((So, my friend and I were having a fake argument over text, and long story short, she made me right her angsty Johnlock fanfiction themed around the word 'nightmare'. I think I kind of forgot the angsty and Johnlock part, but I do have the nightmare part :I Anyway, here you go, Karina, hopefully you like it, and to everyone else, sorry, I'm not a great writer.)) _
"No…NO! SHERLOCK!"
John stared in blank horror at his companion's position atop the building. The static filled words coming from his cellphone were responded to too late. Panicked, disbelieving eyes traced the tumbling shape of a man falling down, down, down.
John's external shouts were matched by an internal scream to move, to save his friend, to do something, anything. But the screams were useless, no matter how hard he tried, his legs refused to budge, locked to the position they were in when the phone was first answered.
Even across the street as he was, John could still hear the audible 'crack' of skull meeting pavement. Even across the street as he was, John could still see the awkward, unnatural position Sherlock had landed in, and the blood pooling around his body.
A slow, muted silence spilled over the soldier. Every movement on the street, the horrified civilians rushing to Sherlock's side, the ambulance and paramedics arriving, the body of his roommate being put in a stretcher, it all washed over him like a movie. It was all over exaggerated, all too calm, all too quite.
And above it all, laughter rang in John's ears, mocking, triumphant laughter. The blonde's head turned, trying to pinpoint the sound. Within a few seconds he saw him, a well dressed man wearing a Westwood suit, a man he knew all too well. The man that must have been the cause of Sherlock's death, who had to be.
"He's gone Johnny boy, and he ain't coming back."
The words were filled with a cheshire cat grin, but they weren't from the same direction as the enemy he had located. John whirled, only to find Moriarty's face holding a delighted smirk on the opposite side of him. He barely had time to register this before Moriarty was in front of him, and then suddenly, he was everywhere.
The world started spinning, and John stumbled, his head aching with dizziness. And then finally, finally his legs seemed to respond to the searing pain and fear in him. He collapsed on his knees, his hands pressed into the pavement and screamed, calling out to the body of the consulting detective, the only thing still in his blurring vision.
"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"
John woke with a gasp, the nightmare inducing a fit of hysterics. The doctor sucked in the air hungrily, letting out raspy, shuddering breaths, his body coated in a cold sweat. He sat frozen for a long time, not moving from the armchair he had fallen asleep in, until his breathing had slowed, and the fact that it was a nightmare had set in.
The second that happened however, he bolted from the chair, and ran to Sherlock's bedroom, needing the assurance of his friend's sleeping face. Throwing the door open, he was greeted by the sight of an empty bed. Running back downstairs, he convinced himself that he had just missed that fact that his companion was in the armchair opposite him. But that too was empty. The realization that struck John every morning after this same nightmare set in, and he collapsed to the ground with a sob.
Just because something is a nightmare, doesn't mean it can't be real.