Greetings fellow Sherlock fans!

This is my story about what I think happens at the end of episode 3, series 1, with a new case to work on and ominous footsteps walking through the dark...

I wrote this quite a long time ago, but I've decided to re-edit it to improve the plot lines, the spelling etc. I've been thinking about re-editing some of my stories for a while now, and I decided to start with this one, as i must admit this is not the best story I've ever written, so I hope to improve it!

I have re-edited and put up the first 6 chapters already, so I hope you enjoy! :)

I didn't get very many reviews first time I posted this, so if you could drop me a review once in a while, that would be much appreciated :) I always love to know what you guys think!

Footsteps of a Dead Man

The last thing John Watson saw before the bomb exploded was Sherlock standing there, gun in hand, still as a statue but his eyes alive with thoughts as he held the cards of death in his very hand. The smell of the chlorine floated up from the pool and filled John's nostrils. He wondered how Moriarty and Sherlock couldn't hear the loud thudding of his heartbeat, getting louder and louder and faster and faster as the seconds ticked away.

The last thing John Watson felt before the bomb exploded was…nothing, he was so terrified he had gone numb with fear. He had managed to pull himself up from the floor so he was standing, but there was no guarantee that he was standing, he couldn't even feel his feet. A voice in his head had screamed at him to run, but was now drowned out by his numb terror.

There was a click over the sound of John's racing heart as Sherlock released the safety catch on the gun. Moriarty's eyes glinted with pleasure, and he opened his mouth to say something, or perhaps he was just going to give a high pitched, mad laugh.

No one would ever know, because Sherlock had already pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot was swallowed up by the roar of the bomb as it exploded. It was so loud and terrible it was as if a dragon was coming up from hell and breaking out into the Earth. The whole ground shook, John felt himself being lifted easily into the air by the force of the explosion, there wasn't even time to cry out. Bright orange flames filled John's vision before he felt the back of his head collide with something – the floor? The wall? The ceiling? It was impossible to tell, the whole world had turned upside down – then total blackness claimed him and silence took over.

John thought he had woken up dead, before realising that death probably didn't hurt this much. He ached all over, his head was the worst, he could feel something wet trickling across his forehead over the pain. He managed to work out that it was blood, but that was about all he could understand.

John had no idea of where he was or how he had got there. He lay there on the cold floor, trying to remember what had happened, waiting for his brain to see through the haze that had clouded his mind. There had been an explosion, that much seemed to be obvious. The air was filled with slowly settling smoke and the smell of something that had been badly burnt. Watson was dimly aware of the cuts on his face, neck and hands where the shrapnel had cut into him. There was a ringing in his ears from the blast.

As things seemed to settle down, and the ringing in his ears stopped, John began to grow aware of other things, there was another smell in the room, a strange smell, and yet he recognised it quite well, it was chlorine. That was when things began to make sense, and John began to remember. He was at a swimming pool, and he wasn't the only one, Sherlock had been there too, he was the one who had activated the bomb. There had been someone else in the room as well, someone who had caused Sherlock to blow the place up, but he couldn't remember who that had been. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

The whole place was so silent, John could have been the last person left in the world. Perhaps he was.

It was just as these despairing thoughts began to fill his mind, that John heard the sound of footsteps. They were slow, steady and full of authority, it seemed as if every step the person took he was taking great care to do so, and he was thinking every moment through. John could work out these things even though most of the world still didn't make much sense to him. The footsteps were getting louder, growing closer to where he lay. Maybe it was Sherlock. John opened his mouth to call Sherlock's name, but his lungs were filled with dust and his throat and mouth were bone dry. John started to cough; every movement his lungs made sent spasms of pain through him, but he couldn't stop, he needed to clear his lungs. Watson ignored the pain and focused on Sherlock, who was stepping closer.

Sherlock stopped right in front of where John lay, John couldn't see anything, the world was still filled with smoke, or perhaps his eyes weren't even open, but he knew who was standing there. He tried to speak again, but to no avail, he waited for Sherlock to say something, he always did have something to say, but this time he was silent. John was growing more confused now, shouldn't Sherlock just be a little bit concerned about the fact that his friend was lying on the ground in front of him, hardly moving and probably covered in blood?

He could see a shadow now, looming over him, still and silent. By now John was well aware that something was wrong. There was a click.

Now things were just getting stranger by the second, what was Sherlock playing at? What was that clicking sound? John racked his exhausted brain, trying to remember what that familiar click was. Then he remembered; it was the sound for when the safety catch was released from a gun.

Silence fell again. John was so confused and worried now that he was beginning to grow scared again, this wasn't right, nothing made sense, what the hell was going on?

Suddenly there was the sound of more footsteps, more urgent then the last. And the shadow in front of John's face turned and disappeared. He could hear Sherlock turn calmly and walk away, then the footsteps quickened, breaking almost into a run, and then disappearing. This was getting worse by the second. Why was Sherlock leaving him like this? Was he going to get help? Or was he leaving his friend to die? And who was the other person in the room, who had also broken into a run?

"John? John Watson!" Cried a far too familiar voice, as another figure appeared and bent down beside him.

