.", I answer flatly, the arm holding the gun dangling by my side.

"Your power of deduction is getting more impressive every day John." He loses interest in my presence and turns his face back to the screen. I vaguely recognize an old Hitchcock movie. Typical.

"It's... 4 a.m"

"4:32 to be precise. I couldn't sleep." He dismisses any further question with a wave of the hand.

"So you decided to wake up the whole neighborhood?" I try to sound exasperate but there is unmistakable relief in my voice. A satisfied smile appears at the corner of his mouth. I sigh.

"Why did I agree to share a flat with a sociopath again?"

"High-functioning sociopath", whispers Sherlock absentmindedly, ignoring the taunt. "And at least I'm not the one pointing at the screen with a loaded British Army L9A1. Now please, I'm trying to watch this movie."

I try one last feeble protest, knowing perfectly I won't get any apology for the brutal awakening. "You already know how it ends."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.."

"I-"

"John, take a seat and shut up or go back to bed." He pauses. "Tea in the kitchen.", he adds, extending his arm to hand me his own empty cup. I sigh again and seize the mug, trying to convey as much exasperation as I can in the gesture. I can see his grin growing wider as I fumble my way to the kitchen.

John doesn't notice Sherlock lowering the sound of TV. The young detective smiles to himself. Everything went according to the plan : Nightmares 0 – Sherlock Holmes 1.