John stared at the gun that lay on the center of the table, his eyes growing wide as marbles. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, trying to steady his nerves. His heart pounding hard in his chest, causing it to ache violently. He lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock who sat directly across from him. Whereas he may have felt fear, and showed it, Sherlock remained calm and composed. He acted as if one of them wasn't really about to die.
John's eyes flicked to a man who reached forward to check the chamber of the gun, spinning it around before placing it back on its place on the table. There was only one bullet in the gun. Only one of them would get it.
He looked toward Sherlock again, who's eyes were focused on the gun. He wondered what Sherlock was thinking right now. Was he feeling scared about the impending doom that was facing them? Or was he actually feeling like he could conquer this? Maybe he would. Maybe he'd be the one that'd end up dead.
"Who's going first?" asked the man, chuckling slightly.
John was already shaking. He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready to die. He looked toward Sherlock. Sherlock stared right back at him and said in his clear, rumbling voice, "You go first, John."
John felt his heart leap up into his throat. So Sherlock was really afraid even if he didn't care to admit or show it. Fine. He'd be the brave one of the two. With his hand shaking hard, he reached across the table to grab the gun, wrapping his sweaty hand around it. He placed the gun to the temple of his head and closed his eye. He wrapped a finger around the trigger, taking slow, measured breaths to stay calm. Finally, he allowed himself to pull back on the trigger.
When he heard the empty 'click', signifying that the chamber was empty, he breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly returned the gun to the table, happy to be rid of the thing for the time being.
"Your turn," said the man.
Sherlock reached for the gun as he was asked to. He placed the gun to his temple, pressing it against his porcelain skin slightly. He could see the fear in John's eyes, and tried to calm him.
"It's just a game, John," said Sherlock, pulling back on the trigger.
'Click!'
The chamber was once again empty. John sighed with relief. Sherlock placed the gun back on the table. John reached to grab it once more.
"Sherlock, don't you get it? One of us will die!" He stated, his hand shaking as he placed the gun to his temple again.
He was the soldier. He shouldn't be the one breaking right now.
'Click!'
Empty again.
Sherlock reached for the gun once John had dropped it again.
"One of us is just getting ready to head toward a bigger adventure is all," replied Sherlock, placing the gun to his temple again.
'Click!'
Empty.
"How can you take this so lightly?" asked John.
There were only two more shots to go. One of them was about to die soon.
"I choose to view it differently is all."
John counted the beats of his heart, closing his eyes for a moment as he reluctantly pulled back on the trigger.
'Click!'
No.
No. No. No.
John was shaking even harder than before as the gun slipped from his grasp, clattering on the table.
John opened his eyes to see that Sherlock had taken the gun into his hands, placing it to his temple.
"Sherlock, no! Don't do this! Please!"
John was practically begging. Sherlock couldn't do this to him. He wouldn't.
"Goodbye, John," said Sherlock with a sad smile, pulling back on the trigger.
'Bang!'
John jerked awake, his bedsheets tangled widely about him. He was sweating like crazy, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He placed his hands over his face, groaning at the nightmare that he had just been plagued with. Looking between his fingers, he turned to look at the alarm clock beside him to see that it was quite early in the morning.
Sighing, he flopped backward onto the bed, his sweaty head sinking into the pillows. He looked up at the darkened ceiling, taking deep breaths to calm his heart rate. That dream had seemed so real, even though the events had never transpired.
Still, like in the dream, Sherlock was dead.
It had been a year now since Sherlock had fallen to his death from the roof of St. Bart's. John couldn't seem to shake that image no matter how hard he tried. He was even seeing a therapist now in fear that his grief would consume him entirely. Sherlock had been the best friend that he had ever had. At the time, when he had fallen, he thought that Sherlock was being selfish. If he was depressed, why hadn't he tried talking to someone? There had been people around him that cared; that would have helped him in a heartbeat. Later, when he discovered that Sherlock fell to save his life, along with the lives of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, he was grieved immensely. He had thought Sherlock had died a coward, when in fact he had died a hero. He had saved his life by taking his own.
He could feel the hot tears forming beneath his eyelids, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. Still, a few tears managed to find their escape, trailing down his face silently. Why had Sherlock been such a hero? Why? He reached up to rub some of the tears away with the side of his hand.
Sherlock had been a hero. He had saved him.
When he had knelt beside him on the sidewalk and looked at his battered body, he hadn't been a coward.
He wished that he could have the ability to thank Sherlock for saving him; for being a hero. But it was much too late to. Now he was among the angels where he belonged.