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Hello again! I had a couple people ask me to do the same thing but with John's room, and after thinking, I settled on this. Also, this is supposed to be happening simultaneously to the last chapter.

Remember, Post-Reich, post-reunion. :D

Enjoy!

~Phoenix

-oOo-

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John pressed his lips into a firm line, irritated as he ducked his head around another hallway corner. "Where the hell did he go?" he grumbled to himself, crossing his arms as he randomly chose another direction to aimlessly wander around.

He had been just behind him a moment ago, and, thinking he had heard something, had turned for just a second; when he returned his gaze to the front, Sherlock had disappeared, and John was alone and lost.

"Stupid bloody hotel," he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the weird shouts coming from one room to his left. The rooms around him were weird and filled with strange creatures that could easily be anyone's greatest fears, as had been suggested. None of them had quite frightened him, however. Childish things like the Bogeyman no longer served to scare him.

Although Sherlock had dismissed the thought of everyone's deepest fears being held inside these peeling wallpapered walls as foolish, John held a certain fascination with the idea. The idea of your soul being opened and being forced to face your greatest weakness was a subject of curious psychology, to say the least, and an interesting concept.

Sherlock, of course, had been more concerned with the who, why, and how - but John was content to wonder.

John continued down the hallway. One of the lights above him buzzed and flickered frantically, trying to stay alive, and the stagnant, oppressive air weighed him down as his footsteps shuffled. The whole aura of the hotel seemed to be trying to make him sad - or maybe it was scared - he wasn't quite -

Suddenly he stopped still. He didn't breathe for a moment.

With precise clarity, he focused his gaze on one door. It was a few doors down and to his right, but the pulling was so strong that he almost choked under the pressure. He gulped and gasped in the stiff air shallowly.

Okay. Alright.

So this was his room.

He wasn't has frightened as he thought he might be, but he approached the door with great caution anyways. No need to rush into things, especially something with such serious consequences as this might turn out to be.

He stood motionless in front of the door for a second, contemplating the number curiously.

206

That was curious. John wondered what it was supposed to mean. The number was engraved into the reddish-brown wood of the door with an embellish, its fake, peeling gold color only serving to make it more mysterious. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a second before he gripped the cool metal and turned, swiftly opening the door.

For a second, he didn't see anything but black. The room seemed like an empty canvas, but seemed to pulsate with some kind of dark energy. John looked around in confusion, gathering courage before stepping through the door frame into the pitch black interior.

Immediately he gasped at the raw amount of power he felt. He stumbled back but found the door behind him closed.

John Watson.

John's eyes widened even more because he had just heard that voice in his head. Someone - or something - was speaking to him directly.

What an interesting character you are.

John looked around wildly but found no source of the voice. The room was still void of anything except him and the door, seemingly suspended in an endless black.

"Who is this? What's going on?" His voice was higher-pitched and tremored a bit more than he liked, but he wasn't that afraid.

My name is not of importance, but who I am matters more than anything you might yet know. I'm the one who put this hotel together. The one who made these rooms. The thing's voice took on an edge, and its next words were almost aggressive - I'm the one who can see into your soul, expose even your most guarded secrets, peer into your mind and declare you the coward that you are. I can drive even the most emotionless men to tears, including your very own friend, Sherlock Holmes.

John laughed a little at this. "Well, you'll have a hard time with that one," he said, "I highly doubt I'll find Sherlock crying by the end of this -"

Your presumptions almost offend me, Dr. Watson. In fact, I think I have already accomplished that goal. There was a pause, John still shaking his head. But that is of no matter. Who I care about at this moment is you.

John furrowed his brow suspiciously. "Please. You're kidding me." There was no response. "Sherlock Holmes is here. You know. The great consulting detective, the most brilliant man anyone's ever met, the prodigy who can solve any mystery with a look? The person who can tell a pilot by his thumbs or whatever the heck he says? I'm just his sidekick. What are you concerned with me about?" He found his voice tinging with bitterness, so he paused, returning his tone to normal. "Why are you caring about me?"

Because I don't understand you.

John snorted. "And you can understand Sherlock?"

Quickly, sharply, Holmes is see-through. There is only one thing in this world that he loves deeply enough to care about, and it is easy enough to exploit that.

John cocked his head, curious, but banished the thought, too taken with this strange entity's game.

But you... you are a mystery.

Another pause.

You have seen war. You have seen death. You have been tortured.

Suddenly the canvas shifted, flitting like a movie going through fast-forward, countless scenes spreading out before him. John watched passively, feeling twinges here and there, as a slideshow of his life flew past. He saw Afghanistan, wounds and blood and men dying, saw himself get shot, watched himself be tortured - from being bullied as a child to more serious when Moriarty had gotten ahold of him (something he had still never, and would never tell Sherlock about) - and although he flinched here and there, none of these scenes filled him with fear.

You have family members, but they are detached... perhaps a source of strife, but not of fear.

Harry. Pictures of Harry. Happy, then anxious, and disintegrating into alcoholism and anger. John bit his lip, but he was still not afraid.

HIs life continued to speed past him, too many sights to count, the entity's anger getting greater and greater -

- then he stopped.

