Gun?
The echoes of her dying scream still bounced around. In his head or around him, he couldn't tell. But whose death was it? Luna's or the Night Mare's?
Gun?
He lifted his hand up to look at it, surprised that he could see it considering he was in the pitch black of his subconscious. He was holding a gun. He didn't have to observe the heat damage and routine care to know it was John's. But how did he get it? Had he had it all along? He couldn't recall. Not important questions, anyway-this was still a dream, which means two things. One, nothing is as it seems. Two, everything has a reason. Why did he have his best friend's gun? Had John known he would need it? No, he couldn't have. Sherlock hadn't even known. It was his job to know, and John's job to be John.
But John wasn't here.
Is that why I have the gun?
"You always feel it, Sherlock."
He whirled around into Moriarty.
He was no different than that first night at the pool. The dark, slicked-black hair, the pale, ghostly skin, the clever, haunting smile. But there was something off about him-more than his usual creepy self, anyway. He wasn't just insane, he was…
"But you always fear it, too," he simpered sadly, as if Sherlock knew better. "Oh, well. You could've been so much more. You could've lived, even. But you're boring..."
"Shut up!" commanded Sherlock, remembering how Luna had stood up to Night Mare Moon for him. She had taught him how to stand against his fears by her own example. "You're nothing but lies. You have no place here. This is my head! Get out!"
"But why?" inquired Jim innocently, shrugging and opening his hands to him as if inviting him into a trap. "You're the one who invited me."
"That's not true!" snapped Sherlock, looking at Moriarty as if he could evaporate him if he glared hard enough. But he didn't move, simply twitching an eyebrow quizzically.
"Is it?"
Sherlock whirled away from him, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He brought his hands up to his face clapped together, trying to focus. With logic, he could regain his bearings and think his way through this. But if he let his fear rule him, anything could happen. It would be Baskerville all over again. Narrow it down. What was Moriarty's purpose? How could he have gotten into his dream, and more importantly, how could he be evicted?
"Thought you might call!" hissed Moriarty. Sherlock jumped, but didn't dare open his eyes. He didn't have to to know that he was right in front of him.
"Thought you would be rid of me so easy, did you?" he murmured. It sounded like inches from his ear. "You thought that I would allow you some peace after thwarting me for the last time? Happily ever after?"
"That's not relevant," stated Sherlock flatly. If he lied well enough, perhaps Moriarty would believe it, too.
"Well, guess what?" he continued, as if Sherlock hadn't said a word. He could picture that crocodile smile behind his eyelids, gleaming sharp with a false light. "You're not an angel. You said so yourself. So why should you deserve heaven? No rest for the wicked, after all. You're trapped, Sherlock. No way out. I may not have you yet, but I'll catch you later."
Sherlock had to focus hard on his breathing so that he didn't scream. He had to hold every tissue of his body in place so that Moriarty wouldn't see him trembling. Don't let the fear rule you. If you do, all is lost. To him. He was only treading water. But how could he swim to shore without attracting the shark's attention? Why did Moriarty terrify him so utterly? Did he have the strength to do anything more than stand there and shake?
All the wrong questions.
What had he said?
'Catch you later.'
"No, you won't."
Sherlock opened his eyes and boldly looked straight into her eyes.
That was what had been off about him before. Those teal dragon eyes did not belong to Moriarty. Moriarty was dead and gone, but in his mind Sherlock still kept his replica chained in that golden asylum where he dared not go. The Night Mare must be feeding off of his memories, ransacking his mind palace to unearth his very worst fear. Jim Moriarty. The only person in the world that, for one vital moment, had been more clever than him. For only that single, most important moment. The moment when he'd lost, more completely than ever. Nevermind that he still lived in secret. He'd still lost everything. John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly...all lost to him. They were all so painstakingly close, yet so far. Far enough for them to be unable to aid him. Close enough for it to hurt. He was alone now. Alone to fight his own demons. All he'd ever wanted was to be alone with his mind, but this?
The cat-eye pupils contracted to slits. It sensed that it had been discovered. Again it loomed over him, baring its fangs to feast on his soul. All the body heat and oxygen drained out of him at once, petrifying him in place. The best seat in the house from which to watch his own demise.
Far enough?
The gun burned, warming his corpse. It urged him to move like a spur in his back.
Faster than he could think, he whipped the gun out of his pocket and fired point blank.
The Night Mare recoiled with an agonized shriek, and he inhaled thirstily. The shadow before him writhed in pain, but he had no eyes for it. He held the gun up and gazed at it in wonder, observing how it glowed faintly with its own light like a star. The muzzle steamed as if live, yet as he turned it over in his hand he only felt a decent warmth. Assuring warmth. John's gun had just saved his life when his own mind had been choked with fear. How?
His enemy snarled with pain, rearing its ugly head with bared teeth. It still held the guise of Moriarty, but the image had been twisted somehow. One of his eyes had been replaced with a pitch-black bullet hole, steaming violet just like Night Mare Moon. His fingers had lengthened into claws, his teeth into fangs. It was poised to pounce, as if it were going to tear Sherlock limb from limb himself, but then it paused, eyeing the gun. Sherlock stepped toward it and gesticulated with the weapon, causing it to step backwards and hiss inhumanly. Sherlock only flinched slightly, but as long as he held the gun raised he knew that he could defend himself. Right?
Its nose twitched, as if it could smell his fear like sulfur. It grinned sickeningly and drew itself taller. The heat kindled in Sherlock's core faltered. His hand immediately went to his eyes. The right one remained. The left one was gone.
He yelled and turned away, holding his hand up to his face to see it coated in his own black blood. But he heard it coming for him, so he whirled and shot again. He must have missed this time, because it merely snarled at him again, and he felt no bullet. Time to rethink. How could he defeat it if doing so would kill himself?
Oh. Duh.
He knew the answer. He'd done it before.
Forgetting the Night Mare for the time being, he looked himself in the mirror. Truly. Without expecting to see anything. And it was revealed to him as promised.
Dark, slicked-black hair. Pale, ghostly skin. Deep, deceitful eyes.
"Ohh..," he murmured to himself, his voice silky and all-too-familiar. He sighed and looked up into the night sky, before looking back at himself again. Then, instead of comprehending the horror of being his own worst enemy, he chuckled.
"You were right, you know!" Hearing that from Moriarty's voice was gratifying. "I really am an idiot. Not boring, per se, but really, I should've seen this. I could've prevented all that if only I'd figured it out sooner!"
He laughed some more. He could've been stalling. He didn't want to do it. He knew he had to.
"So," he said promptly, raising his eyebrows at himself. Oh, how he hated that face. "what're you gonna do, Night Mare Moon? Scare the daylights out of me? Take the bullets to take me down? Or just cut out the middle man and skewer me?"
He knew she was behind him. Listening. Watching. Waiting. Whatever you do, don't turn around.
It really was obvious. Everything happens for a reason in a dream. Dreams are lucid metaphors, they originate from the waking world. So if he was Moriarty, and he couldn't defeat the Night Mare…
The gun burned.
"Good luck with that," he murmured, putting the barrel in his mouth.
The gunshot rang in his ears. The bullet tore through his skull.
And William Sherlock Holmes awoke and drew breath for what felt like the very first time.