A/N Contains slight spoilers to 'The Reichenbach Fall'. Hope you enjoy :) Reviews are welcome.
Disclaimer: I own nothing :(
John was strangely unsurprised to find himself in a claustrophobic jail cell. Grey concrete walls caved in on him from all sides. Cool air surrounded him, sending an involuntary chill down his spine. The place was familiar and alien at the same time, it filled him with unease yet he also felt strangely content. He took in the cell, his eyes adjusting to the limited light as the corners of the room were bathed in shadows. There was no door to speak of, only empty space and he was alone with the exception of the unmoving form of a man in the centre of the room.
Sherlock lay not neatly, yet not inelegantly before John, resting in a pool of his own scarlet blood. For some reason the sight stirred no reaction from John, instead he simply looked on with twisted fascination. Cold, sightless eyes met his own, the deep scarlet of Sherlock's surrounding blood contrasted with the paleness of his ivory skin. John watched as the blood danced across the floor, coming towards him in the form of patterns and swirls like a thing of sickening beauty. He wanted to help his friend, to reach forward and wake him, but he remained frozen, only able to watch as what remained of his best friend's life drained out of his body.
Hours seemed to pass, or perhaps mere seconds as time seemed to have no place here, before an unnerving maniacal laughter reverberated around the tight space and the familiar, slender form of Moriarty emerged from the shadows. The consulting criminal had never seemed so inhuman before. A wide grin distorted his pale features and his hands were stained with the blood of a fresh kill. John could feel the temperature drop as Moriarty strode over to stand by the body of his prey, smiling down with child-like glee while ice shards seemed to cut through the onlooking doctor.
The scene before him no longer appeared to be beautiful, had probably never been beautiful to begin with. The blood simply spread in a shapeless pool, its stench threatening to suffocate John. Ugly gash wounds appeared on Sherlock's still chest, his shirt had been attacked with the ridged edge of a knife and the ghost of a sad, pained expression remained etched upon the dead man's face. John felt sick. He could feel his knees threaten to give way and bring him crashing down onto the dyed red floor.
Moriarty studied his fallen prey for a moment longer before bringing his dark gaze forward, giving the impression of seeing right through John. Slight disappointment slipped into his expression. "Looks like I finally burned out his heart..."
John was reminded of Moriarty's promise at the pool, his promise to burn Sherlock's non-existent heart out of him, the vow delivered with pure hate and venom. Against what John wanted to believe, the lunatic had succeeded, literally judging from the state of Sherlock, in his goal. Moriarty frowned almost comically and shook his head dramatically, his neck twisting like that of an alien creature's. "And in the end it was too easy!"
John remained paralysed as the silent onlooker to the aftermath of a bloody battle between the two brilliant madmen. He simply watched as Moriarty knelt beside the detective, one hand laying to rest across the gaping hole in the man's chest while the other lazily brushed a stray dark curl away from his forehead. John felt too scared to betray any reaction and too shocked to display his disgust.
"Do you know what the sweetest thing about all of this is, Doctor Watson?" Moriarty finally acknowledged the other man's presence, keeping his head bowed in a silent moment of grief for his greatest nemesis before raising his head, the wide grin once again plastered onto his expression of madness as he finally allowed himself to revel in the destruction of his enemy.
"You were his heart."
John woke with a start, his mouth open in a silent cry. His throat ached from his screaming during the nightmare and his forehead was covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat. He fell back onto the damp sheets and struggled to regain his breath. This had become a daily ritual, the painful aftermath to the nightmare that plagued his sleeping mind each night. Just like his return from the war, Sherlock's suicide had chosen to affect him in the form of merciless dreams when his conscious mind grew tired of torturing him.
He took a shuddering breath and got up from the bed, shakily making his way to the bathroom. The dream was always the same, John knew exactly how it played out and how it ended. That never stopped him from waking up screaming.
Looking in the bathroom mirror he realised that he looked like shit. His blond hair was dishevelled, days old stubble grew on his chin. Lately his mobile had been flooded with messages from a worried Lestrade after he'd been spotted by the inspector in the street looking rather worse for wear, all of which he chose to ignore. The nightmares had grown much more persistent lately and today – one year to the day that he'd lost his best friend – was sure to be hell enough without Lestrade's interference.
His hands were shaking slightly as he washed his face. His body was betraying his eagerness for the daily excitement that life with Sherlock had provided, wanting to see the London streets as the battlefield once again. However there was no hope of that, not anymore.
Moriarty had won, as he like to remind John nightly. There was only one thing he had failed to acknowledge, or just didn't bother mentioning. There was something else that had made itself painfully clear in the past year.
Sherlock had also been John's heart.