A/N: So I was watching The Hound of Baskerville again and was astonished when I saw Moriarty's face as Sherlock sees it through the fog. It was like, "WHATT? Why don't I remember this?" So I wrote about Sherlock's reaction to it. Rated T for minor MINOR language, scary thoughts, and men cuddles in bed. Oneshot, but I may continue if enough people like it. First fic, so be kind please!
Sherlock pulled the mask off the man standing in the fog, and beheld Jim Moriarty, his arch nemesis sans Mycroft. He fell against the rock, trying to keep calm, trying to remember that it was a drug. But his body was failing him, his senses were weak, and he felt powerless because of it. He was more frightened than he'd ever been before.
Sherlock woke in the middle of the night with a start, the reoccurring nightmare from the scare so creatively named "The Hound of Baskerville" by his blogger leaving him in a cold sweat. He pulled his shirt off his damp chest and threw it onto the ground. The detective began to breathe slowly, waiting for his heart to stop racing. He stayed worked up, still sweating, stressed to the point of breaking. He knew there would be no more sleep tonight.
In fact, there hasn't been much sleep lately, Sherlock presumed. It had been almost a week since him and John had gotten back to 221B from Baskerville, and despite the new cases he threw himself into, the image of Moriarty's face continued to haunt him in his dreams.
The detective rolled out of bed, taking his sheet with him, stuck wrapped tightly around his sweating body. He walked down to John's room.
"John," he walked in. His little blogger was sleeping, as most normal humans were at this hour he thought, but this was a special occasion. Sherlock needed John. "Wake up."
"Hm... Whah...?" John muttered sleep language as he rubbed his eyes. He fixed then on the taller man. "Sherlock what the bloody hell are you doing in here?"
"John," Sherlock started, then said feeling very child-like, "I had a frightening dream."
"About... The hound?" John asked.
"Yes," said Sherlock stubbornly.
"Come here then," John said, patting the sheets invitingly next to him. He was almost half asleep again by now. Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed.
"John, this isn't helping."
John propped himself up on his elbows and fixed his friend with a death glare.
"Well..." Sherlock started, but was cut off when John grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss. They both relaxed into it until Sherlock was calm (and dare he say tired?) again. John patted the bed next to him again and Sherlock lay near him, still wrapped in the sheet from his bed. John wrapped his arms around the dark haired man and whispered comforting things while smoothing his curls.
"Shhh... It'll be okay. It was just a dream. I'm here now, Love."
Sherlock almost purred in satisfaction and nodded off, safe in his beloved blogger's arms.
Moriarty did not visit them again that night. In fact, he was far too busy elsewhere...