A/N: Okay, so I lied...sorta. This is the part where John has another nightmare, but the confession will come soon, I promise! In this chapter, it explains the terrible nightmare John has that night, which is an important part in the story. You shall see why. Enjoy! Please R & R!
(Third-Person P.O.V.)
John woke up the next morning and yawned before leaning over to wake up his friend.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up," he said. Sherlock grunted and turned over in his sleep. John frowned. "Now Sherlock, I mean it. You don't want to miss a case today. Come on, get up." Sherlock cursed before he finally sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.
"What did you do that for?!" he demanded angrily, his eyes converting into fierce blue fireballs. John was frightened by his sudden demeanor. He was not like the "gentle giant" he had come to known.
"I-I'm sorry. I had to - "
"Just leave me alone, you bastard!" Sherlock began rushing out of the room. John was very distressed.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait! We can talk this out, we're friends, remember?!"
"No we're not! Who the hell are you?! Go away!" Sherlock shouted, before slamming the door behind him with a furious force. In that instant, the floorboards broke beneath the bed. John found himself tumbling into a dark, abyssal, everlasting, frightening pit of doom. But something wasn't right: how come it never ended?
In the time it took for John to realize exactly this, he landed face first onto the ground, his bed no where in sight. He managed to get up and observe his surroundings. He was in his Army uniform and all he could see for miles upon end were the familiar desert bushes and arid climate. The hairs on his neck and back bristled. This only meant one thing: Afghanistan.
His breath became heavy with fear. As much as he was addicted to danger, he gradually became afraid of his Afghanistan-related dreams. They filled him with anxiety and dread rather than adrenaline and excitement. This kind of danger was not adventurous: it was the kind that made you want to run home and crawl right back under your bed covers.
He felt himself beginning to panic when gunshots fired at him. He heard men shouting at him in Pashto to get out. His head spun and his eyes rolled back in his sockets with fear. Just then, he heard the familiar crunching sound he had heard that same fateful day and yelled as blood began to pour out of his body. He became unconscious within the intense, sweltering heat of the battlefield.
When he opened his eyes again, there were doctors. But these were not skillful and kind doctors, like Sherlock. These doctors were mean, demanding, and clumsy. They cursed at him and denied any requests for water or a toilet. The room stank of ammonia and decaying flesh. Clearly, theses doctors hadn't cleaned up the room in forever or at all in their lives.
"Damn whiny-arse!" one of the doctors cursed.
"The poor widdle baby wants his pwecious potty-wotty!" the second doctor taunted.
The third doctor jammed a needle in his belly button and he screeched in pain. He looked at the bleeding spot on his left arm from a missing chunk of flesh.
"What happened?! Why am I here?! Who are you?!" he cried, clearly in a terrible shock. The doctors looked annoyed.
"Why should we tell you, you frickin' shite?!" the first doctor demanded.
"Yeah, shut up and go suck your lollipop!" the second doctor sneered.
The third doctor stuck a needle in John's neck and he cried out in pain once again. Just then, Sherlock showed up. He smiled, tears forming in his eyes.
"Oh, Sherlock! You're here! Quick, come get me out of this crazy-arse place!" Now, the Sherlock he knew would've rushed up to John, made sure he was okay, and kicked those doctors' arses, but this Sherlock looked at him sadly and shook his head before walking away. John tried reaching out to him.
"No! No, please! Sherlock, please, help me!" But it was too late. Sherlock disappeared. The doctors tied him down to the bed, turned him onto his stomach, and laughed evilly except for the third doctor who repeatedly stabbed John in the butt with several needles at a time. John could feel himself bleeding and he screamed bloody murder, calling everybody, somebody, anybody for help. Then, at once, that part of his nightmare faded and he wasn't in Afghanistan any longer.
Now, he was in the ocean in the middle of a torrential downpour. Dark billowy clouds up above sobbed upon the Earth and sent loud thunder claps and flashes of lightning. John was soaked and chilled to the very marrows of his bones as tsunamis higher than Big Ben crashed upon the ship he steered. Within the midst of the sea, he saw Sherlock's body floating on a piece of driftwood over the gargantuan waves.
