Oh Death
Summary: When God is gone and the devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul?
Warnings: Character death, violence, blood, gore
Rating: M
Disclaimer: The characters belong to BBC Sherlock and Arthur Conan-Doyle. The song is Oh Death by Jen Titus
AN- Okay, so it's my birthday tomorrow and I'm so so tired and I can't sleep because this thing was circling my head. I'm sorry for any mistakes. I'm just sorry in general.
Oh Death, oh Death, won't you spare me over til another year?
Sherlock was dead. John looked to the cold stone coffin, it seemed impersonal somehow. Just a block of stone where once stood a brilliant, incredible man.
"Terrible, isn't it?" John turned; Moriarty stood staring at him with hollow eyes. The blood dripped from his chin onto his white shirt, which was already stained a dark crimson. John blinked but the man didn't vanish, as most hallucinations did.
"Come now, Johnny. Just because I'm dead, doesn't mean I'm not really here." A wisp of chilling wind rippled through him, shaking through his splattered suit. His voice wavered, like a glitch on a video game. The doctor didn't speak; he would not give into this mirage.
Well what is this that I can't see, with ice cold hands taking hold of me?
He was there, somewhere in the room. John could feel his presence in a chill up his spine. Moriarty never truly left him; the criminal had somehow latched onto his very being and refused to let him go. Sometimes, he stood proudly with his bloodstained last clothes and others he didn't even have a body. He was just there. John took a slow breath and continued to pace, he didn't know what Moriarty wanted, and he hadn't asked.
When God is gone and the devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul?
John couldn't take it anymore.
"What do you want?" He hissed to the empty room. Shadows congealed into the centre, moulding upward to form the bane of the doctors existence. The walls lost their colour shade by shade until they were dull smudges of grey.
"Oh Johnny." He hummed, amused. John clenched his jaw. The criminal drew an object from his pocket; metal shine glinted in the dim light. A scream from the landing was quickly muffled. John leapt from his seated position, suddenly remembering he no longer owned a gun. Chilling grip on his shoulder. The doctor froze; a cold object was placed in his hand. A gun. John didn't question it, he ran to the door. Mrs Hudson struggled fruitlessly against the large man. The soldier fired, a bullet ripped through the males' forehead. Behind him, John heard a low chuckle.
No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold, nothing satisfies me but your soul.
That's what he wanted, he wanted a warrior. John didn't know why, but he was peaceful. For the first time since Sherlock's death, he was alone. The reprieve didn't last long, Moriarty was soon back. And he was accompanied by the man John had shot. His eyes stared blankly, as though he was just an animated corpse. The criminal sat his charge down on the sofa and John watched as the colour drained from the fabric.
"Each killed will remain in these walls." Moriarty handed the doctor his phone. The screen was unlocked and the first app showed every operative in the immediate area. John scrolled through the names the looked up, confused, but Moriarty had gone, leaving only the shell of the dead man behind.
Well I am Death, no one can excel, I'll open the door to heaven or hell.
John scoured London, wiping each name from the list. His black list, Moriarty's phone. The doctor used Moriarty's gun each time, he never loaded it but it always fired and each shot killed. When John returned every night, his flat gained one more inhabitant. One more dead person. Soon, they spread from the living room to the rest of the residence. John's room, the landing, the kitchen, each had several lifeless corpses. Finally the last on the list fell victim to Moriarty's phantom gun. John didn't look at his face, he didn't anymore. The was no point when he knew he would see them later. John entered his flat to find the criminal mastermind himself stood at the top of the stairs.
"Well done Johnny." He purred, taking the steps down slowly, as though he was trying hard not to fall through the wood beneath him. "Shirley will be proud." John blinked, memory of his lost friend flooding back to him.
"Where is Sherlock?" He asked. Moriarty grinned.
"Yes, he hasn't visited you yet, has he?" The door opened behind.
My name is Death and the end is here.
The doctor span round to see Sherlock, his face laced with a relieved expression, like he was glad to be home. John ran to his friend, stopping just before the man when he remembered how little Sherlock liked contact.
"Where have you been all this time?" He asked, unable to stop the grin. Sherlock didn't look at him as he pushed past, walking up the stairs in slow wooden movements. Once his back was shown, John gasped. There was a small hole in the mass of black curls, mattered red laced the strands. As John Watson sank to the floor, Moriarty's maniacal laughter filled his very existence.