Don't wait until it's too late
All he wanted was some peace and quiet from the chaotic mess that was his life.
Was that too much to ask?
No, it's not, or it shouldn't be.
His flatmate's excited gabbling - there was really no other word for it - said otherwise. Correction: His soon-to-be-murdered-violently-in-a-case-of-justifiable-homicide flatmate's excited gabbling at four in the bloody morning said otherwise.
"John! John! John, I've figured it out!" God, he sounded like an overexcited child trying to get his older brother's attention. For a moment, John wondered if Sherlock had ever wanted Mycroft's attention, or if he'd always hated his older brother.
And, if he began life not hating his brother, what had happened between them?
Too early in the morning, Captain Watson. Go back to sleep.
Sherlock's continued yelling made that impossible.
John was quite certain that any jury would find homicide a clear-cut case of self-defense of his sanity.
He groaned and pulled a pillow over his face, which had the unintentional-but-should-have-been-forseen side effect of muffling theun-British language that would have otherwise rung through 221B Baker St.
It's only un-British off the battlefield. John reminded himself, fighting the bizarre urge to giggle that normally only showed up at crime scenes.
221B Baker St was always a battlefield. Even, it seemed, at four in the morning. Correction - it was now four-oh-four in the morning.
Grumbling unhappily to himself, John resigned himself to getting no more sleep tonight - this morning? - and dressed, pulling on one of his knit sweaters as he made his way downstairs to the main room.
"What is it, Sherlock?" He asked wearily, busying himself in the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He momentarily debated the merits of 'enhanced' coffee, but rejected the idea, opting for tea instead.
Sherlock was standing there, curly black hair in rumpled disarray, wearing the clothes from last night - naturally he hadn't slept - with a delighted grin on his face as he hastily pulled on his coat and scarf.
"It's brilliant." He said earnestly, seizing John's wrist and dragging him out the door, leaving two mugs of hot water sitting on the counter.
All he wanted was one day he didn't have to run after Sherlock like a madman.
Was that too much to ask?
Yes it was, because sometimes it seemed like he wouldn't last a day without it.
"So, where are we going?" John asked, after he pulled his shoes on in the cab - apparently it hadn't occurred to Sherlock that John did not wear shoes on his way to the downstairs of the flat at four in the morning. He supposed he should have known better, he realized, as he leaned back against the traitorously comfortable cab seat.
"Battersea Bridge." Sherlock informed him.
John blinked. Nobody had ever said anything about Battersea Bridge in relation to this case - a string of deaths that seemed to be totally unrelated, unless you happened to be the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.
"Right." He said slowly, mind working in an attempt to understand the logic. "And why are we going there?" He asked, giving up on the attempt to keep up with Sherlock's mental gymnastics.
"You know why." Sherlock said scornfully, making John grind his teeth in frustration.
"No, I don't know why, that's why I'm asking you, Sherlock." He retorted, already irritable from waking up early. Not that he hadn't gotten used to it in Afghanistan, but really! This was London, not the frontlines of a warzone!
Was there really a difference?
Well...perhaps not.
He still wished he could have slept later.
Sherlock sighed through his front teeth in that way he had when he was irritated by his companion's obtuseness.
"The victims were all five of them regular visitors of the Battersea Bridge Gardens as of the last seven weeks, not so remarkable in and of itself, but none of them attend the nearby Chelsea Old Church, which is interesting, makes that not the reason they met there."
"Met there?" John asked. Sherlock sighed.
"Of course they met there, they're connected." Sherlock responded scornfully. "One of them, Mr. Edgecombe, worked at the Painted Heron nearby, so that makes sense, but the next two victims live in Soho, one by Golden Square and the other on the eastern end of Hollen street. The one who lives near Golden Square, Ms. Winderton, works at the Yauatcha, while the other, Mr. Dellinor, is an out-of-work collage graduate with a masters degree in bioengineering. Got it yet?" Sherlock seemed to impart all this knowledge without taking a single breath.
John blinked, trying to catch up. "...Edgecombe and Winderton both work in restaurants." He offered weakly. To his surprise, Sherlock clapped his hands together.
"Yes, John! Now, the other two victims - Mrs. Welcourt was a wealthy American visiting London, staying at the Royal Garden Hotel for ten weeks before she was murdered, in that time establishing a pattern of visiting the Battersea Bridge Gardens, namely in the last seven weeks. Rich woman, two husbands, both deceased, one quite obviously murdered, no children. The second was a poor working-class girl by name of Annie Lonne, who lived with her widower uncle in Brixton. Now, do you understand?" He asked.
"...Edgecombe and Winderton both worked in restaurants, Mrs. Welcourt was wealthy with a shady past, Dellinor was smart but out of work, Annie was poor and living with her uncle...were the other four working for Mrs. Welcourt?" John offered tentatively.
"Not quite, John, but close. Ms. Winderton was entirely unconnected except for being unfortunate enough to overhear the details of whatever they were planning, so they had to kill her. Now, Ms. Winderton's death caught the attention of someone who liked her - perhaps her boyfriend or a cousin -"
"Not a brother?" John had to ask.
"No, too obvious, this was very subtly done." Sherlock mused. "But whoever's attention they caught has been taking revenge on Winderton's killers, who had moved their meetings to the Painted Heron - and thus, their daily routine to Battersea Gardens. Edgecombe was locked in the freezer overnight at work six weeks ago - too careless for him, he was too paranoid to close the door on himself - he was the first, then Dellinor apparently jumped to his death two weeks later, he was a workaholic but not to that degree, so it wasn't suicide, it was something else. Mrs. Welcourt apparently drowned in the Thames, but she was a swimmer in school, so while possible it's unlikely. Annie Lonne was found with her throat cut in a back alley, obviously murder. There you are, five deaths, all connected."
