The seconds passed by like minutes, or it could've been the other way around. Time seemed irrelevant in a world where there was only fear. On the outside, Sherlock was built of stony indifference but on the inside he was screaming and tearing himself apart. No matter what he was feeling, he couldn't let Moriarty see it. It was the one thing Moriarty wanted and the one thing he could still keep from him. The consulting criminal stared at him, probing eyes scanning every inch of him for the slightest of changes. He searched for the reaction he needed to keep him satisfied and his brow creased when he couldn't find it.
Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed but it felt like it had been a while, certainly more than ten minutes. Hope ignited within the pit of darkness inside of him; it was possible that John was upset with him enough from earlier to ignore the text. He almost smiled until his hope was extinguished as quickly as it had lighted. A grin filled with contemptuous glee crept across Moriarty's face. He had his head cocked to the side, listening, so Sherlock listened too. The sickness crept over him again when he heard it.
"Sherlock!" The muffled shout raped his ears and constricted his heart.
"He's a little late but he's arrived!" Moriarty lilted. "Now the show can start."
Sherlock looked up through the window and realized why he'd been placed there. He had the perfect view of naïve John as he walked out of the wooded path, shouting his name like a fool. Moriarty skipped up behind Sherlock, stroking the back of the detective's neck before crouching beside him. Sherlock turned and they locked eyes, one pair filled with amusement and the other with hate. Moriarty reached into his sweatshirt pocket and extracted a switchblade, the metal gleaming in the sunlight that squeezed between the dirt that clung to the window. Sherlock didn't flinch but was unsure and nervous about the criminal's intentions. Instead of slicing at his skin, as he had expected, Moriarty started to saw through the rope at his wrists, freeing him. Sherlock was hesitant, confused as to what he was up to, but threw hesitancy out of the window when he spoke.
"Run as fast as you can, Sherlock," he whispered into his ear. "Can you reach him in time?"
He scrambled to his feet, fighting back the sickness as he stumbled towards the door. It was only a few feet away but it felt so much further, especially since he was practically immobile. He used the support beams to steady himself as Moriarty skipped back to the chair he'd been sitting in and reached into the dark, dusty depths beneath it. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, his feet shuffling closer to the door, as Moriarty pulled out a rifle that had been hidden there. The detective choked down the bile and threw himself at the door that was still a few feet away. He fell to his knees on his first attempt but he pulled himself back up and hugged the within reach door for support.
"John," he tried to call but it left his mouth as an unintelligible croak.
He could just see Moriarty loading the gun but when he cocked it Sherlock scrambled into action. John's calls penetrated the door, sounding worried and unsure.
"Sherlock?" he called, the assaulting noise drawing closer.
"John!" His hands were fumbling with the doorknob but he managed to pull it open to try again. "John! Run! It's Moriarty!"
John gazed up at Sherlock, about fifty feet between them, and relief spread over his face. His relief was quickly replaced with confusion and then shock when he noticed how horrible the detective looked. He hadn't heard what he had been saying but when he noticed Sherlock's expression he started to listen.
"Run, John! Please, run…," he pleaded.
He attempted to walk down the steps but fell down them instead, stirring up a dirt cloud when he hit the ground with a thud. John, completely ignoring Sherlock's warning, rushed to his side. His healing instinct replaced reason, even as the consulting detective tried to push him away.
"What happened to you?" he asked, assessing the situation.
"No! It's Moriarty, you need to run. John, leave me. Don't be an idiot."
"Moriarty?"
John instinctively looked to the window that Sherlock had only just been gazing out of and paled at what he saw. His army survival training kicked in and he grabbed Sherlock, fully intending to carry him to safety, when the sound of shattering glass stopped him dead in his tracks. His jaw slackened as though he were about to speak, he looked shocked and surprised. John dropped Sherlock and collapsed to the dirt beside him. His eyes were wide and hazy, a scared and pained expression etched into his face. John had wanted to scream, had thought about screaming, but no sound left him.
