A/N: I own nothing! Sherlock and John and Moriarty and Sebastian all belong to the lovely Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC woo! Like I said, first fic, so yeah. Reviews are appreciated, but not demanded(:
Prologue:
John stood in the middle of the room, tensed as he looked around himself at his surroundings and took in the posh furniture and fancy wall-paper, all a startling white. The only thing not white in the room was the couch, stained with a sharp, bright red splatter. Blood, John realised. He felt sick to his stomach as he stood completely still, afraid to move. He could feel his eyes on him; feel his breath down the back of his neck, hot and tickling, and John could most definitely feel the sniper pointed at him, feel the intensity of the long barrel and the gaze of the pale blue eyes, slicing John like a knife. John shuddered, fear welling in the pit of his stomach. He needed to find Sherlock, and John knew that he eventually would. He would find Sherlock alright; he would find Sherlock dead. John let out a wry laugh and immediately froze, tensing his muscles to the point of pain. No, no, no. He couldn't die now, not because of a stupid mistake. He had to find Sherlock, dead or alive. John waited, but he felt no pain, no bullet ripped through his body, not yet. John allowed his screaming muscles to relax, just a bit. Where was Sherlock? He needed to find Sherlock. John frowned, the impending doom in the air mixed with ominous atmosphere made the air thick, hard to breathe. His lungs ached for oxygen and John let out the breath he'd been holding, sucking in deeply, choking slightly on the sharp intake of air. Calm down John, he told himself. Sherlock is fine. But as if to mock him, suddenly, a sharp scream pierced the air. It cut the thick air like a knife and John spun around towards the scream; the scream of one certain Consulting Detective.
A/N: Once again, reviews appreciated, but you don't have to. Cheers xx~