Title: Not a soul on the street
Summary: It has been months since the Pool and John has given up for Sherlock to rescue him from Moriarty. How will Sherlock react to being haunted? Summary sucks like a vampire, No actual character death, / towards the end, M 'cause I'm paranoid, first fanfic
The Pool, 10 past midnight
'Sherlock, get out!' yelled Watson. And Sherlock Holmes obeyed. He ran. Through tiled passageways, past showers and lockers and changing rooms. John Watson, best and only friend, right behind him. It had been like that since they met, and it would be like that forever. Holmes and Watson. Watson and Holmes. When Holmes finally pushed open the last door and stepped into the not- chlorined air, he slowed down, panting. 'How's that, aye, John? Faster than an ex-soldier! Maybe you should go to the gym once in a while?' He smiled and turned around, to where he thought John to be. His crooked smile faded. Then he got swept off his feet by the blast. As soon as he had regained consciousness, he scrambled up. Only a handful of superficial wounds caused by shrapnel. His vision was blurred at first, as he was walking towards the collapsed building. But when his vision cleared, he stopped dead in his tracks. No.
John.
His brain used to be thoughts and observations, passing at light speed. Now it was silence. His lips moved but he didn't control them. What was he saying? He didn't know, he didn't care. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn't notice it. He had forgotten how real, genuine tears felt. Usually, Holmes' s emotions were cooled, barely noticeable. Sometimes John could see trough it, though. John noticed such things. Sherlock' s eyes swept left, right, left, right. Over and over again. He had immediately noticed the charred, barely recognisable lumps of burned snipers where the hall used to be. No. He was looking for John. The real John, Sherlock thought. John was not that burned body by the pool. John was John. John was jumpers and bright smiles and laughing at bad TV-shows. John was his friend.
John.
Moriarty had escaped. Of course. Mycroft had forced him to stay in the hospital, although he wasn't badly hurt. When Sherlock hadn't angrily refused, Mycroft had shot a glance at him, even more worried than before. Sherlock obeyed his brother, so he wouldn't have to face his apartment, full of burning memories. But even in a clinical environment so far from his home, he feared the nights. He dreaded the nightmares that plague him.
He had thought they had escaped him. But not them both, not the one who mattered. John hadn't escaped. And the last words he had heard him say, had been to save him. At first it was a happy dream. Memories concerning John's bright smile and delicious teas. All was blue and peaceful, and Sherlock was fond of this part of the dream. Then John's laughing face was swallowed by red. He heard Moriarty laughing, his words burning his mind. I will burn the heart out of you.
At that moment Sherlock usually wakes up, screaming and shivering, beating in the air around him. At first the nurses had tried to calm him down, but after multiple broken noses and black eyes, they had given up. Now he just lies alone in bed after the nightmares, barely restraining himself from crying. Because no-one will see Sherlock Holmes- self-proclaimed sociopath, consulting detective, genius-cry for a lost life. For the lost life.