The man of his dreams

Sherlock thought about that moment a lot. The moment where he watched his enemy shoot himself in the head. Except they weren’t really enemies, more frenemies. They got on, they just had different goals in life. Sherlock was on the side of the angels. That’s what they had both agreed. But the words which Moriarty had responded back with were now seared into his mind.

‘You’re not ordinary. You’re me. Thank you’

And then the gun was pointed against his head and in a flash he was gone. It was both a relief and extremely painful for Sherlock. So much was going on in his mind that day. And a lot of it replays in his mind over and over- torturing him on the night time with foul images of a bloody corpse and the sound of grotesque laughter.

He would often wake John up screaming and wrapping a pillow around his head. Sure John had a wife now, but that meant no difference. Mary understood. She and John had moved back to Baker street to help him. He honestly needed a lot of help. John would have to hold the man close, as if he were a child, and stroke his hair. Whispering soothing words into his ear telling him that it was all over. Mary had to make him some tea and try and get him back to sleep.

During the day he was always back to himself. He was arrogant and made it clear to John and Mary every day that they were starting to look like worn down, tired parents. This was supposed to both be an observation of them and a bit of a dig at himself because he knew he was the reason everyone was tired.

Nevertheless. Onwards and upwards and Sherlock was back on solving cases with John. They started to attract attention again, though as much as last time (luckily) but it was enough.

A knock at the door and then a note slipping through. John picked it up. Written on it was:

Miss me? 51.499 -0.1537

Both Sherlock and John instantly knew that the numbers were coordinates, but it took Sherlock to figure out where it was. Belgrave Square in Belgravia. The ‘Miss me?’ meant nothing to either of them as they looked at it, but for some reason, Sherlock just had Moriarty’s voice saying it. The soft irish accent articulating the words in such a way that it made the detective blush. Not from lust or anything like that, but from embarrassment because – as John and Mary had told him many times- Moriarty is dead and he wasn’t going to come back.

John had work the next morning;that is why Sherlock decided to go at that time. He promised that he would tell them who it was that he was meeting, though if his instincts were correct and this was Jim, then Sherlock would simply tell John a lie that he would ~hopefully~ believe.

And so he headed out. He went to the park. The scenery was beautiful. He’d never actually taken the time to appreciate it when he had gone in the past. Though, why would he have?

He found a bench to sit down on and then out of the corner of his eye he spotted him. The man he both hoped and dreaded he would see. He came walking towards him wearing a baseball cap to cover his face from any security cameras nearby.

“Miss me?” His voice was tormenting.

And then sherlock woke up. He panted and wiped sweat from his brow. It had all been a dream. He held his head. It was silly of him to think that Moriarty may actually come back. Afterall, he had watched him blow his brains out with his own eyes. And there was nothing that Sherlock trusted more than his eyes. Moriarty was dead, and he wasn’t coming back.