There was no sense of time in that cell. It could have been days or even years before he stopped crying. At least it felt that way. His eyes were heavy, his head pounding, his throat dry and burning. His guts twisting and his face all wet. All he wanted to do was dying. But he couldn't. If he dies John will too.

For a long while nothing happened. No one came and no noise was made. The only sounds were his heartbeats' and deep breaths'. The boredom was no longer an issue when being under such stress and fear. He spent the days lying on the bed, thirsty and starving, imagining that John was there next to him and just talking to him. That wasn't so hard to do considering that he used to do that back in 221B baker street. John could leave the flat and he wouldn't notice and just keep talking for hours to an empty chair. That one made him smile. Thinking of John trying to talk to an empty chair made that little smile disappear. And again he was drowning in sadness and terror, thinking that he'll never see John again, that he will get him killed.

Those weird feelings, all those sudden rage attacks and sudden outbursts of crying were new to him. Looking back at it now, that was indeed interesting. He had never had those before. But back then it has frightened him. All his emotions were like a big activate volcano, bursting without a warning, destroying everything, slowly crumbling his soul and then disappear at the same suddenness they came. The lack of food and water made it all worse. Moriarty did give him food. If you can call that thick, sickening soup food. But Sherlock didn't eat that. Not because of the fact that it looked absolutely disgusting. He wasn't like that. But because he was afraid it might be poisoned. Not by Moriarty of course, he wanted Sherlock alive, but by one of his men or someone else who wanted revenge or wanted him to fail. Sherlock couldn't blame them of course If it was just his life there he would eat this poisoned food gladly but John's life was at stake and he couldn't let that happen. For the first few days he didn't eat or drink a thing. At the beginning it was easy. He didn't feel the difference since he was used to not eating for days. John always said it was a bad habit, and soon Sherlock understood why.

At first it wasn't a big deal. He felt as good as he possibly could be feeling in that dreadful hole but after a week the hunger started affecting him. His head was aching, his stomach was too. It was aching, twisting and making those weird and painful noises. But John was more important and so he didn't give up. The thirst was effecting too. His throat and mouth have dried and his lips were crocked. Soon he became weak and in few days he couldn't even stand up anymore. It was surprising that Moriarty didn't do anything. He needed him for something and he was dying. Actually he would have loved to just let go and then all the pain will be over but John kept him alive. He spent most of the day sleeping or hallucinating. His temperature was rising and therefore it wasn't nice.

Those illusions were so real and vivid he could smell John's jumpers and feel his hand holding his own while the other hand is stroking his hair. He closed his eyes, holding to that feeling, doesn't want to let go. His pain has faded and everything he could now feel is John's warm hand on his forehead and even though his eyes were close he could tell that he now had this comforting smile and for a split second it seemed as if everything is going to be okay now. All of a sudden this feeling disappeared and all he had now was the pain. He was too weak to move and his eyes were too heavy to open so he just kept them closed.

It was so quiet. His heart was beating loudly and he could feel it beat in his head. Abruptly his heart started beating faster and faster. His breathing became quicker and he just couldn't control it. John was there. He was trying to calm him down but Sherlock couldn't stop his throat dry and the air squeezing its way through it felt as if there were millions of knifes, violently cutting their way out. He tried to stand but couldn't. His breaths getting faster and his body moves, uncontrollable, while he was lying there. This is it. He thought to himself. That's the end. Not only his but also John's. For what seemed like the last time he opened his eyes and John was standing there again. His eyes red and wet and the same, old, familiar comforting smile was there too.

Sherlock tried to hold on to his life to not give up on John's and he begged him to come and help him. To put his hand on his forehead again. To make the shivering stop but he just stood there. Watched as his friend slowly stopped breathing and how those magical blue eyes lost their expression and became vacant.

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