Chapter One: The Tragedy

Running like a maniac was taking up an awful lot of John's time. It seemed that was the only thing he and Sherlock did anymore. Sherlock was ahead of him, the man could sprint when he wanted and John was beginning to tire. He'd been running for almost a solid hour, chasing a man who was fast as an olympic athlete - no doubt through the use of steroids.

"Sherlock," John panted, using up the last of his energy to dart to his friends side, "Can we please stop, you can't even see him anymore."

"No, but I know where he's going." Sherlock took a quick look at John and stopped, "You look exhausted."

"I know, that's why I wanted to stop." Now they were montionless, John leaned over and braced his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. "Can we go home?"

"Yes, I should think so. You need to rest. No way you can continue like this." Sherlock looked around and pulled John into a standing position, he led him over to a wall. John noticed they were in an alley, it was dark, cramped and smelled horrible, but he needed to close his eyes and catch his breath. He leaned gratefully against Sherlock who helped him stay standing.

"I've let myself go since Afghanistan." John smiled, "You'd think, with all the cases we've been doing, I'd have been able to keep my fitness up."

"You've been sprinting for an hour, John. You haven't done that for a long time. It's alright, we'll get him tomorrow. I know where he is now."

"How, exactly?"

"Well the general direction he was running and the left side of his right foot indicate that..." Sherlock began to rattle off his deduction, and for a while John listened intently, but then it got to the point where he grew weary. It was a long one this, John usually allowed his mind to wander, it was clear that Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the normal 'amazing!' or 'fantastic!' he received. Sherlock was pointing towards the direction of the suspect, still waffling away - more to himself now than to John. Which was fine, it gave John time to close his eyes and lean his head back against the brick, waiting for his pulse to calm down.

Obviously, his head began to fill with all kind of rubbish, but when Sherlock yelled, "John!" and pulled him away from the wall so violently he fell to the floor, he was shocked into focus.

"John, move!" He rolled quickly out the way, as a tall, muscular, middle aged man dived at him with a knife. John jumped to his feet and punched once, quickly, aiming his blow at the mans face. It was the murder suspect, the one they had been chasing all night. Sherlock came up behind the murderer just after John had punched him and brought his knee up hard into his spine. The man roared and fell to all fours, where John kicked him in the stomach to wind him, then disarmed him.

"Definately the murderer." John said, admiring the knife. It was well made, someone had put a lot of thought into it. He hoped the maker didn't know what it would be used for.

"Mm. Seems like." Sherlock crouched over the man, who was gasping for breath. John's well placed kick had left him clutching his ribs, fractured as a result of John's army training. "We'll phone an ambulance for you," Sherlock whispered, "But you'll be in prison by the end of the week." He stood up and wiped alley muck from his hands.
John reached into his pocket for his phone and held it above his head looking for signal.

"Sherlock, can you check yours for signal? I've got none here."

Sherlock did as he was told - something new that he would only do for John - and left the alley in search of better reception. John was left with the injured murderer. He thought it would be best to check his wounds, that knee of Sherlock's had caused serious injury in the past. As John crouched over him, feeling for his pulse, the man stirred and opened his eyes.

"They aren't going to arrest me are they?" He croaked.

"Of course they are. You do realise what you've done?" In a few previous cases, some of the murderers or robbers had forgotten what they had done, especially if John had recently punched them. In times like these there was no point being rough with them, they wouldn't talk.

The man nodded, "But it wasn't my fault."

"Whether it was your fault or not, you killed four people on that bus, including a child. Where your going, you'll be lucky not to get life."

"But-"

"Shut up." John growled, "Let me check your wounds. I'm a doctor."

So it went for a while, Sherlock had wandered out of sight, which he wasn't too worried about, signal in this area was scarse. But John could take of himself. Most of the time.

Sherlock had been gone a little too long, John was getting worried. With a frown, he looked up from the man and stared at the entrance to the alley.

"Where the hell-" As he braced his hands, preparing to stand up, the man on the ground grabbed his ankle and twisted, causing John to land painfully on his back, head smashing the wet concrete floor with an audible smack. He grunted and instantly reached for the back of his head, where he felt a large gash streaming with blood. Fractured skull. "Sher-" He tried to shout and stand but the man straddled him and put his hand over his mouth.
"Now, now Doctor. No need to call for your boyfriend."

The old boyfriend joke automatically made John roll his eyes. "We're not..." His words were muffled against the mans rough sweaty hands and he realised now probably wasn't the best time to confirm his heterosexuality. He struggled and pushed, but he wasn't strong enough. This guy was faster than Sherlock, built like a pump house addict and managed to sneak up on them both. He was strong, too strong. John could feel his weight pressing down on his ribs, they ached and moaned in protest, but the man didn't relent. He smirked and reached into John's jacket pocket, pulling out the knife.

"You should never believe someone when they say murder wasn't their fault. It makes you sympathise with them, even if you don't realise it. You feel sorry for them, they'll be going to jail for something they may not have wanted to do. I want to do this though, very much." John's eyes widened and he struggled harder, the knife slid painfully down his cheek, warm blood spilling from the wound. He yelped in pain and tried biting the mans hand, but it didn't work. He wouldn't let go. The zipper from his jacket was pulled down and his shirt lifted to expose his stomach. John shook his head, shouting behind salty fingers to let him go. He saw the knife, raise into the air, he watched as it arched down and slid once deeply into the soft flesh of his stomach. He screamed, loudly, even with the fleshy gag. Sherlock must have heard that, must come to save him...

Knife, skin. Knife, skin. Twice more it plunged, twice more it came out bloody, on the fourth time, the knife was yanked out of his hand and plunged into the killers neck. By now, John was too far gone. He couldn't hear much, couldn't see much, it was just pain. But when he felt arms around his chest, and hands pressing down over the torn muscles he knew it was Sherlock. He could only smell his own blood, only see darkness, but he knew that the figure holding him smelled like coffee, and science, and the new lynx shower gel that John had brought him. He also knew he was crying, distantly John could hear his own name repeated, shouted loudly, along with various phrases like, "Not like this... don't do this, John! The ambulance is coming... I don't want to be alone again..." If he could have smiled he would have, for now he knew. Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, he cared. Finally, he cared about something. John.

I don't want to leave you, John thought, take care of yourself Sherlock, don't slip away into your drug fuelled days again. I'll miss you.

That's what was hurting the most, he didn't want to leave, it wasn't fair! He couldn't leave Sherlock like this, he couldn't! John had tasted death before, twice. Once in Afghanistan, when he was shot. The second at the pool, strapped to semtex. Both times Sherlock had saved him. Sherlock had made him feel alive again after returning to London, gave him something to live for. He had risked his own life to try and save John, staying with him until almost certain death. But he couldn't save him from this. Something so simple, destroyed the strong man Sherlock had built. John knew what was happening to his insides. They were bleeding, inside and outside, his brain was probably bleeding from when he hit his head. The knife was too long and sharp to have spared any vital organs.
"Sherlock..." He whispered. His eyes, unseeing though they were, closed. John H. Watson, died in Sherlocks arms.