[[AN NOTE: This is brand new, but it will definitely be updated! Sorry to keep you waiting.]]
Please.
"Stay exactly where you are."
He broke into a run.
"Don't move."
He wouldn't stay still. He ran.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."
If he could just reach the spot in time, he could find away to stop this from happening.
"Goodbye, John."
He tried to scream out, but his lungs failed him. They failed him every time. He watched as the man's body crashed to the ground.
Please don't be dead.
Cold skin turned pale. Warm blood stained the pavement.
He had failed again.
John Watson woke with a start, bolting upright in his bed. He shivered in the darkness, sweat beading on his forehead and tears chilling his cheeks. His heart was racing and his breath rattled as it entered his lungs. Leaning forward, he cupped his face in his sweaty palms and tried to gain control over his body.
It was still dark out. After waiting in the silence to which his own unsteady breathing was the only exception, he looked up at the window and sighed shakily.
For years, John Watson's dreams were plagued by memories of his years at war; that is, until recently. For the last three months, he had woken from nightmares every night, each one revisiting the same dreadful day. For three months, he had dreamt of the day his best friend died right before his eyes.
One variation of the nightmare was not worse than the other. Every night, John would listen to his friend's last words through the phone. He would always try to stop the man from falling to his death; yet no matter what he did, he watched his only friend's blood spill into the street.
It had been just over three months since Sherlock died. Even if subconsciously, John had been keeping a count. It had been exactly three months, one week, six days, and nine hours. John glanced over at the clock beside his bed.
2:59
3:00
Ten hours.
John sighed again. He knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep; it would only mean resubmitting to the torture that was his nightmares. He did not desire sleep, and it did not beckon. Instead, he stood up and got dressed. He refused to spend another minute of this sleepless night cooped up all alone inside his flat.
He pulled on his overcoat and felt his phone like dead weight in his pocket. He hardly ever used it anymore, but he kept it with him all the same. Pulling the zipper up to his collarbone, he walked carefully down the steps to the front door. He was sure to skip the stairs that always creaked so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson.
She would worry about John when she woke up to a deserted flat, but it wouldn't be the first time he had disappeared without warning.
Perhaps he wasn't all alone in the flat, after all; but he might as well have been.
John stepped outside into the frigid London air. He considered hailing a cab as he turned to lock the door, then reminded himself that it was three in the morning. He would walk. Shoving his hands in his pockets, his mind began to wander. He didn't bother wondering where he would possibly want to go at this hour; he had made this trip so many times that he didn't even have to think about it. His feet knew the way to Sherlock's grave far too well.
With the streets devoid of the usual lively crowd, it seemed a much longer journey to John. He was also not accompanied by Mrs. Hudson, who usually agreed to join him to pay respects to Sherlock. Naturally, he hadn't invited her this time. Thus, he continued alone and in silence.
When he finally reached Sherlock's resting place, John immediately felt uneasy. He pushed past a gate and approached the black marker from behind.
John clamped his hand over his mouth to smother a strangled cry. He couldn't tear his eyes away from it. On the sleek surface of the tombstone was a large, smiling face, not unlike one a child would draw in the frost on a window in the winter. The white paint was still wet and dripped down the smooth surface. John felt his heart rate picking up as he stared at the graffiti, his emotions swirling through his head in a frenzy. Anger; confusion; terror. He knew this symbol, and he didn't like what it signified.
But that was impossible.
As he thought this, his phone went off in his pocket. He jumped, startled, then fumbled to take it out.
A new text.
At this hour?
John nervously opened the message and read, his hands shaking.
The phone slipped out of John's hand and hit the dirt. He stumbled backward, unable to process what he just read.
We're both waiting for you.
Come out and play.
—JM