"Sorry boys! I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Moriarty smiled at them both, the expression was cold and calculating, empty of any emotion and John Watson had watched in fear as Sherlock's eyes had hardened, his own expression mimicking that of the consulting criminals. They seemed to be locked in a silent battle.

John kept watching, afraid to blink as Sherlock's target changed from the man, to the bomb on the floor, there was no hesitation as he fired.

John felt the fire licking his face, consuming every inch of him, burning every molecule as he heard someone screaming in the background, and then there was nothing else…

"Ah!" John shot up quickly, the nightmare still clinging to him, and despite to cool breeze from the open window, and the blanket having been kicked to the floor the doctor was covered in a film of perspiration.
He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and sat there for a few minutes, eyes closed as he waited for his heart to stop thudding in his chest, and for his hands to stop shaking. It had been two weeks since they had been trapped in that swimming pool by Moriarty and his team of snipers. Two damn weeks and the army doctor was still plagued with nightmares, he would have laughed if he didn't feel so pathetic.

Vivid realities of what could have been kept him awake at night. What could have been if Mycroft had not turned up; if Sherlock had pulled the trigger, and John knew the man had been tempted. He had seen the disappointment in those cool grey eyes as they had both watched Sherlock's smug, arrogant brother stroll up behind Moriarty, a slight wave of the hand in greeting to the two men. Mycroft had stood there, in the middle of them all, hands in pockets as he played the criminals greatest weakness against him. The one thing they all knew James Moriarty would value above all else; his own life.

It took John and Sherlock a moment to realise that those red dots that had paralysed them to the spot were no longer upon them. Mycroft had chuckled, eyes like stone, informing Moriarty that he was not the only one who didn't like to pull the trigger, and the man had proceeded to sulk with all the grace of a toddler being denied of his favourite toy.

To their great annoyance, and in Sherlock's case barley concealed rage the man had simply walked out of the same door he had entered in. Only being able to do so because of the bomb that continued to lie on the floor and the threat of a remote detonation from a very reliable source. He had informed Sherlock that next time, and indeed there would be a next time his big brother would not be there to save him.

All three of them had left quickly, not waiting to see if such a threat was indeed a bluff and Sherlock, upon John's request had simply text Lestrade with an air of boredom before starting at Mycroft, as if this was an everyday occurrence for the brothers. Neither of them acknowledging, nor apparently caring when John had sunk to the cold, wet concrete in relief as the adrenaline left his body with the sound of police sirens in the distance.

"Now can you understand why mother worries so? Getting to know such strange men," Mycroft had sighed, looking at his watch as a black car without number plates or badges pulled up and Sherlock crossed his arms.

"I know you Mycroft, I doubt anyone could possibly be stranger…"

John slowly got out if the bed, each muscle protesting as the remnants of the two brother's bickering dissolved from his mind, and back in the present he made his way downstairs, not bothering to change his white t-shirt and red flannel bottoms.

221b Baker Street was oddly quiet, not even Sherlock Holmes was still awake. John flicked on the light to the main room and was greeted with the usual chaos of papers and jars, not to mention the skull that resided upon the red arm clock above the fire place read 4:30am and John groaned to himself, knowing that he was awake now and flicked the kettle on, spooning coffee granules and sugar into a cup his mind free to wander.

Who was James Moriarty? The man had walked right under their noses and they hadn't noticed, hadn't even come close to suspecting the "clumsy" I.T technician. The man had even given Sherlock his number, a fact which still perplexed John; why pretend to be gay to get to the detective?

Sherlock had picked up the card with the hastily written number on it and studied it with what John thought was annoyance. It was obvious- and not for the fact Sherlock had told the doctor- that the man was married to his work. But then he had shot a glance over at John and smiled as if in apology. The kind of apology a lover gives when they have been propositioned by another and John had spluttered and had suddenly become very interested in a spot on the floor.

John rubbed his face and poured the boiling water into his mug; the only one not having been broken by Sherlock during a rather hap hazard experiment, and the one now hidden in the breadbin. He was over analysing everything; everything had a hidden agenda, another meaning. Good god I'm turning into him! John thought, this sudden realisation nearly caused him to drop the mug of coffee, and as he sat on the sofa his thoughts once again drifted to the lanky detective.

John Watson could not remember being attracted to another man, through out his life he had dated women, even is his eyes did stray on more than one occasion. Even the men in the army, the men the doctor had risked life and limb with, had bled with, and eventually had nearly died with. None of them had grabbed his attention more so that Sherlock Holmes.
He found himself staring at the detective's thin build, that mop of dark unruly hair. The way the man sprung into life at the start of an investigation, eyes sparkling with such joy that John couldn't help but to be drawn in. It scared the short, mousey-blonde haired man.

Standing in that swimming pool he had realised he needed Sherlock, he needed this life. The though of losing him to that bomb was enough to make his knees go weak, make his chest tighten and eyes burn with unshed tears. He needed that man in his life, in which context he was unsure of now; all of his lines were blurred and nothing made sense anymore.
Watson sat there, deep in though, unaware that he was not the only one trapped in a nightmare.


Hello!

I hope you enjoy :) It's been a VERY long time since I wrote any fan fiction. Well any fan fiction I wanted to post, so I may be a little rusty.