A/N: This is a "what-if" scenario that floated into my head quite awhile ago, and I've only just gotten the story to a point where I'm ready to post it. It takes place a couple of years after Sherlock's return, but does not take season 3 into account. Warning for Major Character Death. 3 or 4 shot, depending how I divide it up.

Oh, and my name is not Mark Gatiss or Steven Moffat, so none of this belongs to me. :)

"SHERLOCK!" John roared, throwing his covers off and pulling his bathrobe on. "WHY do you think it's a good idea to fire guns at…" he glanced at the clock, "Two seventeen in the morning!" He stomped down the stairs, ready to pry the Browning from his perpetually bored flatmate's fingers…again. John scowled at the Consulting Detective's silence as he stumbled down the stairs; undoubtedly, Sherlock was lounging in his armchair…too bored to speak.

Another gunshot. "SHER—" …the name died on John's lips as he reached the first floor, and several things happened at once.

The door slammed shut, accompanied by the indistinct sound of feet pounding down the stairs, a loud, frantic voice that John vaguely recognized as his own screamed for Mrs. Hudson to call an ambulance, and Sherlock Holmes crumpled to the ground, groping indistinctly at the blood now gushing from his chest.

"Sherlock," John breathed, and then he was there, kneeling at his best friend's side and pressing the navy blue scarf on the wounds. Two bullet holes: one in the lower abdomen, one in left side of the chest-probably the lung, John's medical mind supplied…and still he could not stop the blood. How could such a thin man bleed so much? The warm, sticky redness was blossoming across Sherlock's white shirt, flowing onto his black jacket, seeping onto his trousers, spilling across the carpet…and his eyes…his grey-blue eyes were staring at the redness…and they were afraid.

"Sherlock!"

The grey-blue eyes met the pale brown ones. The grey-blue eyes softened; the fear vanished: "Jo-hn," Sherlock slurred.

John forced his lips into a smile and pressed down harder on the wounds…so much red... "I'm here, Sherlock."

Sherlock's lips curved up into a small smile. Slowly, so very slowly, he lifted his pale hand and touched John's cheek, and the doctor vaguely realized that the redness was on his face now, and decided in the same instant that he did not care, "I'm here," he repeated.

Sherlock's smile broadened, as arrogant as ever, "Co'rse," he slurred, "You're…Jo'hn…"

The hand slid down John's cheek and landed with a soft thud on the floor.

"Not again," John whispered, salty tears mingling with the redness on his cheek as he frantically started pounding down on Sherlock's chest, "Oh Sherlock, please not again."

Silence.

A moment and an eternity passed before thundering broke the silence. John hated and welcomed it at once, because the flat was never this quiet, and yet it seemed wrong for there ever to be sound in it again. The thundering stopped and Mycroft was there, standing in the doorway and staring at John, and then at the man John was rocking in his lap Odd, John thought, I don't remember picking him up, but the thought quickly fled again, replaced with his single, unrelenting plea. Not again. Please, Sherlock, not again.

"Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes croaked, and John would never have believed such a small and frightened sound could have passed through the Elder Holmes' lips. Then John watched as Mycroft broke. He watched as something small, and delicate, and infinitely precious that no one ever believed existed in Sherlock's older brother, believed could exist there, shattered into a million pieces, and Mycroft took half a step before his knees gave out and he sank unceremoniously to the floor.

More thundering, sharp and measured this time, and Anthea, or whoever she was, appeared in the doorway. She glanced once at the Holmes in John's arms, then at the Holmes on the floor, before leaving again, raising her phone to her ear.

Time passed. A lot. A little. It did not matter. The silence was suffocating. John did not think he could tolerate anything else.

Thundering again. Rolling thunder. Loud, raging, unrelenting. At least half a dozen people racing as fast as they could up the stairs. Then the thundering stopped. Lestrade, Donovan, and other faces John neither cared about nor recognized stopped in the doorway too.

Something between a strangled cry and a moan seeped through Lestrade's lips. The Detective Inspector went pale, then a decidedly unhealthy shade of green. Some small, detached corner of John's mind wondered if he was going to be sick, and then it wondered why…Lestrade had seen plenty of bodies before…then again…it was an awful lot of blood. It was all over John now: his cheek, his hair, his arms, his chest. There was so much…so much…just like before…Not again Sherlock, please…

More thundering. More people. They were coming like waves now, and they always moved so fast, so very fast…until they got to the room…then they moved very slowly. There was no need to be fast anymore.

There were so many of them. So many faces swimming in and out of view, tiptoeing around each other as if they were in some type of ghostly dance… and so much noise! So many voices, their meaningless words bleeding together into an inane cacophony. Idiots! John thought, Don't you know Sherlock can't think when you're being so loud.! He can't think…he can't….he can't…he needs… he needs you to "SHUT UP!" the words exploded into the room, and finally, finally everyone stopped. Stopped moving, stopped speaking. Silence returned. I see why you like it, John thought as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock's curls. They smelled of shampoo and iron. What experiment are you up to with iron? John wondered vaguely, I'll have to ask when you wake up…make sure it doesn't wreck the flat…

The noise started again, quieter, softer this time, but there. John scowled, debating whether it was worth the effort to lift his head and tell the noisemaker to shut up again.

"John."

Shut up.

"John."

Leave me alone.

"John!" the voice was sharper now, militaristic, "John, look at me."

Blearily, John raised his head. Lestrade was there, crouched in front of him. "John," he repeated, softer this time. "You need to let go, John. There is nothing you can do."

John frowned. Let go? Why do I need to let go? Nothing I can do about what? He did not understand what Lestrade was saying, but he also decided that he did not really care enough to ask. Instead, he said, "You're crying."

