Abruptly, the door opened again and the two guards walked in, holding the bed from his cell. Moriarty walked in too as the two men placed it in the right corner of the tiny room. "Congratulations! This will be your cell for the next few days or weeks, I haven't decided yet," he glanced at Sherlock who did not look back. "Make yourself at home." He smiled coldly and strode out of the room followed by the men. All of a sudden the screen went all black again and the room was quiet. He stayed sited on the chair, didn't move and didn't say a thing.
The silence was there too. Stuck in mid air, like some sort of an invisible fog, slowly, sucking the air from the room. He sat there for awhile. It felt like an eternity. His head was vacant, no thought appeared and no idea came up. Just nothing. When suddenly, in a loud bang, the light was gone and he couldn't see a thing. Luckily the room was a small one so he could find his way to the little, hard surface.
He was laying on the bed, his head pressed into it. No pillow, no nothing. Just his skull against the wood and obviously, the wood was winning. He dropped his hands, each of them on one side of the bed, slightly touching the floor. He suddenly realized that he was still wearing his coat. He hasn't changed his clothes since he got there. He was too busy for that. But it was hot now. He tried to get up but couldn't move. His body felt as if it was nailed onto the bed and so he stayed still.
He remained motionless, staring at the ceiling, which he could not really see but knew was there. His eyes were too heavy for him to keep them opened and, slowly, he closed them. They hurt so much. He knew that they were red now. He could feel his heartbeats in his eyes, again and again and again and again. His heart just kept beating, and now it felt as if he had a clock stuck in his head. Ticking and ticking over and over again, getting louder and louder. His whole head was pounding now, he wanted to shut his ears or press his hand against his forehead but his hands were too heavy to lift. So he just closed his eyes harder, in a poor attempt to stop the ticking but it was useless.
He kept them closed and after awhile the darkness was replaced by a blur picture of something that looked like a garden. The blue sky mixed together with the green grass like some sort of a watercolour painting and in the middle of it was a big dark green and brown spot that looked like a tree. He started walking towards It and as he got closer it became clearer and clearer. It was then when he noticed a little blond man sitting below the huge oak, reading a large red book. The walking turned into running and, lightly, he was skipping through the endless grass field. The sun caresses his skin, warm like the touch of a hot cup of tea against the skin and as gentle as a feather.
He kept running and running, his feet moving too fast for him to stop. The blond man looked up, the sunlight flickered in his blue eyes and he smiled at him. Sherlock could barely stop when he reached the tree and so he sent his hands forward to stop the impact. He looked down at his feet. He was wearing sandals. That was when he noticed that his regular clothes were replaced by a pair of beige shorts and a black, short sleeved t-shirt. He looked up again. The other man was standing now in front of him. They both looked at each other "John?" he asked, breathing heavily, his voice was cracked but still understandable.
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