Sherlock's expression mirrored the doctor's, his mind wiped clean, temporarily stupid concerning what he was supposed to do. His body was shaking like he'd just been pulled out of a frozen lake as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He crawled over, a fawn on new legs, and scooped John into his arms. His free hand immediately searched John's chest and was almost sick when he felt the bullet hole, felt how close it was to the heart. Blood pumped rapidly from the wound, drowning John and the dirt beneath him in it.
"John, stay with me. Please." Sherlock choked on his words. "I won't survive long without you."
John smiled a small, sad smile, coming to terms with his fate. He gazed into Sherlock's eyes, which were wet and glistening with the threat of tears. John tried to reach up but was too weak and only made it halfway when his strength deteriorated. Sherlock grabbed his hand before it hit the ground and pressed it to his cheek. It felt cold and clammy. Emotions were exploding within the detective, a few of which he'd never experienced before. He felt a pain so severe and so deep that it made him wish for death.
"It's not real, Sherlock," John struggled, trying to make his last words good ones. "It can't be… because if it is… you'll lose yourself. I know you."
His body relaxed in his arms, as if preparing for sleep, until it fell completely limp. John felt far heavier in his arms than he actually was, Sherlock's own emotions weighing down the man he loved until it was almost impossible to keep him propped up. The doctor's eyes were open and dull. Whatever glowing spark of light, life, and joy that resided in them before had been extinguished. John was dead and left his empty shell behind as a memory and a reminder that threatened to tear Sherlock's mind apart.
Sherlock pressed John's body to his chest, unsure of how to cope. He'd dealt with death before but never like this. It was always a matter of the mind, never a matter of the heart. His brain attempted to rationalize the situation and tried to work through the stages of grief with inhuman speed. Denial was no problem, logic told him with stern conviction that John was gone, but his mind short-circuited and left him stuck on anger.
He laid John gently on the ground, as though he were still breakable. He closed his eyes out of respect and kissed his forehead out of love before dragging himself to his feet. His full attention was directed toward the building, toward Moriarty. His whole body vibrated with the boiling rage and hatred that consumed him. He appeared insane, a state of mind accented by the blood that stained his skin and shirt. The trauma had sobered him so his vision was clear and his steps didn't waver. He ran at the door with determination, still open from when he had fallen through.
"MORIARTY!" he shouted as he slowed to a stop just through the threshold, the sound permeating the house and the land it stood on.
The consulting criminal stepped from the darkness of the old house. It looked as though he had been a part of them, an empty shadow waiting to materialize. That lizard grin was plastered on his face as his head rocked side-to-side hypnotically.
"The cure for love, Sherlock. How does it feel?" he purred.
Sherlock lunged at him, his vengeance dyeing his vision red. He grasped Moriarty's hoodie with a vice-grip and held him so that their noses were almost touching.
"I. Will. Kill. You."
"I hope you do," he whispered, catching the detective off-guard.
His grip slackened as he stole a step back. "Why?"
"Because you need to be a killer. That's the master plan! Kill me, Sherlock. Kill me, please!"
Sherlock released his hold and scrambled a few feet away from him. He was right, he knew, he couldn't kill him, not in that state of mind. He couldn't allow Moriarty to win, not after what he'd just done. Sherlock had a choice to make in that moment, he could restrain Moriarty and hand him over to the police or he could let him leave. He didn't hesitate in his decision. If anyone was going to serve Jim Moriarty justice, it would be him. So, he would let him go, at least until he was ready. With one last glare at the Irish bastard, he turned to leave but Moriarty called him back.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" he called, causing Sherlock to turn back. "You forgot this."
He grabbed something from his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock who caught it reflexively. The detective looked down and saw his phone resting in his hands. He had five missed calls according to the small screen on the front. They were all from Lestrade.
"I texted your D.I. friend. Told him what happened. Told him you did it too. That's probably why he's been calling." He sighed contentedly. "It'll be so wonderful once you see the light. We can hold hands and watch the world burn."
Sherlock didn't care, he didn't react, he just pocketed the phone and left the house. When the door closed behind him Moriarty no longer existed in his mind. It was only dirt, John, and himself. He walked a funeral march down the steps and across the yard and collapsed next to John. He pulled the body close, a comforting gesture even though the body was uncomfortably cold. There was no show of emotion, he didn't move, he just sat and waited for the police to arrive.