Oh, said the only part of Watson's mind that was able to think clearly. This isn't right, it appears that either there are two Sherlocks, or you've gone mad.

"I prefer the latter." Watson mumbled to himself.

"What?" Said the voice, which was full of panic and confusion. A cold hand touched the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. "John can you hear me?"

"Sherlock?" Watson finally managed to break through the fog obscuring his vision; he opened his eyes wide and he could see clearly.

Sherlock Holmes was bending right over him, his face filling John's vision. His blue eyes were full of fear, something Watson had never seen before. The hard mask seemed to have melted away, and all Sherlock's feelings could be seen clearly, Watson had never seen him look so worried. Sherlock's face was pale, more pale than usual, there were cuts on his face and his hair was dripping wet.

"Why are you wet?" John asked, his voice sounded hoarse and weak.

"I, err, I went for a swim." Sherlock replied, he seemed a little confused, as if he had been expecting John to say something a little more intelligent, despite everything that had happened.

"You went for a swim?"

"We're next to a swimming pool."

"Yes I can remember that," John said, a little irritated. "Why did you go for a swim?"

"Well, I was on fire a little bit." Sherlock replied awkwardly.

"You were on fire!" John tried to shout, but his voice was still frustratingly weak. He jerked his head up to try and get a better view of Sherlock, but the whole world lurched as he did so and became blurry.

"Ssh, calm down, it was only a little bit. Just my clothes really. Other than that I'm all right." Sherlock tried to assure him.

Suddenly John remembered something, or rather someone. That annoying, high pitched voice, the normal looking person who had the mind of an evil genius, or a mad man, and liked to play games with people and bombs…

"Where's Moriarty?" He demanded.

Sherlock went silent for a few moments, frozen to the spot by the question. Then his face became hard again; his eyes focused on something far away and full of a sudden hatred.

"Moriarty is dead." He replied harshly.

"Oh," said John, still confused. "Is there anyone else here?"

"No, the gunmen fled." Sherlock told him.

"Right," John tried to nod, but that made the world spin. He couldn't remember any gunmen, but Sherlock looked worried enough without him knowing that, but if there was no one else here, who did the other footsteps belong to, that shadow? That click, that was the most worrying thing of all. John went silent for a moment, as he tried to make sense of everything.

"John!" Sherlock almost shouted suddenly, the hardness in his eyes; face and voice had vanished once more.

"What?" John asked, irritated.

"You have to stay awake for me."

"I was—" but then John stopped himself. As he had been thinking his vision had begun to fade again. He was sinking into darkness without even realising. Perhaps he was having trouble staying awake; he did take a nasty knock to the head, and he did feel exhausted, to him, sleep seemed to be the best thing to do…

"Watson! What did I just say!"

"Oh, sorry," John quickly opened his eyes again.

"We have to get you out of here." Said Sherlock quickly, before he suddenly began feeling John's arms, and then his legs.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing!" John demanded, trying to kick Sherlock off him.

"Just checking if anything's broken." Sherlock explained, avoiding John's foot quite easily.

"I can do that myself thank you, I am a Doctor." Watson replied, not bothering to hide his irritation. "I'm fine Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"How many fingers can you see?" Sherlock held his hand up to John's face, it took him a little while to focus on it, he still felt dizzy, the world kept on tipping at odd angles.

"Three?" He decided after a pause.

Sherlock glared, "you halved the number you saw didn't you?"

"People don't have six fingers on each hand." John snapped, then decided that this wasn't helping his argument that there wasn't anything wrong with him. "I just bumped my head that's all, I'll be fine, just give me a moment."

Sherlock was still glaring, and for a few moments John felt a little guilty. He didn't like lying to his friend. He knew that several minutes had passed since the explosion for him to have become fine, and yet he was still lying on the floor and the world still couldn't decide which way was the right way up. There was even a possibility of him hallucinating, he had heard footsteps and seen a figure, he was sure of it, but Sherlock had seen nothing, there was no one else there.

Suddenly Sherlock looked up and glanced around the room, his worried look broke off John's chain of thought.

"What is it?" He asked.

"We can't stay here any more, I need to get you out of here." Sherlock said hurriedly.

"Holmes I've just hit my head pretty hard, do you really think that's a good idea?" There could also be something else other than the bumped head that we don't know about yet. Said John's medical mind, and he swallowed worriedly, but something else distracted him. "Can I smell something burning?"

"Yes, that's why we have to go." Said Sherlock.

"What can catch fire in a swimming pool?" Smoke was slowly filling Watson's vision again, though this time it was real smoke.

"Well, when there's a bomb, quite a lot…" Sherlock replied before he began to help John off the floor. He was surprisingly strong; he literally picked him up, much to John's annoyance and embarrassment. "Can you stand?" He asked.

"I don't know," John admitted, he was too busy trying to stop the world spinning round so fast, he felt like he was going to be sick.

Sherlock helped John set his feet firmly on the ground, but still holding onto his friend's shoulders just in case he couldn't hold himself up. As soon as Sherlock let go John's feet fell from underneath with a shock of pain and surprise. Sherlock quickly grabbed onto his arm to stop him from falling.

