God, John Watson thought. Why is he taking so long? He was leaning up against a một loài rêu, cỏ dại, địa y ridden wall, manky with damp and mildew. John looked at his silver watch. Eleven oh three. God, Sherlock! Hurry up! He was getting impatient now. Soft padding footsteps came up behind him, along with panting. “Sorry, John. I was just checking out the...” Sherlock gasped for breath. “Ok, ok. Come on then.” John interrupted, and dragged him back to the apartment, grinning.
John tossed and turned in between his sheets, which were drenched with sweat. He gasped as he sat up in bed, breathing shallowly in what felt like convulsions. Something was wrong. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He swings his legs over the edge of the thin bed, trying to figure out what’s missing. Sherlock. Why can’t he hear his audible mumbling of the insomniac consulting detective? He switches on the light and stumbles out his bedroom door to Sherlock’s room. John stands in the doorway and smiles. Sherlock’s giường is made up neatly, the crisp blanket looking as clean as the ngày it was bought. Then his smile fades. Where is he? He rakes a hand through his shaggy, sand coloured hair. He’s let it grow out, a weak attempt to be like Sherlock. John shrugs on a coat, just in case he has to go out. He walks briskly into the living room. Nothing. John runs outside into the drizzly dark street. “SHERLOCK!” He yells, running west. Nothing. He runs east. Nothing. South. Nothing. North. Nothing.
John looks back at his watch. Two seventeen. “SHERLOCK HOL...” A pale hand claps over his mouth. “Shut up, John... he’s here, looking for us.” A low, smooth voice whispered, like one bạn hear in luxury cars. John sighed with relief. “Sherlock. What are bạn talking about?” John whispered fiercely. “I'll give bạn one guess.” Sherlock’s mouth quirked up to one side. John straggled an answer. “Moriarty.” He understood now. “But why is he after me?” John whispered. “I... don’t know.” Sherlock shushed John and pushed him against the tường beside him. They sucked their stomachs in. “In three... two... one...”
John and Sherlock sprinted across the đường phố, street until John stopped. “Haha!” A burst of hysterical laughter came from up the street. John turned around. “You honestly thought bạn could outrun me!” A strange voice came from the darkness. “James.” He nodded. “Hello, Johnny boy! Fancy seeing bạn here.” Moriarty chuckled. His oil slick black hair shined in the moonlight. John looked at Sherlock, who was invisible against the brick wall. “Oh, please. I’m not stupid, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s accent rolled on the “r.” Sherlock didn’t move. “Oh, come on. Johnny boy might get hurt! Don’t want your only friend of yours to, well... get killed, do we?” Sherlock ground his teeth and stepped out of the shadows. “Good boy. Now, go stand tiếp theo to Watson.” He walks up to John. “I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I thought I told bạn to leave, James.” Sherlock booms. “Oh, Sherlock. bạn know I can’t do that.” His accent was so queer. Irish, American, British? “Don’t bạn dare hurt Sherlock!” John yelled. It echoed around them. Moriarty looked amused. “John Watson, the hero!” He snorted. He giggled a high pitched peal of chuckles. John’s jaw clenched. Sherlock ran a hand through his dark brown tangles. Moriarty lifted up his pistol. “It. Ends. Here.” It all happened in slow motion. Moriarty pulled the trigger and the iron bullet shot out. Sherlock stood there, frozen. John yelled Sherlock’s name and pushed him out of the way. Never had John thought he’d do this. But it was his best friend. The person that had brought fun and interest into his life.
Everything went black in John’s head.
What happens, happens.
John tossed and turned in between his sheets, which were drenched with sweat. He gasped as he sat up in bed, breathing shallowly in what felt like convulsions. Something was wrong. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He swings his legs over the edge of the thin bed, trying to figure out what’s missing. Sherlock. Why can’t he hear his audible mumbling of the insomniac consulting detective? He switches on the light and stumbles out his bedroom door to Sherlock’s room. John stands in the doorway and smiles. Sherlock’s giường is made up neatly, the crisp blanket looking as clean as the ngày it was bought. Then his smile fades. Where is he? He rakes a hand through his shaggy, sand coloured hair. He’s let it grow out, a weak attempt to be like Sherlock. John shrugs on a coat, just in case he has to go out. He walks briskly into the living room. Nothing. John runs outside into the drizzly dark street. “SHERLOCK!” He yells, running west. Nothing. He runs east. Nothing. South. Nothing. North. Nothing.
John looks back at his watch. Two seventeen. “SHERLOCK HOL...” A pale hand claps over his mouth. “Shut up, John... he’s here, looking for us.” A low, smooth voice whispered, like one bạn hear in luxury cars. John sighed with relief. “Sherlock. What are bạn talking about?” John whispered fiercely. “I'll give bạn one guess.” Sherlock’s mouth quirked up to one side. John straggled an answer. “Moriarty.” He understood now. “But why is he after me?” John whispered. “I... don’t know.” Sherlock shushed John and pushed him against the tường beside him. They sucked their stomachs in. “In three... two... one...”
John and Sherlock sprinted across the đường phố, street until John stopped. “Haha!” A burst of hysterical laughter came from up the street. John turned around. “You honestly thought bạn could outrun me!” A strange voice came from the darkness. “James.” He nodded. “Hello, Johnny boy! Fancy seeing bạn here.” Moriarty chuckled. His oil slick black hair shined in the moonlight. John looked at Sherlock, who was invisible against the brick wall. “Oh, please. I’m not stupid, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s accent rolled on the “r.” Sherlock didn’t move. “Oh, come on. Johnny boy might get hurt! Don’t want your only friend of yours to, well... get killed, do we?” Sherlock ground his teeth and stepped out of the shadows. “Good boy. Now, go stand tiếp theo to Watson.” He walks up to John. “I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I thought I told bạn to leave, James.” Sherlock booms. “Oh, Sherlock. bạn know I can’t do that.” His accent was so queer. Irish, American, British? “Don’t bạn dare hurt Sherlock!” John yelled. It echoed around them. Moriarty looked amused. “John Watson, the hero!” He snorted. He giggled a high pitched peal of chuckles. John’s jaw clenched. Sherlock ran a hand through his dark brown tangles. Moriarty lifted up his pistol. “It. Ends. Here.” It all happened in slow motion. Moriarty pulled the trigger and the iron bullet shot out. Sherlock stood there, frozen. John yelled Sherlock’s name and pushed him out of the way. Never had John thought he’d do this. But it was his best friend. The person that had brought fun and interest into his life.
Everything went black in John’s head.
What happens, happens.