Title: Mors Omnibus
Prompt/Theme: Four things that happened and one that didn't
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Moriarty, Sarah
A/N: I couldn't resist writing this. Which is a bit twisted, but on the other hand, I could have written this a lot more twisted. Only I don't have the skill for that.
Summary: It's getting that he can't tell reality from fantasy.
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"I'M NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES!"
"I don't believe you." Sarah's eyes dart wildly in panic, her screams muffled by the cloth. John doesn't know what to do, what to say—and the sand drops ever quicker, time not waiting for truth or reason.
"I would if I were you."
The captor turns, surprised, though no one could be as surprised as him.
"How would you describe me, John?" The shadows swallow Sherlock as he speaks, his distraction gaining the attention of everyone, and John allows a moment to sigh. A moment, but the sand still flows down, a steady trickle, and his training kicks in. Twisting his limbs, John tries to loosen the ropes that shackle him to the chair.
A scuffle sounds ahead of him, the clang of metal and flesh. More words—none of them are important. His hands are still trying to find a gap that doesn't exist. Sarah barely makes a sound now, her fear robbing her of sound. Sherlock makes a move, gets attacked, and John realizes he will be getting no help from his friend.
Her eyes are no longer on him, panic clouding them as she stares at the sand bag. In the flickering light, he can make out the tears in her eyes, the pallor of her skin. A light extinguishes somewhere, the sound of gasping and choking, but all John can see right now is her.
I'll save you. The words refuse to come out and he pulls on the rope harder. The chair has to break. The ropes have to break. His legs wobble forward and he moves. A step closer. A step closer. A step—
John falls. Hard and fast, he turns his head to the side at impact.
Looking up, he's catches her closing her eyes, a whimper finally escaping her closed throat. A whimper and the last of the sand falls, the arrow shooting out and hitting her before she can make another sound.
-x-
He wakes up. It's midnight and the clouds are dark. A name is on his lips, one he hasn't said in months, and he stops before he makes a sound.
A dream. A nightmare. His chest hammers and eyes dilate before he falls back into an uneasy sleep.
-x-
The door is barely open when he returns home, the apartment void of all sound. Stepping in, John can make out the signs of a scuffle and quietly he draws his gun.
Not again. Not again. No more kidnappings, no more deaths. All he can hear is the ragged edge of his breath and the throbbing of his heart. Not again.
Carefully, he moves up the stairs, stopping at each step before moving forward.
He's at the top step when he finally hears something, the sound of breaking glass and a muted scream cutting through the silence.
NOT AGAIN!
Immediately he darts to the door, his finger on the trigger as he points his gun through the entrance. "I will shoot."
It's not his voice he hears, more of a threatening growl, and it's a moment before he understands what he sees. There's a hole where the window used to be, a lone figure staring down through the gap. The wind blows coldly in and the edges of Sherlock's coat sway slightly.
Sighing in relief, he lowers his hand, his fingers relaxing. "Oh, it's just you." Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't turn around or make a reply, his eyes still trained on the street outside. A shiver runs up his spine.
"You scared me," he continues, looking at the mess on the floor. "Did you just trash our apartment? Mrs. Hu—"
His words die in his throat, his breathing barely audible over the wind blowing through the window. He can't turn away from the mess, can't even move. Blood's splashed against the wall, the floor, bits of skull and hair that made up a life now scattered on the carpet. Her hair is matted down, a puddle of blood lying, and her eyes are wide open, still pleading to be saved. For a dim moment, he thinks the stain will never get out.
"Mrs..." He can't bring himself to say the words, running to her side. It's too late, far too late, she's been dead for a while. Dead and gone and all alone.
She called for him. He knows it. She called for him. Called and no one came. Automatically, his hands grab hers, searching for a pulse that doesn't exist. "Mrs..."
"They killed her." Sherlock finally says, breaking the silence. The fury in his voice fills the room—there will be no rest tonight.
-x-
He wakes up. The moon can barely sign through his window and he lets out a choked cry. There is no memory of the dream, just the tinge of fear and scent of blood.
A strangled gasp escapes his lips before he calms down. Lying back down, he lies there awake, his eyes almost reluctant to close.
-x-
Step. Step. Step.
Step.
The footsteps echo loudly in his ears, the earpiece silent as Moriarty leaves the pool. A beat passes, another, and Sherlock runs to him, intent on pulling off his jacket.
A beat passes.
And then nothing.
-x-
He wakes up. His ears are ringing from an explosion and the memory of it is slowly fading away. Patting himself, his hands confirm what his mind already knows: he's in one piece. He's still alive.
The room almost seems to close up on him as he lies there in the dark.
-x-
The buildings are dark when he arrives, no vehicle left behind to point the way. No sign either on the walls or windows, no footsteps or broken twigs to tell John which way to go. If Sherlock left a clue on which way to go, it was in a stupidly clever way that was entirely useless.
Arbitrarily, he runs into the right one, the door swinging open easily enough. A good sign. He opens the first door he finds and is greeted by darkness.
Not here, then. Running, he turns his head left and right, searching intently for light spilling through a crack. One of these doors must have him. One of these rooms must hold him.
There's a fear, palpable, in his throat, and he doesn't know exactly what he fears for this stranger, this roommate, this oddity of life.
Only that death seems like a possibility
His footsteps are the only sound in the building, echoing loudly as he turned a corner. The drumming of his heart roared in his ears. A small pool of light spilled through a door and he rushed to it, yanking open the door.
A messy crop of hair and arms were slumped on a table and all of a sudden, John couldn't hear anything. Slowly he approached his flatmate, his hand shakily picking up a small glass bottle beside the body. His other hand touched Sherlock's skin, already knowing what he'd find.
Even the great detective wasn't immune to death.
-x-
He wakes up. The alarm clock reads six and while it's still hours before he has to wake up, he rolls out of bed anyways.
His throat seems clogged, clogged with unsaid screams and fears. There is a sense of loss, a sense of pain, and that stays with him even if the incident doesn't. It echoes in his steps and John tries to think he isn't slowly going mad.
-x-
This is what he sees: a dark figure in the sun, the voice in the phone shaking as he spoke. Sherlock's body plummeting, the furious beating of his heart, the numbness of his legs. He stumbles once, twice, a bike hits him. The pavement is cold against his face and he can feel each crevice in the rocks. His hands bite against the road as he gets up and pushes through the crowd.
There's blood and dark hair and blue eyes that will never leave him. A person tries to pull him away and he falls near Sherlock, near the corpse that is his friend.
The numbness doesn't leave, even now, and his hand is still stretching, still reaching for his. At that phone call, if he had reached a little further, a little higher, would things have been different?
A hand comes up, pinches his cheek. Pinches it again. It doesn't change anything.
This is one nightmare he can't wake up from.