"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could."
John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock perched on the edge of the building.
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."
"No. Alright, stop it now."
John could hear the anger in his tone. He didn't mean for it to be there, but he was scared.
"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."
"Alright"
He continued to watch his friend tower over him on the high ledge he had climbed upon. Nothing was going to make him look away. Nothing. John's grip tightened around the phone he clutched against his ear. Sirens were wailing throughout London and the excessive noise threatened to drown out the words coming from the other end of the line. He stayed focused on the black shape that was Sherlock so high above him. Then, Sherlock was gone.
John manically looked around, scanning the top of the building from his spot on the ground, desperately trying to find any trace of the Consulting Detective. He was nowhere. John rubbed his eyes; he must be seeing things. Of course Sherlock was still there. Where would he have gone?
When he pulled his hand away from his face, John started and dropped his phone. He watched it fall down, down, down, onto the pavement below him before it landed and shattered into a million pieces. He took a step back away from the ledge and looked at the spot on the ground where he had just stood moments before. This wasn't possible. He must be imagining things. He hadn't moved one centimeter and now he was on the roof of a building he had no memory of even entering. John turned around to leave but stopped dead in his tracks. His path was blocked by Moriarty, his suit soaked in blood and a dripping bullet hole still fresh in his skull. The stench of death already lingered on his body and the metallic smell of blood brought back memories John had tried so desperately to bury. Moriarty's pale mouth cracked into a crooked smile as he slowly brought his hands up from where they rest at his sides.
"I O U" he whispered before his hands shot forward, throwing John over the side of the wall.
John flailed his arms wildly in a futile attempt to slow his descent to his death. His screams pierced the chill air as he pushed all the oxygen from his lungs before he gasped to bring in another mouthful. The pavement was speeding closer and closer and closer, impossibly close. Just as he was about to smack against the ground, John squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that he wasn't going to open them again an braced himself for impact.
John Watson jumped awake and sent the book that he had fallen asleep with flying off the bed and onto the cold, hardwood floor. He reached a shaking hand over to the nearby night table and grasped the glass of water he always kept full. He chugged the entire glass and sat in his bed gasping and shaking. Cold sweat soaked his night shirt and the sheet below him, while his pillow had somehow made it off of the mattress entirely and onto the floor. John knew that he wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight, so he clicked on the nearby lamp, retrieved the book from the floor, and crawled back into bed, the sheets sloshing beneath him. Opening the book to the page with the folded corner, he started reading right where he left off and prepared himself for another long, sleepless night.