As you all well know. These characters do not belong to me they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this incarnation to the BBC and it's writers!
A/N. First off I just want to say a big Thank You to anyone reading this who read my last one shot, Behind Closed Curtains. I know to some writers 190 views and 4 favourites isn't a lot but to me it was huge specially seeing as that was only my second fic.
Okay a little back story for this fic. It is based post Reichenbach and is set in an Alternate Universe to BBC's The Empty Hearse because the things that happen to Sherlock Post Reichenbach aren't the same as the BBC's version.
Sherlock has revealed to John that he is alive and John got all pissed and went to confront Mycroft where he learnt the truth about the terrible stuff Sherlock has experienced over the past 2 years and now back in his flat John is experiencing the longest night of his life, haunted by nightmares of everything himself and Sherlock have experienced.
I will not be including Sherlock's reveal to John or John and Mycroft's 'little chat' but if this fic goes down well and I manage to get a brain wave I may write another One Shot or even a mini like 10 Chapter fic about those events!
That night John experienced the longest night of his life, longer than those dark humid nights in Afghanistan with the heat and the ever present fear that they may get ambushed, longer than the nights after he returned from war and was haunted with nightmares of what he had experienced out there and even longer than the nights those first few months after The Fall when he had dreamt of the events of that day over and over again and received nightly visits from Sherlock's corpse who blamed him for what happened.
The dream started as it always did with John standing in the middle of Baker Street. It was late evening he estimated and a chilly wind whipped down the street cold as ice, ominous grey clouds floated above bloated with rainwater and he hurried quickly into 221 before he could get caught in the oncoming storm. Once inside and with the door closed blocking out the sounds of the wind John could hear the sound of a violin being played and smiled at the thought of the detective stood, probably facing the window, with Stradivarius in hand. He quickly propelled himself up the 17 steps leading to 221B eager to be warming himself with a cup of tea and watching his friend play.
As he thought Sherlock was stood, back to the room, looking out at the storm clouds and John could practically feel the boredom coming off of him.
"Tea Sherlock?" he asked, not at all surprised when he received no reply, he was used to Sherlock's petulant mood when he had no case to work on. John switched the kettle on and reached into the cupboard for a couple of mugs, deciding to make the detective one just in case.
"Why John?" came the whispered voice of the detective behind him. John turned surprised at the hurt in his friends voice.
"Why what?" John asked. Sherlock still had his back to the room but, upon hearing John's reply he whipped around quickly.
John felt his throat close up and all the breath escape from his lungs. He could see Sherlock's mouth moving but all he could hear was the loud throbbing of his blood pumping through his veins and the distant crash as the mugs toppled from his hands and onto the floor. The Sherlock before him wasn't the one he knew, the arrogant, proud sod with pale skin and protruding cheekbones, this Sherlock was different, broken. Gone where his sea blue eyes which John had seen express love, friendship, laughter, anger and on many occasions boredom and in their place were two glassy orbs staring blankly back at him. A large chunk of Sherlock's hair was missing too and in its place was a dark patch of congealed blood which ran down his face and onto the stained front of his shirt.
After a moment John's hearing returned as his brain caught up but Sherlock's next words made John wish he'd just remained deaf.
"This is your fault John Watson, you were my friend and you did nothing"
John shook his head feeling tears sting his eyes "No Sherlock, I didn't know, I couldn't know, you kept it all from me, if I'd known I'd have done everything I could"
"Lies" Sherlock accused pointing one crooked, broken finger in John's direction. Sherlock moved forward and just as John believed Sherlock was about to walk right into him he vanished leaving John to sink to the floor, head in his hands sobbing.
The dream around him changed, became something new and now John found himself in a dark cell made of stone with a small wooden door with a flap in the bottom and heavy bars across a window into the corridor beyond which allowed someone to check on whoever lay within. There was an overwhelming stench of urine, sick and blood among other things and John quickly brought his hand up to his nose and mouth to prevent himself from gagging. At first he thought himself alone, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw in the furthest corner from the door a stained mattress and upon it a body shackled to the wall. No not a body John realised, a man, he was barely moving but John cold just see the hitched breathing. Whoever it was looked to be in a terrible state, judging from his breathing pattern John suspected several broken ribs, the man's left leg also looked broken given the position it was in along with his right arm which he held cradled to his chest. Several fingers on his left hand were broken and save for a thin, stained sheet the man had wrapped around his waist he was naked and John could see his back, arms and legs were covered in burns, scratches, whip marks, stab wounds and bruises layered on top of one another as when each healed whoever was keeping him here replaced it with a new one.
Just then the fidget slightly and began talking. It started off as a whisper and steady grew louder and louder and what he spoke made John's heart sink, he felt like he had lead in his stomach and the urge to throw up returned once more.
"John, John, John, John, JOHN!" Soon Sherlock, for it was Sherlock, even covered in bruises and grime and with a beard and his dark hair shoulder length and matted John would recognise him, was shouting his name.
John didn't know what to do, he had to leave, to escape this awful nightmare somehow. He turned for the door, surprised when it gave easily in his hand and then he was running down a dark corridor, trying to put as much distance between himself and the scene in the cell. Sherlock's voice, a scream at first slowly faded the more distance John put between them until soon it was just a whisper again and then silence. John stopped running heart pounding and gasping for breath, he needed to stop but his legs kept propelling him away, his brain telling him no yet, you can rest once your outside this godforsaken place, so he kept going slowly putting one foot in front of the other.
After a while John became aware that he was no longer alone and that he could hear a faint whisper somewhere in front of him. He tried to stop, to change direction, but was no longer in charge of his body which kept forcing him further down the dark stone corridor.
After a while John could hear what was being whispered."Johnny, Johnny, Oh Johnny Boy."
John felt dread when he realised who the owner of the voice was, no not you, not now.
The corridor opened up into a brightly lit room, the walls, floor and ceiling were all a bright spotless white and the room contained no furniture. Stood right in the middle of this room was Moriarty dressed in a black suit with white shirt and a blood red tie.
"I hoped I might get to see you again Johnny boy" Jim said, a bright grin lighting up his face making him look slightly manic.
John felt uncontrollable rage at the man before him "What have you done to Sherlock?" he asked
"What no pleasantries?" Jim inquired, pretending to pout. When John refused to reply his face changed to one of mock concern "I gave him to some friends to play with and I'm afraid things got slightly out of hand."
"What do you mean some friends?"
"Oh Johnny, don't act stupid, you're not quite as ordinary as you seem, why else would the great Sherlock Holmes pay any interest to you when he could play with me?" Jim said, smiling again "Besides I have big plans for you Johnny Boy, oh just wait until Sherlock realises what I have planned"
"Wha-What does that mean?" John asked terror gripping him tight.
Jim didn't reply instead he started to sing an old nursery rhyme.
"Seesaw Margery Daw
Johnny shall have a new master
He shall earn but a penny a day
Because he can't work any faster"
As he sang he started to get louder and closer to John before finally he was almost shouting the last line in John's face and then he was gone out into the corridor with only one parting sentence that left John with the realisation that his and Sherlock's fears were far, far from over.
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed this. Let me know what you think. As I said if you're interested I may write another one shot or even a little fic to go with this IDK, I kinda have an idea for a plot that could go after this but it needs to be fleshed out a bit more.
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