Don't Leave Me

"Come e Me

on." Sherlock hissed as he impatiently watched John stuff clothes into an old duffle bag. Watson glanced over at him, saw the hard line his mouth was set in, and with a quick jerk, zipped the bag shut. The detectives quickly and quietly hurried down the carpeted stairs of their apartment and crossed the small foyer. Sherlock reached out a long trench coat clad arm and flung the front door open, icy wind exploding into the building immediately as they stepped out into the night.

"Stay hidden." Holmes said quietly. They crossed the street and hustled along in the shadows.

"I told you we shouldn't have gone back." John spat, his words curling into a frosty mist after they floated from his lips. The dark haired man stopped abruptly, causing the smaller man to stumble into his back. He turned to face him,

"As much as I would love to argue about this with you right now, I think I'm going to have to choose running for my bloody life over it." He turned briskly on his heels and started to walk again. John hurried to catch up with his long strides.

"No, you are not getting off that easy. Admit it, I was right and you were wrong."

"I will not because I was not wrong." Watson's jaw dropped.

"I told you that Francis would be there if we went back and that he would not appreciate it if he found two detectives rifling through his things. And I told you that if he found us, which he did, that he would send his bloody henchmen after us, just like he does everyone who gets in his way!"

"And I told you that I had reasons for going back." Holmes told him.

"And those 'reasons' were to piss me off!" John sputtered. Sherlock didn't say anything, just kept up his cool pace. Honestly he was terrified, he knew as well as John did that if anyone crossed Francis, they were dead within twenty four hours. But he also knew that if he showed even the slightest crack in his calm faced façade that John would crack. And as hard as it was for him to admit it to himself, he needed John. He was his best and only friend and he…He was more than his best friend…he would never ever tell him, but…John was everything to him. Snow started to drizzle down as he thought this, little white tuffs swirling around them, sparkling off the flickering streetlights.

"Let's cut through here." He said, gesturing to the upcoming alleyway. They dipped into it quickly; the bricks on either side of them were crumbling and faded. John stared at Sherlock's back, wondering if tonight would be their last night alive. There was so much he wanted to tell him, about how when he sees one of his rare, easy smiles his stomach knots itself up and his heart wages war with the feelings he's hiding. He wanted to tell him…but he couldn't, everything they had, their friendship, their work…everything would just…evaporate. The men's boots clomped on the cracked pavement. Sherlock thought of John walking so close behind him, he cleared his throat and gave himself an inward shake. Two shots rang out, fast and loud like a firecracker. The sounds exploded into the still night, echoing through the empty street. Sherlock whipped around just in time to see the silhouette of a man running from the mouth of the alley. He narrowed his dark eyes, wondering if those shots were meant for them, when he heard,

"Sherlock-" He turned around and saw John staring at him, a strange expression on his face. Holmes looked down and saw Johns hand wrapped around the side of his stomach…it was gushing blood. Shock and horror rocketed through Sherlock's body when he saw it. He dove for John just as he collapsed. He lowered him to the ground, cradling his head in his hand, the spikes of his short hair tickling his palm.

"John…John-" He started, his voice shaking. He couldn't think. Sherlock Holmes couldn't think.

"Sherlock…" John was all he had, he loved him more than anything…he loved him more than anything…that's what he was…he loved him…more than he thought he did, so much more than that.

"No,"

"Sherlock…" Holmes moved his free hand to cup his face.

"No! John…you were shot…you're bleeding…and I can't help you." John's eyes softened as he relaxed his head into his hand.

"You shouldn't have to help me." Tears started slipping from Sherlock's eyes; they rolled down his cheeks and fell onto John's eyelashes.

"Yes…I do. I was supposed to protect you and now…"

"Sherlock…" The dark haired man's shoulders began to shake; great sobs tore at his chest as he looked at John. The blonde looked at him, he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the virgin white snowflakes gathered in his curls, his face streaked with shiny rivers, his lower lip trembling…

"John…I love you." His eyes snapped back up to look at him, not daring to believe that Sherlock loved him the way he loved him.

"I love you too Sherlock." The detective looked up, then back down at john.

"No John…I'm in love with you." He said, his voice cracking, as if he had wanted to say this for a long time and had finally got the chance to say it. John fumbled to grab reach up and grab his hand.

"I'm in love with you too. You aggravate me, you push my buttons, you drive me insane, you are a high-functioning sociopath and I am completely in love with you." Tears were pouring down Sherlock's face as he leaned down and kissed him. He parted his lips and kissed him softly yet passionately. John's mouth moved with his, he slipped his tongue into his mouth gently. The kiss was filled with love and longing, they had loved each other all these years. John's grip on Sherlock began to slacken. Holmes pulled away, noticing that his lovers' hands weren't wrapped around him as tightly anymore. John's hand completely fell away from him, his eyes going out of focus.

"No," Sherlock muttered. He grabbed Watson's hand, bringing it close to his chest. He moved his thumb over his wrist, he didn't feel a beat.

"No," He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips. The snow was pouring now, the wind tearing at his body, but he didn't notice. He leaned down again, kissing him again, more frantically this time.

"No, no, no," He said, he placed two of his fingers at the pulse point on Johns' throat. John's eyes, John's beautiful dream inducing eyes, began to slip.

"Don't- Don't you dare close your eyes." Sherlock pleaded, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he pressed John's face close to his chest. The detective looked at him again…John's eyes slid shut.