"Sherlock!...Hang on, I'll save you!" he shouted. He steered over to where he was, but the taller man did not stir. Suddenly, a whirlpool appeared and they were spinning towards the middle of it. He tried to steer against it, but the wheel broke off the ship. Alas, they plunged through the middle of the pool, swallowed by its massiveness. But instead of drowning, like one usually would in a whirlpool, John landed in the next sequence of his nightmare.
He was a nine-year-old kid again, wearing a beige wool sweater and black high knee-socks with short shorts and brown Oxfords. He shivered in fright, remembering this day all too well.
"Oi! There he is! Get 'im!" a young and rowdy voice barked.
"Yeah, let's teach him a lesson!" another voice agreed. These voices belonged to some bullies that John faced as a kid. They were angry with him because he kicked one of their sand castles down unintentionally. His breathing became heavy and laced with fear once more as he began to run away from the bullies. However, he was stopped by a majority of school kids who were also against him because according to them he was "lower class".
He tripped over one of his shoe laces and landed face first upon the asphalt. The bullies caught up too quickly for him to run any longer. The biggest one lifted John by the collar.
"Hey, kid! You got any money on you?!" he demanded. John's jaw hung agape and he shook his head. The bully growled in frustration. "Well, I guess we'll have to teach 'im a lesson, then! C'mon, Jack! You know what to do!" The other bully, Jack, threw a punch at John, who stumbled backwards and fell. Patrick, the biggest one, picked him back up only to knock him off his feet again.
"Somebody help me!" John bellowed in a frightened manner. Nobody listened to his pleas. They all stood around him, singing,
"John is a baby~! John is a baby~!"
"I am not a baby!" John protested, frustrated that nobody was helping him. He kept getting punched. He tried to fight back, but the bullies were too strong. Finally, John lay on the ground, unable to move. Patrick snickered.
"Hey, Jack! You know, I've gotta go to the bathroom..." John looked up in fear as the crowd began to jeer. Patrick came closer and started unzipping the fly of his trousers.
"No! No, wait! Stop! Don't - " Too late. Patrick pissed all over John and everybody either laughed or cringed from the smell. John sobbed, his eyes welling up with tears and stinging pee. It was one of the worst days of his life. Just then, he found himself rolling and crying still, but he wasn't nine or attending school anymore. He was his regular age and he was in Moriarty's lair.
Moriarty looked upon him with a creepy and eccentric stare, his crown on his head and his throne nearby.
"Ah, Johnathan! So coincidental I should see you here!" he cackled. John gasped as lightning cracked in the background.
"What do you want from me?!" he cried, curling his fists inward. Moriarty sneered and continued to stare into his soul with his big eyes and his creepy-arse smile.
"I have your precious Sherlock," he replied nonchalantly. He snapped his fingers and Sherlock appeared. John looked at him angrily as he approached Moriarty's side.
"Sherlock?!...Sherlock! I have been worried sick about you, mister, and yet you suddenly disap - " He was quelled by the single image of Sherlock uncovering his helmet and showing that his mouth had been sewn into a forced toothy smile. John's eyes expanded at the sight and the song from the shower scene in Psycho began playing. He, too, screamed, and Moriarty laughed with pleasure, taking joy in the deed he had done.
Everything spun out of control, and John ran towards nothing with the laughs of horrible people echoing in his head. The laughs of the three doctors. The laughs of Patrick and Jack. The laughs of the little school children. The laugh of Moriarty. All directed towards him.
Just then, he was laying in a casket of some sort, designed to look like a wooden box. A demonic face was looking at him from above.
"Please help me!" he cried. The face only laughed and shut the lid above him. Then, he continued to laugh whilst carrying the casket. Then, he strapped John to the inside of it with chains and placed it into a bath tub. He turned on the faucet whilst whistling an ugly, shrieky tune. Red and black overtones loomed all around.
"No! No, please stop! Help me!" he cried, but the person with the face cackled extra loudly and left. John sobbed and began to drown in the casket...all alone...in the dark...where nobody could find him... "Sherlock!" he hollered, but thunder cracked extra loudly and shook the house like a gun shot. It was too late. He, John Watson, was dying. He sobbed himself to death that very night until he was floating, dead, in the bath tub.
