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His feet turned him on the spot and he was facing the other direction. He looked at his feet, trying to realize how to stop and then he noticed a large, red circle on the ground and he was walking right towards it. He tried to stop walking, he really did, but he just couldn't. He kept walking and the circle was now just one step away. All of a sudden he stopped. With a sigh of relief he tried to turn away but as he did his right foot lifted itself and stepped on the circle.
BANG
The deafening sound of the explosion released his feet. He turned around to see a huge ball of fire at the place where the school stood. The kids were screaming. A few of them were running towards him but were captured by the fire. A little brunette girl got to him and wrapped herself tightly around his right leg. She was scared and crying. He looked down at her, thunderstruck, suddenly she raised her head. "Help me." her eyes wet with tears and her forehead wet with sweat "Please". Sherlock didn't know what needed doing. The big ball of fire got closer to them, it was almost walking towards them, and in some way it seemed as if it was alive.
All at once, a flame came out of the ball, like a burning hand, and grabbed the girl away from his leg. He caught her by the hand and she looked back at him when her expression changed and instead of the scared, vulnerable and innocent look, the girl's face now wore the expression of a psychopath. Her eyes ruthless and ironic, her smile sarcastic and cold and her look emotionless, penetrating and apathetic. He looked at her and she just kept staring at him. "It's your fault," she said "Yours" her voice turned manlier, but just a bit "And yours only." He could swear that for a moment he saw Moriarty's maniac face. It caught him by surprise and so, shaken and alarmed, he released the girl who flew right into the flames, screaming.
Sherlock was standing there for a few minutes, staring into the violent flames, before the same burning hand that has just grabbed the girl away from him to her death, appeared again and started coming towards him.
He tried to run but couldn't. His feet wouldn't move as if they were nailed into the floor.
'Move'
He tried ordering them in his mind. But it was useless.
'Come on' he thought 'MOVE'
But his legs remained motionless. He looked up again, the hand was getting closer. "MOVE" he was now screaming at his feet and they didn't obey. He tried detaching his right foot from the ground by pulling it with both of his hands but it was of no use and also too late. He nearly lifted his head before the burning hand caught his legs and tore his feet from the ground. He felt the fire turn his clothes and skin apart, it felt as if millions of miniature knives were rend his skin, slowly, cell by cell. It was hard to breathe as the air around him became hotter. And he could no longer handle the ongoing pain when his eyes closed. It was black but he still couldn't breathe. Just the darkness.
"You will see that it's great fun." all of a sudden the silent was replaced by a voice "You will enjoy it," he tried searching for the voice's source but could not find it. "you will be waiting, eagerly, for your next job and you will be thankful when I give it to you."
the shrill voice of James Moriarty echoed in his head. He gathered the small amount of air that was left in his lungs and called towards the voice "THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN". But he knew that there was something in his words. He did enjoy the fire. "We both know it's not quite true," the voice replied calmly. The air in Sherlock's lungs was almost completely gone by now and therefore he started coughing. He tried calling for help but all that came out was nothing. When he tried breathing but nothing came in and every time he opened his mouth it dried even more. "Hel-" he managed to get it out, his voice high and every letter scratching his mouth. He tried screaming again and,
AIR
Cold as ice, thick as blood but still, air. He was in his stuffy, little cell again. Feeling his hands pressed against the wooden bed, he deduced he was sitting. Carefully he swung his hands off the bed and put them on the floor to its right. As he did, he noticed a weird sensation in his hands, he was shivering. He tried look at them but couldn't see a thing. he tried to make them stop and pressed them against the wood again but they kept doing that. He tried pressing them harder. It hurt.
He closed his eyes and felt his whole body shaking, uncontrollably. The fact that he couldn't control his body frightened him. He hated not having things under control but not having control over himself, which was probably the only thing he could have under control these days. It drove him mad!
He didn't even care he couldn't see, he just wanted his body to stop shaking. Without a warning he got up of the bed and started running, fast ahead. He had no idea why he did it. But the room was small so before he could pull himself together and stop his head hit the wall.
He stumbled backwards. Gray spots appeared and disappeared in the blackness of the room and again, he could feel his heartbeats in his forehead. He hated that feeling. He kept stumbling around, slowly losing all sense of direction. All he wanted was to find something too lean against.
BANG
His right leg hit the corner of the little, iron desk. The impact was so strong that instinctively he took his hand off his forehead and pressed it against his leg.
He kept stumbling around the room for a while, feeling as vulnerable as a fish outside the water. Not just as vulnerable as the fish, he didn't want to admit it, but he was also scared. After a while he found the wooden surface and with a sigh of relief he set on it, leaning with his back against the wall.
The tears tried to make their way out but he kept resisting. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down but his heart was beating fast while he kept wiping his sweaty palms on his coat. "What's the point of holding them back?" he thought to himself. He was no longer the strong, sarcastic and genius detective. In fact, he no longer knew who he was. The only thing he knew was that there was no use pretending to be someone he no longer was. And so he let go.
One tear slid down his cheek and it was followed by many others. He didn't move, just stayed still and silent while the tears kept wetting his face but he didn't wipe them. He just let them be. Weak. that's what he was. Moriarty was too smart for him, he had absolutely no chance to win this. When the tears dried on his face it felt as if they became solid, or left some sort of a mark on his face. Each time a tear had dried it left some sort of burning sensation like the one you get when you take a sticker off your skin. "So weak" he whispered to himself, "Weak and useless." with those thoughts he fell asleep again. But this time he had no dreams at all.
