In the Nick of Time
"Ji-J-Jim M-Mor-riarty. Hi. Hi-H-Hi. Hi."
Images of the man flashed through John's mind, distorted along with his fluctuating voice which changed from the highest pitch to the lowest with every syllable.
"I'll burn you." Laughter echoed afterwards. The same images showed: him chuckling, yelling, threatening; seeming like everything all at once. But it was still distorted and repeating; almost like John was watching with a broken telly. "You'll be he-hearing from me. Sh-Sherlock."
John's own voice sounded through the images, which remained as Jim Moriarty. "I can stop John Watson."
"I'll make you in-in-into shoes," with the end of the statement fading into the lowest pitch out of all the others. "I-I'll burn-n I'll-the heart ou-out of you." Then the voices started to calm and didn't change pitch as much, "But we all know that's not quite true."
"Stop his heart." With the fading of his own voice, John woke from the memory. Safe in Baker Street, he took a glance around the room to make sure he was truly alone. It wasn't necessarily hard to break into 221B so John was usually weary of intruders, especially after those nightmares. Plus, he never knew what Sherlock would do next. He could wake up to find his flatmate injecting him with some strange new chemical that would turn his skin purple. But not this morning, for John was alone.
It had been almost two years but since what happened at the swimming pool, John had been having nightmares similar to the ones he had about the war. He hadn't told Sherlock about them, but the man could deduce anything so he probably knew anyway. John sighed as he reached over to grab his wristwatch off of the nightstand, turning on the light as he did so. 5:56AM. He groaned, knowing he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, and crawled out of bed to make himself tea.
Maybe because John was still half asleep and his mind hadn't woken up yet, or his mind made dumb decisions anyway, he figured Sherlock would be still asleep in his room and headed down to the kitchen in nothing more than his pants. It wasn't until the kittle finished brewing before John noticed Sherlock sitting on his chair. "Another nightmare, I see?"
John jumped, startled by his flatmate's presence. That was when he remembered Sherlock didn't sleep much and he shook his head at himself, sighing, "Yeah, just the usual ones." This wasn't technically a lie. The dream was just like the war dreams, plus the two flatmates were sort of at war with Moriarty. It made sense if it needed to. Stirring milk into his cup, John looked up at Sherlock. He was staring blankly at the smiley face on the wall, but at least he was standing. "Trying to figure out a case?"
"No. I'd be astoundingly less bored if that were the case." He continued to stare.
"Did you try getting some sleep? Sleep would be-"
"Boring."
John rolled his eyes, never ceasing to be amazed at the resemblance Sherlock had to a twelve-year-old. That was when he realized he was practically naked. Embarrassed, he finished off his tea and headed back to his room, "I'm gonna go have a shower."
"Hm."
John paused before heading up, "You know, there's leftover take away in the fridge if you get-"
"I'm well aware of the contents of the fridge."
John grimaced, "Of course you are," and he headed upstairs to grab his robe before heading off to the loo to shower.
Around 12:38PM that same Saturday, John was typing up their latest case on his blog. He hadn't named it yet because this one was a little trickier and Sherlock had refused to assist him, still angry about his internet fame and "silly hat" photo.
Suddenly, Sherlock roused from his trance-like state, "John, what time is it?"
John checked his wristwatch. "Err, 12:39." Sherlock stood and walked to the door, grabbing his coat off of the rack. "Wa-where are you going?"
"Not me. Us. We have an appointment with an acquaintance that we should not be late for."
Putting down his laptop and heading to the door to grab his own coat, John asked, "When were you planning on telling me this?"
Sherlock paused then tied on his scarf, "This morning. But the timing was wrong. I can tell you're still...sensitive." His eyes looked John over as he hummed the word.
Of course John didn't understand what he meant but Sherlock was counting on that. If John knew who they were meeting, he probably wouldn't go.
A cab took the two men to the same abandoned factory where Irene Adler had sent John when she told him she was actually alive. Sherlock still hadn't given him any details and John was beginning to get a bit annoyed. As the cab stopped and Sherlock stepped out of it, John followed and asked, "Sherlock. Who are we meeting?"
But the man stayed silent and continued to lead the way. John followed until they got to the same room he talked to Irene in. "Alright. I'm going NO further until you tell me who we're meeting."
"John, this is where we're meeting him," Sherlock said with a condescending sigh. "It'll only be a moment more."
John rolled his eyes and glanced around the room. Footsteps echoed across the decaying walls, someone was coming. As John looked out one of the windows, a voice chimed through the quiet. "Hello, boys! So nice of you to accept my invitation." A chill ran up John's spine. Moriarty. "Two years since our last little meeting, too long." John stood, frozen into a stare. Sherlock looked relaxed but irritated at the same time. "Why so quiet? I just came to talk to you, Sherlock."
"I have a phone-"
"I know, I texted you to come here."
"A call would have sufficed."
