I messed with the timeline a bit for this one, it's called Artistic License X) I hope you enjoy, don't kill me after you read it, it's morbid, I know, I'm very morbid when it comes to stories and should maybe get it looked at? X) Well, like I said, hope you enjoy, feel free to leave a review!
Inspiration: I asked you to stop being dead | Sherlock BBC
Link: watch?v=x4v6sqoZp0g
"If you were dying; if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?"
"I forgive you."
It had been a year and a half that Sherlock had been back. Inhabiting Baker Street, badmouthing Scotland Yard, solving cases, running around London chasing criminals, not eating and not sleeping. Eighteen months.
In that time, John had gotten married to Mary Morstan and was living a happy civilian life…with Sherlock Holmes on the side. When that is said, it is meant in the fact that John was once again accompanying Sherlock solve cases and chase down murderers.
This time around it was a man, John Harrison, who blew up a building for some information. Sherlock and John had been tailing him for almost two days almost ceaselessly. Twice John had forced Sherlock to sit for a moment and either rest or eat something, then he let the detective continue the chase.
They finally cornered Mr. Harrison in an alley in some backwater place in London, which John had no idea how they got there or how they would get back. The only thing he had an idea of doing was filling John Harrison with bullets. He and Sherlock stood at the mouth of the alley, Harrison against a wall. The two men stalked closer, John pulling his gun and aiming, ready to fire. However, before he could do anything, Harrison pulled a gun from one of his voluminous pockets and fired.
One shot.
Pain.
Falling.
Cold, wet pavement on his back, his head aching slightly, his chest hurting more.
Sound was distorted, his vision was blurry. As his vision focused, John realized he was looking up at the sky, but there was a pale-faced, curly-haired, worried detective obstructing his view. Not that John particularly cared about the sky, he simply wondered why Sherlock looked so worried. His hearing came back.
"John? John stay with me. Please, stay with me."
What? Why does he have to stay? Where would he go?
"John, you can't leave, you have a wife remember? A baby! You can't leave your family!"
Sherlock was on the verge of tears, his eyes shimmering. John reached up a hand to touch Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath, "John…"
"How…bad?" John asked unsteadily. His mind was muddled, there was a heat on his chest, every pump of his heart hurt and made him feel colder. That was backwards.
Sherlock choked back a sob, "He shot you…in the chest. You're…not going to bleed out, I've called an ambulance. Don't worry, you'll be fine." A tear slid triumphantly from Sherlock's tear duct and John brushed it away with his thumb.
"Sherlock…"
"No John, you're going to be fine, I promise."
"Sherlock, listen to me…"
"John, we can talk when you're better. You'll pull through, you always pull through. Please, you can't leave me…" The last statement was a weak whisper that John almost didn't catch. Tears were flowing freely from Sherlock's multi-colored eyes, forming little rivers down his cheeks.
"Sherlock please...I-I never told you…"
"What? What is it John?" Sherlock's voice quieted, though the tears still widened the tracks.
"I…forgive…you…" John expelled his last breath with the three words that broke Sherlock Holmes.
"No. No, no John! No! You can't! I'm back! I came back for you! Please, John no…" Sherlock stared at the slack face that had housed his world for the past several years. When no expression came, Sherlock wailed, clutching John's body closer to him. John could do nothing but watch as the darkness and the cold swallowed his last vision of Sherlock Holmes, the last thing he saw.
His best friend. Crying. For him.
John's eyes closed and he knew no more.
Sherlock yelled for John, begging him to come back, pleading for him not to be dead, hoping it would work as it had before. However, deep down Sherlock knew it would make no difference. John Watson was no longer on Earth, he was gone.
The ambulance came blaring down the road, but when they saw the man in the black coat cradling the short, blonde man they waited at the vehicle, turning the lights and sirens off.
When Sherlock calmed down slightly, he adjusted his position and lifted the ex-army doctor from the ground and carried him to the ambulance. The medics had a stretcher ready for the body and Sherlock requested to ride along with it on the way to Bart's. The medics agreed and gave Sherlock privacy.
If he had been processing anything he would have though it strange that they allowed him to ride along with a dead body, but they knew who he was and who the dead man had been, so they figured it would be alright to make an exception.
At Bart's, Molly did the autopsy and Mary was called. She came in crying and when she saw Sherlock she made a beeline for him and wrapped him in an all-consuming hug.
Sherlock didn't register she was there. He didn't register anything. He was buried in his mind palace, in the room labeled, "John". He was watching a "home video" of John's last words.
"I forgive you."
Of course Sherlock had heard them before, but never with the other meaning.
"I'm sorry."
With his last breath, John had been sorry to put Sherlock through what the detective had put his blogger through three-and-a-half years ago.
Then, John had been broken and had arduously attempted to put himself together.
Now, it was Sherlock's turn to pick up the broken pieces of himself and put himself back together.
He didn't think he could do it. What would he do without his blogger? He certainly hadn't done well leaving John the first time. Plus, ever since coming back, the two had had an even closer bond than before, making it even more difficult to find himself in the ruins.
"I forgive you."
Sherlock was broken and one major piece of himself was lost and gone forever.
His heart.
He would never be the same.