Sherlock feels the heave of his chest as he races down a familiar staircase, oxygen pumping through his veins, his heart thudding violently in his chest. Why is he here? He's not sure, but his mind knows where he has go, even if he doesn't want to. His mind has habit of betraying him, of guiding him into dark, unwanted territories.
The door wrenches open to allow white, padded walls to meet his eyes, horror struck by the open chain lying on the ground.
"I'm baaaaaaack," Moriarty drawls out from behind him, free from his straightjacket and into a sharp, well fitted suit. Dressed for the occasion. "Did you miss me Sherlock?"
His shark-like grin widens as he reaches out to grab something. Someone. Moriarty strolls back into his cell, dragging Molly by her hair. She looks terrified, bruises blooming on her pallid skin, blood painted on her pretty cherry cardigan.
"Molly missed me, didn't you dear?" Moriarty asks, his grip on her hair causing teeth gritting pain. Sherlock can do nothing but watch as Molly refuses to respond. It only angers the Irishman further, his crazed eyes widening as he shouts. "DIDN'T YOU?"
Molly stays resolutely silent, not shrinking away, but keeping her eyes focused on the ground. Moriarty sighs, releasing his clutch on Molly's locks. He forces her to kneel, pulling a gun out the inside pocket of his suit, pressing the end of the barrel into the back of her head.
Moriarty glances up to gauge the detective's reaction. "Is this what you did to Magnussen, Sherlock?" He inquiries. Molly's brown eyes flick up, screaming at him. It's okay. Don't blame yourself. This isn't your fault.
Moriarty turns Molly sideways to face him, the metal of the gun forced so hard into her forehead it leaves an angry, red indent. The consulting criminal grins manically. "No, you shot him face to face, didn't you?" He strokes Molly cheek gently with his free hand. "Shame to ruin such a pretty face though," Moriarty says regretfully.
"Let her go," Sherlock demands. Desperation is leaking out his every pore, every nerve in his body is seized with sheer panic, despite his attempts to shield the depth of it. The cards are on the table, Sherlock has already shown his hand and he fears Moriarty already knows the queen of his heart.
"We both know that's not going to happen, so let's not drag this out," Moriarty tells him calmly. His face twists. "That's the problem with fairy-tales, Sherlock," He mutters darkly, teeth clenching. "Some do go on far, far too long."
"I agree," Sherlock replies, trying to stall him, to figure out some plan to get them both out of here alive. But he doesn't have his brother's help with some sarcastic remark, or John to save the life while he deals with the criminal, no Mary in all black to end Moriarty with one bullet. He has nothing.
"You see, Sherlock, one little pop…" He whispers, but the words are daggers to his heart, to his uncomprehending eyes. One twitch of Moriarty's finger, triggers the bullet, firing straight in the centre of Molly's forehead. Just like that. She falls backward, in the full view of Sherlock's frozen gaze. Dead, glazed eyes, the soul ripped from the honey brown, have Sherlock on his knees. He brushes her blood stained hair from her face, frantically trying to find life in the brightest, the most brilliant woman he's ever encountered.
"…And off she goes," Moriarty finishes, as he saunters out, his eyes gleaming as he shuts the heavy, metal door to the cell.
Sherlock is left, trapped in a self-made hell, with nothing but his worst nightmare.
It's not a jolt into consciousness, spurred by shock, but a slow, sick wait for reawakening.
As soon as he realises he tears away from the material of his chair, heading for his bedroom in a frenzy of hurried movement to where she should be. A cry rips out of his throat as he reassures himself of her peaceful, sleeping figure.
But he has to move closer, feel the comforting thrum of her heart, to smell the exhales of her breath, to let himself kiss the unmarred skin of her forehead. To see her dark eyes glow in the blackness of the night, sparkling with wonder, and humour, and life.
"Sherlock?" She groans groggily. Her dark orbs blink up at him with confusion, but it's enough to settle the anxious drumming of his heart.
"Bad dream," He explains, his lips not ready to leave her skin. He peppers more desperate kisses on her hair.
This is a reminder- a kick up the arse, as John would say- a Molly like mental slap to his face. It's his mind saying focus, focus on her.
Moriarty's threat to him, to her, could not be more stark- it's as clear to him as the dreaded image of Molly's lifeless corpse- but he can't let this madman stop him from loving her. So he allows himself to be lulled by her steady breaths, to forget the unthinkable darkness of his nightmares, and to soak in the euphoria of her presence.