His smile lit up his dreams like how the sun lit up the white bricks in the midafternoon sun. It was an ordinary day. People walked, people talked; on the phone, online. They shopped, they ate, they worked, and that’s what made it ordinary. An ordinary day for ordinary people. Below their feet, people helped other people, they worked on those living and deceased.
“Y ou’re on the side of the angels.”
The soft voice broke the silence of the wind and traffic. Below them, ordinary people served others, saved others, but the man who stood inches below William Sherlock Scott Holmes’ nose was greedy. Greedy, greedy of him. Greedy with his curly brown hair, his piercing blue eyes that reminded him of the summer’s day, his fine and pale skin, how soft it was when he had grabbed a hold of his hand. Sherlock was aesthetically pleasing; he was an art work. The consulting detective’s lips were pink and frail, just how Jim Moriarty liked it, it's how he liked all of the people that fell to his feet, that were captivated in his domain.
“Good luck with that.”
And Sherlock Holmes would wake in a jolt in sweat when he heard gun sound off, it would echo in his head, his head was spinning, his dark curls pooled around his eyes as he would try and sit up, trying to at least make it to prop himself up on his elbows. To no prevail, the detective would collapse back into his sheets in a dizzy haze, his blue eyes becoming clouded and his head trying to support itself up, also to no prevail. Sherlock would lie there in defeat, knowing he had to just give himself a bloody second to recuperate, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to feed into that damn virus in his head; he wanted to deny he would even fall into a dream about that bastard. Jim Moriarty’s voice would ring in his ears and in his dreams for months after they met for the first time. He didn’t really even know what the words meant, but he knew for a damn fact that the voice belonged to Jim Moriarty. He would never forget his voice-
“His voice was so soft- “
Those words made Sherlock’s breath hitch, hard, like a kick to the chest as he was caught off guard again. He needed to remind himself that he couldn't keep letting himself down, Moriarty was just barley scraping the surface at this point. His skin would crawl, goose bumps running all over his body, his bony knuckles would turn white from gripping onto the sheets. She was blind, she was scared, she was just an innocent elder and now she was dead because of Sherlock, just because she had described Jim Moriarty in a flash of cold fear, and it drove him insane. How could someone be so heartless? Jim knew Sherlock and him would physically cross paths some day, he just wanted some fucked up excuse to kill someone, not that Moriarty needed a clear conscious. He refused to lose any words or the tiniest details about Moriarty, because he was so- mythical. There was no way he was human, and it scared Sherlock deep down, because there were some things that he just couldn’t deduce on the other. Was Jim Moriarty his equal?
Sherlock could finally sit himself up, a cold flash of Moriarty’s face in Baskerville flashed across his eyes, and he began to dig his palms into the sockets and rub hard, trying to get that image out of his eyes. The next image to cross his mind was a cabbie, Jeff Hope beneath his foot, his darkened blood leaking onto the floor from the then random bullet in his shoulder that had been blasted from behind; no, it was time to think about something else. The court date was today, the court case against Moriarty for stealing the crown jewels. Not that he stole, he just sat on the throne with that mocking smirk on his face. And he only remembered when John had entered his room, a flannel buttoned up and fit snug around his neck, his black jacket draped over his shoulders. “Are you ready?” the shorter asked, sitting beside his lover and slowly putting his hand over Sherlock’s, rubbing it gently with his thumb, noting the difference of skin tone as they touched. A golden band around his ring finger pushed against Sherlock’s cold skin, and Sherlock admired it to his own extent as he watched John’s thumb rub his skin. His hands were always noticeably calloused, the only thing Sherlock could think of past that was that John asked Sherlock if he was ready. Sherlock literally just woke up, normal people had the most low-tech thinking process, his brain couldn't even comprehend or even imagine being so far behind.
“You’re going to be okay today- “ John spoke in a low, calming tone that he always did. It was always reassuring, it was always so content. That's what Sherlock admired about John as a regular person, he never tried to be so compassionate and kind, he just naturally was. Normally it was a bad sign, but not with John. But you could hear that John was pushing towards trying this time, seeing the somewhat lost expression on Sherlock's face. He was normally unreadable to everyone all the time, but if something was ever wrong, John was the one who could tell. To both their knowledge the only other person in their minds would be Mycroft, but even he was at a loss at times. They wouldn't ever expect the third party who could break through that seemingly blank face. John took a lean forward and kissing Sherlock on the cheek, pulling back a second after. His gray-blue eyes met Sherlock’s, he knew something was off. “Have that nightmare again?” he asked as Sherlock rested his head on the blonde’s shoulder. “No” he would respond blatantly. John sighed, neither knew what the dream meant, John was confused whenever Sherlock explained it, but God whatever it was, it needed to stop.Sherlock never completed the nightmare, just those last words and a bang. Was he shot? Did Moriarty turn the gun on himself? No, never. Moriarty was a man of power, he would never kill himself. Sherlock grew up with Mycroft, a man of all seriousness and a passion for business, Mycroft had low self-esteem, but he knew he had a powerful place and he wasn't going to lose it, especially not to death unless it was pried from his cold, dead hands.
That’s the answer Sherlock would always respond with, and John would always show a face of disappointment because he knew Sherlock was lying about it. He wasn’t the master of knowing, because really it was hard to tell sometimes, and he wanted to help whenever he knew he could, Sherlock grew up without feeling anybody truly cared about him, that he had nobody to confide in, Sherlock needed to be reminded that he wasn't a machine that nobody knew, that he wasn't just a man on the front page of the papers. John had always worried about Sherlock, ever since he really got a grasp as to who he was. Constantly reminding the other to sleep, to eat, and to just plainly take care of himself. Sherlock would distract himself in his mind palace and with cases and he’d forget or flat out refuse these things, but ever since Moriarty came around, John had been more and more protective of him. Watching their ground when they went into the towns they visited, watched how frequently he went to his mind palace, how many nicotine patches he wore. But Sherlock was always stone cold, and emotionless. Sherlock never wanted to show sign of weakness, barley even a sneeze since Moriarty became more known. Because so far, all of the cases led a trail back to Moriarty.
The two had gotten engaged in the fall, soon after the trip to Baskerville, and they had been happily settled with it ever since, John proposing pretty much on the way back. It wasn’t necessarily romantic, but it wasn’t dull, either. Sherlock didn't make a big deal about any holiday, about any birthdays, so a cute and meaningful proposal tied the knot just fine. Sherlock made John happy, and he knew that in a sense, he made the other happy, too. It obviously wasn't a surprise to anybody, everybody had known the two had really hit it off since the first time they met, a little too easily some would say. But Sherlock had so many people who cared, and they all knew John loved Sherlock, that he would always take care of him in his time of need. That no matter what, Sherlock would never betray him, that John would hold nothing but pure love for his curly-haired detective. And it was accepted by everyone, because everyone trusted John to be there for Sherlock when he wouldn't be there for himself, which was just about every time. And now that this was a big curving point in their lives, it was time for John to step up, no matter what. Because Sherlock didn't have friends, he just has one.