"Right, but...Battersea Bridge?" John said weakly.
Sherlock looked annoyed but explained anyway. "The meeting place of the group was the Battersea Gardens, the murderer must have been based nearby, Battersea Bridge Gardens, Battersea Bridge. You see?"
John saw.
"That's bloody brilliant, you know that?" He said, shaking his head.
Sherlock did not respond, merely settled into the seat of the cab with a slight smile on his face.
to tell someone how much you love them,
All he wanted was to save his friend.
Was that too much to ask?
Please, God, let Sherlock live.
All he wanted was save his friend.
Was that too much to ask?
John, please don't be dead.
how much you care.
All she wanted was turn back the clock.
Was that too much to ask?
She wished it wasn't.
Sergeant Sally Donovan had been on the graveyard shift with Anderson when the call about a disturbance - gunshots - on Battersea Bridge had come in. Lestrade had been called, a team had been scrambled, and they had arrived as quickly as they possibly could -
But it was too late.
Sally hadn't liked Sherlock, but she could admit that she was wrong about the man.
He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down...
That was she had said. But his corpse still stared defiantly at his killer, one arm flung over the doctor who had become his friend in an attempt to protect him.
His last thought had been to protect John.
One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there. That was what she had said. She had been right, and it had been his body.
Why would he do that? John hadn't believed her. If he had, maybe he'd still be alive. But Sherlock would have been dead, and Sally would not have known that he was capable of being a good man.
Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored. He wasn't a psychopath. He had proven to her, in death, that he cared.
If she had known how true she was, she would have apologized. Been kinder to him, maybe. Not liked him, but showed respect. She had respected his abilities, she realized, but not the man himself.
She had been wrong about him. He was not a psychopath. He cared, about John if nobody else, and perhaps Lestrade as well.
She respected that.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." She whispered, so softly that her words barely registered in her own ears.
"I was wrong about you."
Little did she know, Anderson was saying the same words to himself.
She couldn't turn back the clock, but she could make sure everyone knew that Sherlock was a good man, in the end.
Sally Donovan looked across at Philip Anderson. They caught each others eyes, and an understanding passed between them. Sherlock will not be forgotten. That is their silent promise.
All he wanted was to be wrong.
Was that too much to ask?
He wondered.
Greg Lestrade surveyed the scene. Maybe it was a mercy. It was a terrible thing to imagine a John without Sherlock, or a Sherlock without John. They might survive, the way people survived after loosing an arm or a leg or an eye. But they would never be whole without each other.
So maybe it was fitting, in a way, that they died together.
Sherlock had been shot twice. One bullet had torn through his thigh, and he had fallen - or maybe been pushed - to the ground. The first criminal had been shot by John then, a single shot to the throat that severed the brain stem. Death would have been instantaneous.
The second criminal had shot John in the chest then. The bullet had impacted between two ribs, fracturing them, before embedding itself in the lung. John would have died soon after. Lestrade suspected in great pain.
The second criminal had walked over to the two prone, defenseless men. Sherlock had seen him coming and flung one long arm over a dying John in a futile effort to shield his friend. The second bullet had been fired from his gun, and embedded itself in Sherlock's unique, irreplaceable brain, destroying it forever.
He wished he was wrong. He wished, with every fiber of his being, that he was wrong.
For once, Detective Inspector Gregory H. Lestrade was exactly right.
Because when they're gone,
All she wanted was to wake up.
Was that too much to ask?
She didn't think so.
Molly Hooper unzipped the first of two body bags to see the stern, soldierly face of John Watson staring back at her. His eyes, usually warm and expressive, were closed. When he was alive, Molly had never realized how short he really was. His presence made him large, a quiet giant that was slow to anger but fearsome when riled. In death, he looked...vulnerable. His chest was bare, and Molly could see the scar on his left shoulder from the bullet wound that had brought him home from Afghanistan and into Sherlock's life. She could see the second bullet wound, much more than a scar, just to the left and an inch under the heart.
She moved on to the second body bag that had been brought in that morning, unzipping it and staring at the face before her, utterly unchanged save for the bullet hole in the center of his forehead. The curly black hair, pale skin, and high cheekbones that she was so familiar with, and the gray eyes, normally so very expressive and alive, now blank and seeing without observing. She knew he would have hated that - he hated it whenever other people did it.
Her hands were shaking. She willed them to be still, then gently slid those beautiful gray eyes shut forever. She did not say goodbye. The action itself was enough of a farewell for Molly.
no matter how loud you shout and cry,
All he wanted was his little brother back.
Was that too much to ask?
He thought it was.
But it wasn't fair.
When Mycroft Holmes received the news that his little brother was dead, he buried his face in his hands and directed his extraordinary willpower to hold back the tears for later.
Mycroft was not a good man, he knew this. He was not a criminal like Moriarty, but he was not a good, moral man. He was a ruthless man who had done bad things for logical reasons. He was not a bad man, but not a good man.
Sherlock had been a good man. He knew this now, more acutely than he had known it in years. John Watson had been a good man, his brother's savior. His heart.
Sherlock did not deserve to die.
Mycroft Holmes took a deep breath and lowered his hands. There would be time enough to weep for Sherlock when those responsible for his death had followed him to the grave.
Mycroft picked up his phone.
Moriarty was not the only one who could burn a person to ashes.
they won't hear you anymore.