Sherlock stood with a cold look on his face but Moriarty just laughed. "For a man who gets bored easily, you sure like to do things the dull way. You have to admit this is more exciting! Snipers all aiming for your heart and a bomb under the floorboards. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
John breathed heavily through his nose and shifted his feet, noticing the red laser guides appearing on Sherlock's chest and his own. Sherlock remained quiet, obviously waiting for Moriarty to get to the point.
"I'm just here to say hello, passing on a friendly heads up." Moriarty walked closer to Sherlock, who only followed him with his eyes. "It will be soon, Sherlock. You don't realize now how soon it really is."
Unmoving, Sherlock questioned, "What is?"
"The end of it all. The last chapter of our game. The game you and Johnny-boy have been simple pawns in is about to end, and my Queen has you in Check. It won't be long before the rest of the pieces come together and put you in Checkmate. Guard your King if you know what's good for you. Even if it means sacrificing your Queen."
Sherlock stayed in place and remained silent. Moriarty nodded to himself and turned to leave the way he came, snapping his fingers to call off the snipers. John waited for Sherlock to say something, but he still wouldn't move. "Sherlock?"
"Oh, and by the way!" The taunting voice echoed off the walls from a hallway. "You have five minutes and counting to get out of the building before my little friend explodes."
John and Sherlock hesitated only for a moment before running back to the door they came in through. Just as the cab started to drive off, the bomb went off, causing the decaying building to collapse.
For the next few days, things were quiet in Baker Street. No bombs. No threats. And unfortunately for Sherlock, no new cases. He tried to keep himself busy by studying a strange mold that had grown on the finger of a man who drowned recently. John, on the other hand, was spending his time on his blog, in the pub with Lestrade, or watching crap telly.
This particular day, he was blogging about the awful stench coming from the finger, surprisingly not causing Sherlock to gag. "Give it a rest, will you?" He finally exclaimed, getting up and walking to the kitchen. "That finger is stinking up the whole flat. I bet I could smell it all the way upstairs."
"Wrong." The detective replied, "The mold is what you smell, not the finger. And no, you cannot smell it upstairs. I checked."
John nodded and turned back to the sitting room when he realized what Sherlock had said. "Wait. You checked?" he asked in disbelief.
Sherlock paused, not quite looking at John but more so the corner of the table. His eyebrows scrunched together like he was confused, or thinking. "What?"
"You went out of your way and checked to make sure the smell didn't reach upstairs."
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock let his hands fall to the table. "Is it REALLY that hard for you to believe."
His voice sounded condescending as usual, but it had a hint of either sadness or disappointment mixed in that John wasn't used to. "Well, err, I guess not," he replied, scratching the back of his neck.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then nodded towards the microwave. "Check the microwave for me, if you please."
John glanced at Sherlock, then the microwave, then back. It was so unlike Sherlock to act this way, though he's proved to act out of his own character on occasion. So, John decided to do as Sherlock asked.
Inside the microwave was an old white mug that John hadn't seen in weeks. Under it was a book. A book of poetry. He picked it up, glancing at Sherlock who, in turn, glanced back and then returned to his mold. There was a single tab in the book, so John opened to the page.
The page was coloured grey with black letters that read, "In the Nick of Time, by Kimmie Claire U." John cleared his throat, shifted his feet, and read the poem to himself:
Hear the waves rush to the shore
Stare to the west, what you see?
A painful, cruel goodbye,
But why am I still not free?
As it goes down, I lift up;
For the sunset, a new start.
Its beauty, captivating,
Gives endless hope to my heart.
But here goes the blue, dark blue;
Color of night, of darkness.
And here comes the cruel smog;
Smell of fear, of loneliness.
Paint wind, if only I could;
Its colour would be maroon,
No, pink; no, green; no, yellow,
For I should be cheery soon.
Listen to the sea's whisper,
Look up above, what you see?
Clear night sky, young moon, bright stars
Moon ages-I'll be happy.
After reading through it a few more times, John closed the book, almost putting it back in the microwave. He looked at Sherlock, who had been watching since he heard the book thud closed. "Alright, what does it mean?"
As John set the book on the table, Sherlock replied, "Goodbye, John."
For John it was strange because Sherlock had said the phrase like an answer to his question, not trying to get him to leave. He nodded, staring down at the book, "Right, more riddles." John walked back the sitting room, "Never liked riddles."
After a week or two of Sherlock's fame spreading, the two flatmates were enjoying a quiet morning. Sherlock, as usual, was conducting an experiment. This one on whether or not a man named Henry Fishgard committed suicide. It was obvious that he didn't. John sat in the sitting room reading the newspaper, paying more attention to Sherlock's phone that Sherlock was. Another text alert sounded so John got up to check it:
Come and play.
Tower Hill.
Jim Moriarty x.
(DISCLAIMER: I did not write the poem In the Nick of Time. It was written by Kimmie Claire U. This Fanfiction was based on a dream I had and the poem just happened to be in it. Coincidentally, I have never before read this poem before I had the dream. I just remembered the name and looked it up to find the author.)