This is my very first fanfiction. Ever. Hopefully I did alright:)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, blah, blah, blah.
John Watson screamed Sherlock's name, the cold air sending shivers down his spine. His blood ran cold at the realization of what was about to unfold before him.
Sherlock was standing on the edge of a very tall building, dangerously tall. John then watched Sherlock's body slowly lean forward, arms outstretched to his sides, as he plummeted towards the stony sidewalk below.
He watched with horror for what seemed like eternity until he saw his friend hit the ground. It couldn't be true. He tried calling Sherlock's name but no sound came out. Sherlock wasn't moving; he can't be dead, he can't be dead, John thought to himself.
He was running, running as fast as he could towards his friend's motionless body, still in utter disbelief at what his eyes just witness.
A bicycle side-swept him and, as he hit the ground, he felt like he was dying; his whole world was crashing down around him and his body ached all over, inside and out.
He got up slowly and made his way towards Sherlock's body which was now surrounded by a group of people. He staggered through the crowd and feebly reached out for Sherlock's wrist; people were trying to pull him away but he wouldn't let them. He was completely unaware of anything else around him; his focus was on his friend. He held on to Sherlock's wrist and waited to feel a pulse, to feel ebbing life from his friend's body but none came, just the ice cold realization that his friend was dead.
This couldn't be true. Not him. Not Sherlock. Not his best friend who now lie dead and broken before him.
Why...
John woke with a start, letting out a scream that pierced the silent night air; his t-shirt was clinging to his skin with sweat and his breathing was laborious. Sweat saturated his brow and he was on the verge of tears. He stared into the pitch black space around him attempting to clear his mind but the dream seemed too real; it seemed like it had just happened all over again.
That day still haunted him and, though it had happened nearly 6 months ago, it had consumed his dreams every night since. Almost every waking moment involved thoughts and memories of Sherlock and how much he missed his best friend.
He slowly sat up in his bed and looked at his clock on his bedside table; it was 3 a.m. Mine as well get up, John thought; he was quite accustomed to being awake at this time of the morning; it was his nightly ritual. He'd usually wake up from the same nightmare, get up, make some toast and drink a glass of water, and watch television until he passed out on the couch. He slowly pulled the covers off and gradually made his way to the edge of his bed, taking a moment to sit there with his feet dangling off the side of his bed and his face resting in the palm of his hands. He took several deep, shaky breaths, trying to subdue the fierce emotional reaction he was beginning to have from his dream, before he finally got the motivation to stand up.
John didn't even notice that there was a man sitting in a chair in a dark corner of his bedroom. He didn't notice until the man cleared his throat and said, "Hello, Mr. Watson. Having some bad dreams tonight, are we?"
John froze where he stood, his back facing the intruder. His eyes were wide with shock; that voice...he knew that voice from somewhere but he couldn't quite pinpoint it. How could he have let his guard down so easily and not even noticed someone sneaking into his bedroom? He cursed himself for not being as alert as he should've been, as he used to be... He tried to recollect where he kept his hand gun or any sort of weapon. It had been so long since he'd used his gun, since he rarely left his flat for anything anymore, and, with much frustration, he couldn't even remember where it was anymore.
"You know, breaking into your flat was loads easier than I thought it'd be," The mystery man said lightly. "It must have something to do with your precious Sherlock going splat on the sidewalk, eh?"
John felt his face flush red with anger and abruptly turned around and made a run at the intruder. He had his fist raised, ready for attack when he came face to face with the barrel of a gun and stopped abruptly, fist still raised and his anger unwavering; his whole body was shaking with rage.
"You really should gain some self control, Doctor," the intruder sneered, his face now slightly visible to John, "I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't approve; If he were still alive, that is." He said the last few words with a smirk which John could now see clearly; his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could barely make out the lower portion of the intruder's face. It made his blood boil.
"It is a tragedy. About your friend, I mean." The intruder tried to sound sincere. "I can't imagine how it must have been to watch him jump. Just horrifying...If all that is really true that is." The intruder's tone changed to very serious and all traces of sarcasm were gone. He waited for John's reaction.
John didn't know what the intruder was getting at, but he was not going to play some twisted game that involved Sherlock's death.
John just stood there staring into the gun and then into the still mysterious, shadowy face of the intruder. "What do you want?" He said with a bored voice, raised fist falling to his side, and trying his best to cover-up the fear and anger rising further up inside of him.
"I don't think that's any concern of yours quite yet, but you'll find out soon enough."
John saw the intruders eyes flash to something behind John and, before he could react, he suddenly felt two pairs of strong hands grab his arms, felt a rag pressed to his nose and mouth, and his arms being pulled roughly behind him. His world was going black and the two pairs of strong hands holding him suddenly let go, causing him to fall towards the hard floor. He tried to put his arms in front of him to ease the fall but couldn't, they were tied behind his back. He hit the floor with a thud, trying to regain his focus and fighting the urge to pass out, and rolled to his side, groaning; his vision was slowly fading. He felt a warm liquid on the part of his head that hit the ground and the last thing he saw before he passed out was the smiling face of the intruder staring intently at him: Sebastian Moran.
Thanks for reading! Hopefully I will get the next chapter up by next week. Wonder what Sebastian Moran is up to. Hmm... Until next time! :)