Woah, two new chapters in one day! If only I could write this much when I do homework!


Far from quiet, far from peace, far from any sort of comfort, a dark shadow flits across the remains of a house. A few drops of blood dampen the ground, mingling with dirt and stones and ash and the memories of what this house held. A bird, unidentifiable in the gloom, tries to settle on a pile of rubble, then thinks better of it and flees from the place, haunted as it is by a menace that laughs at all superstition. The beating of the birds wings startle the shadow, who gasps raggedly and presses himself into a corner, then slides to the ground, ashamed of his fear and pain. As he tries to calm himself, he sees the bird hovering above him. The bird's wings decay into a ragged, skeletal shadow and it looms over him, its eyes gleaming like Moriarty's.

"I will burn you, Sherlock Holmes. I will burn the heart out of you."

It speaks to him, repeating those words until they have tattooed themselves onto his mind; I will burn you, burn you, burn like the fires of hell which rage in you, because you're me, you're me, and you will burn. His fear escalates; he's hyperventilating, and all the time the voice is getting louder, the vision getting closer, and he can see death itself staring at him, as panic overtakes him and he cries out to the one person who can help him.

"John! John!"

"But John isn't here", the vision reminds him, and it's screaming now, "Because you left him. John probably hates you, John never wants to see you again, and if he does, I won't let him. John deserves a friend who cares, not a friend who leaves. John would never want you, and even if he did, you'll never see him again. Not now."

With that the horrific creature descends upon him, and he can feel its raggedy wings enveloping him like cobwebs, tangling his limbs and smothering his head. He's dying and he knows it; the black head of the hell he deserves looms up, leering and grinning, ready to welcome someone as evil as he is, and he tries to run, tries to escape,

Sherlock sat bold upright, the sheets, damp with sweat, tangled around his legs. He gasped for air, trying to block out the flashing eyes of Moriarty and the head of the vision which has haunted him for some time now. Desperately trying to anchor himself in reality, he looked around the small dark room, and tries to catalogue everything in it. He gazed at the shelves, with their meagre selection of case notes and chemistry books; the wardrobe, missing its door and hung with a few simple shirts and black jackets; the suitcase, still not packed.

The suitcase.

That constant reminder of his inadequacy, it sat there, prodding him to return to John. But how could he? How could he stand in front of John and see what he'd done to him? How could he face the pain he had caused his best friend? How could John ever accept him back, especially as broken and pathetic and disgusting as he was now? A shaft of light broke through the dirty curtains, and illuminated the bed, where he still lay, unable to move from the intensity of the nightmare. He was thankful, at least, that he had found and disabled the camera Mycroft had placed in the flat. Well, he said disabled. He had wrapped it in old newspapers, set light to them, and then thrown the blazing bundle out of the window. Mycroft had taken the hint.

He rolled over, the tears that flowed unbidden down his cheeks soaking into the pillow, and drew his knees up to his chest, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again. Yet the nightmare sank onto him like a crushing weight, and he felt unable to move. So, he just lay there, and let his fear and regret and shame roll over him in waves, and stayed motionless under the sticky sheets.