Ah.

Revelation.

Ah!

Victorious.

I told you I could drive great men to tears, Dr. Watson. You did not believe me, but I will not disappoint.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"

And suddenly John was back. The scene around him was gray and dark and sunless, and there was St. Barts, and there was Sherlock.

"Please, will you do this - for me?"

He heard himself speak, though his own mouth wasn't moving.

"Do what?"

"This phone call, it's... it's my note."

John knew these words. Had memorized them.

"That's what people do, don't they?"

This wasn't the first time.

"Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when what?"

And the words he had never wanted to hear again, not from that mouth -

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't -"

John closed his eyes quietly as Sherlock fell, heard himself screaming "Sherlock - Sherlock!"

The scene stopped. Put on pause.

I don't understand. You're not visibly affected. Not in any way.

It was frustrated.

This was your greatest fear! Put on play for you! Baring your soul to yourself!

Without opening his eyes, John started to laugh.

"No, I don't think you understand. I don't think you understand at all." John opened his eyes and glared at whatever the blackness held.

"You can't show me my greatest fears here. Nobody can ever do that again." John turned his back, opening the door behind him. Before he stepped out, he looked back again.

"You can't show me my greatest fear," he said, his voice trembling only slightly, "Because I've already seen it before."

Then he stepped outside and shut the door.

Just as the door shut behind him with a soft click, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever appeared there, he heard a scream.

A heart-wrenching, gut-clenching scream coming from his right.

He whirled to see a dark form curled up against the wall, mumbling and sobbing, and his heart wrenched because the voice had not been lying - in some way, some inexplicable way, it had driven Sherlock Holmes to tears.

He rushed to his friend, who was crying aloud, "...I'm sorry - I'm so, so sorry -"

"Sherlock, dear God, what happened?" he asked, trying to pry Sherlock's arms from in front of his face. At first Sherlock resisted, but when he peeked up from his defensive curl, his eyes widened and without a second's pause he was throwing himself onto John.

Which was nice.

That was okay.

A few moments later, when John had finally gotten up to look in the room - Sherlock's room - what he saw there made him stop still. The words of the entity's voice echoed through his mind again.

Holmes is see-through.

There is only one thing in this world that he loves deeply enough to care about, and it is easy enough to exploit that.

It was him.

He was looking at himself dying on the ground.

Sherlock was driven to hysterics because of him.

And in that moment all the pent-up feelings he had been holding inside for the past three years came pouring out and John knew that he was deeply, madly, incredibly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He moved back to sit next to his friend, taking a breath.

"So, it was your room."

Sherlock nodded shakily.

"...and in it, I died."

"You didn't just die, you were murdered, and I couldn't save you; I tried, but I couldn't, and - and then -" Sherlock's voice was trembling fiercely, and he was speaking so fast that he stuttered over words - "Y-you were dying and I couldn't save you, and you told me you hated me - you said I was a - a freak and you h-hated me and - I couldn't, John, I just couldn't bring myself to -"

There were more words passed after that, but the only thing John could really remember was the moment when he was fed up with waiting and closed the gap between them, and everything was good and wonderful and he knew everything would be fantastic.

His greatest fear had not been reality.

His greatest fear would never, ever be allowed to happen again.

Because he had believed in Sherlock Holmes, and now he was desperately in love with him.

-oOo-

When they had finally gotten out of the hotel - interestingly enough, when they walked out the front door, they turned to have found it completely gone - they had walked home in silence - although never without their hands leaving each other's. It was one of the more enjoyable trips he'd ever taken, John decided, although they did have to walk a couple miles to get anywhere near their home.

Eventually, Sherlock became curious. "So, you saw my - room," he said, pausing as if having to gather courage to even mention the cursed thing again. "But did you ever find yours?"

John didn't look at him in the eyes. "Yes," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Actually, I did - saw it just before yours."

John could practically feel the curiosity rolling off of Sherlock, but appreciated the fact that his friend (no, wait, more than that now) held back his curiosity for a total of two seconds.

"Well, it obviously didn't affect you that much, since you weren't as... visibly affected by it as I was," Sherlock mumbled, and now John could sense his embarrassment. He stopped walking, Sherlock stopping in confusion alongside him.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said softly, "I don't even want to hear you say that again." He took a steadying breath. "What I saw in my room changed me more than anything else I've ever seen. The only thing is..." He looked at Sherlock in the eyes, trying to convey everything he was trying to say in just the next sentence, "...I've seen it before."

Understanding dawned in Sherlock's eyes - understanding paired with guiltiness and sorrow and also a very generous amount of love. "...oh."

John laughed a little bit. "Yeah."

And this time it was Sherlock's turn to swoop down onto John, their lips locking in another kiss as the world around them faded into nothing.

-oOo-

Bonus points if you can figure out what John's number has to do with it. It actually does hold meaning, though it's a bit obscure. I had to do some research to find it. Actually, if you can figure it out, I'll.. give you a cookie. Or write you a oneshot of a topic of your choice. Whichever you'd prefer. ;)

Thank you for reading. I'm quite proud of what I've done with this.

Please review! It means so much to me!

Thank you for reading!

~Phoenix