"OK, maybe I can't." John told Sherlock as calmly as he could.

"Don't worry, I'll help you, we just need to get out of here." Sherlock said, "the last thing you need is to have your lungs filled with smoke."

John couldn't agree more.

As Sherlock helped Watson out the room he turned his head to look at what they were leaving behind. 'What' was probably the best way to describe the room and the swimming pool. Half the ceiling had fallen down, the whole place was filled with rubble and there was what looked like a crater carved out into the floor where the bomb had been lying. The swimming pool was barley visible underneath the debry, the dirt and dust was beginning to make the water turn grey. Smoke was slowly filling the room, behind the rubble John could just make out orange flames licking away at the sides of the wall.

They made it out into the corridor, away from the rubble and the smoke and the flames. It was lighter here, but silent again, the air tasted clean and there were no longer any unpleasant smells. John used the wall to hold himself up as Sherlock had a quick glance around, taking everything in.

"Wait here," Sherlock told John, glancing up at the walls and ceiling around them.

"Where are you going?"

"To take a look around, the last thing we want is a gunmen to shoot us on the way out the building. Just wait there, the police will be here soon. I just want to make sure there's no one else."

"Right," John nodded, and then regretted doing the simple action immediately, as his vision took him on another roller coaster ride. Was this really wise to leave someone with head injuries alone in a strange place? John would have pointed this out, but Sherlock had already disappeared around a corner.

John sank to the floor, unable to hold himself up any more. He could feel his legs properly to the first time in what felt like months, and he didn't like the pain that raced up them. He glanced around but he could do nothing but sit still and wait for Sherlock to return. Now there was more light he could get a proper look at himself. John could feel a cut across the top of his forehead, and there was a nasty bloody patch at the top of his head. There were scratches all over his hands, but that was nothing serious. His shoes and trousers were stained with blood; that was slightly more serious. He tried to think of the moment that the bomb exploded, had he perhaps collided with something that had caused a great gash on his leg? But he couldn't remember anything, just the burning heat from the explosion and the strange sensation of being pulled through the air by some invisible force.

After a few moments exhaustion took over, despite the fact that John had done very little. He put his head back and closed his eyes, knowing full well he shouldn't, but who was going to tell him off for doing so? The wall? He had made it out that room alive, and that was the most important thing. For a few terrible moments when he was in that room he thought he wouldn't survive to see another day. But these thoughts were sending back unpleasant memories, John decided the best thing to do was to keep still and not think of anything.

That was when he heard the footsteps again.

The sound of them echoed eerily around the walls, John could tell they were the same footsteps that he had heard before. They certainly weren't Sherlock's; they walked with calm authority, but slightly quicker than before. John felt a shiver run down his spine, he knew perfectly well this time that something was wrong. He kept his eyes closed, as if somehow if he couldn't see the footsteps, they might fade away into nothing, the footsteps of a dead man. There was a click of the safety catch on a gun, the same click he had heard before.

John dragged his eyes open, and looked up defiantly at Moriarty, who stood over him with a gun in his hand, and a cruel smile on his face.

"Really thought you could just walk out of here after all that?" Moriarty asked in his light, annoying voice.

"You should be dead." Said John darkly.

"And so should you Doctor Watson," Moriarty replied, his voice was calm yet dripping with malice at the same time. He bent down so he was at the same level as John. The smile was still there, and a high pitched chuckle was building up in his throat. He held the gun loosely in his hand, as if it was a toy.

Was he trying to kill John? He wasn't going to show that he was afraid.

"Then kill me."

"No, not today. I've made up my decision, for real this time." Moriarty added, seeing the disbelieving look in John's eyes. "And I'd hate to think what Sherlock would say when he comes back to find his only friend lying in a puddle of blood on the floor, though I would love to see the look on his face. I don't think he would stop running after me and that would really ruin my plans."

"I'm dreaming." John told himself.

"Well yes actually you are, but my footsteps are real."

"You're not making any sense." Figures of the imagination didn't often seem so real, or tell you that you were dreaming, and yet other was no other explanation.

"Dreams tend not to John. And it doesn't help that you've got that nasty bump on your head. Sherlock may think I'm dead but I am very much alive, and I'll be seeing you too soon." Moriarty stood up, "oh and don't bother trying to tell him that I'm still alive, he won't believe you. He'll just think you've gone mad, you wouldn't be the first one though, if you did."

"You're not making any sense!" John shouted at Moriarty as he walked away.

"Never mind then darling." Moriarty's high-pitched voice replied. "I think that's the least of your worries at the moment. But don't worry, I'll see you soon. Bye bye!"

Moriarty walked away, disappearing from sight. John slept on, forgetting about the conversation he had just had, and whether he had really been awake to witness what he had heard, or if it was a mixture of dreams reality. The sound of the sirens would soon awaken him, and Sherlock would come back, oblivious to what John had just experienced. John would say nothing, but he would never forget the sound of the footsteps. He would wait for them for nights to come, wait for death to come knocking, and perhaps this time he wouldn't be so lucky.