It was the truth. The DI's face was glossy with tears. Why? John wondered. Lestrade closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then he opened them again and said, even more softly, "You're right, John. I am."

"Why?" John murmured. He frowned again. There was a red stain on the hem of Lestrade's coat. Odd. "Why've you got blood on your coat?"

Lestrade breathed in sharply and closed his eyes again. There seemed to be more tears now. "John," he said slowly, "Who are you holding?"

"No one," John said waspishly. What a stupid question. The DI was beginning to annoy him now.

"John. I need you to look down at who you are holding."

"No."

"John, this is important. I need you to look down."

"NO!"

"John!"

Lestrade was ordering him again. John looked down and found, to his surprise, that Sherlock was in his arms. People are really going to talk now. He thought about saying this to Sherlock, but the detective was asleep for once, so John decided it could wait until he woke up.

Strange, though, John had never seen Sherlock sleep with his eyes open.

And why were they both covered in red?

"No," John choked, "No. No. No. No!" A jumble of images and sounds from years ago-or was it just a few minutes- assaulted him. A gun shot, a phone call, people, pavement, the flat, the rooftop, thundering, red, red, red, red... "NO!"

And then there were other people there. Nameless, faceless, evil people who were prying Sherlock away and there were people pulling him back from the sidewalk, preventing him from seeing the body…

No. They must not do that. "STOP IT! STOP IT!" John was shouting as loud as he could, but the people were not listening, "STOP IT! NO! NO! NO!"

"John."

There were arms around him now, holding him tight. John tried to fight, to push the man away. He had to get to Sherlock…he had…he had too…"John," Lestrade repeated, and suddenly John was too tired to fight anymore…he was so tired…so very, very tired. He was trembling, trembling and sobbing, sobbing harder than he had in his entire life. He buried his face in Lestrade's shoulder, the hot, heavy tears running into the DI's coat. Vaguely, he realized that Lestrade must be covered in red now too, and that the DI did not care either.

"Not again," he pleaded as Lestrade held him a little tighter, "Please, please not again!"

There was no reply.

"It was a hit," Lestrade explained wearily, "It had to do with his current case." They were assembled in a rough circle in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room: Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John. Molly clutched Mrs. Hudson's hand, tears streaming down both of their faces. Lestrade was attempting to appear professional, but his eyes were red. Mycroft…Mycroft did not do anything; he stared at the ground, tapping the floor with his umbrella.

"The drug trafficking one?" John sat up a little straighter, meeting Lestrade's eyes for the first time that day, "That's absurd!"

It was a mundane case by anyone's standards—Sherlock's especially—trying to expose connections between the network of a frankly ordinary drug lord and the administrations of several Universities. It required hours of monotonous research and provided relatively little opportunity for the detective to show off his vast intelligence, yet Sherlock had accepted Lestrade's desperate plea on behalf of one of the other agents at the Yard without hesitation. It was only after Sherlock had flung himself into the case for a week and a half-including blasting recordings of witness' testimony at full volume at three in the morning-that John finally demanded to know why Sherlock was so interested.

Sherlock had blinked, once, twice, three times then said, his voice as bored and condescending as ever, "I got most of my drugs from this cartel, especially when I was in University…they were…and still are…the only supplier to most of Britain's Universities." Then he turned back to the pile of documents that had captured his attention for the past nine hours, and John was left staring, dumbfounded, at the man who, after all these years, still managed to surprise him.

There was no hidden puzzle, no Moriarty-like mastermind. The case was dull, and yet Sherlock cared…about these men, even though others would rise in their place, about the only decision he truly regretted, about keeping others from making that same mistake.

Dazed by the enormity of this revelation, John stared at his best friend and realized he was looking at a good man.

Fat lot of good it had done him.

Lestrade was still speaking. "He was getting too close to several drug lords operating in the UK…apparently they pooled their resources to organize the hit." Lestrade set his jaw, "However, I have been assured that, using the information Sherlock compiled, the individuals in question, as well as their organizations, have been eliminated."

Mycroft looked up, and gave a single, sharp nod. His icy eyes blazed with a ferocity that could only be described as savagery. John had only seen such a look once before.

They were assembled in a rough circle in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room: Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John. Molly clutched Mrs. Hudson's hand, tears streaming down both of their faces. Lestrade was attempting to appear professional, but his eyes were red. Mycroft…Mycroft did not do anything; he stared at the ground, tapping the floor with his umbrella. Lestrade rubbed his eyes, "My division will ensure the funeral is private; there will be no uninvited guests. The evidence to prove his innocence is there, and I am assured it will all be collected, sorted, and presented to the press within the next 72 hours."

Mycroft looked up and gave them a single, cold nod. His icy eyes blazed with that same savagery, the inhuman guilt and suffering that John knew, even if no one else did, was plaguing him after Sherlock's death.

But Sherlock had not been dead. Three years later, he had returned, just as dramatically as he had left. It had all been an elaborate ruse to destroy Moriarty's web…and to save them.

Because Sherlock had cared, and he had been clever. He had not died, and John had believed they were going to end up exchanging insults as wizened old men, decades into the future.

Only two years after Sherlock's return, and here they were, sitting in a circle and making plans for his funeral…again.

But Sherlock had not been dead…he had not…he had not…he was not…

John laughed. It started slowly… a low, quiet chuckle that steadily grew louder and more uncontrollable until he was trembling with mirth.

"John!" Molly's voice was high and strangled; John vaguely realized he was terrifying her. He did not care.

"Idiots," he gasped between gales of laughter. He glanced up and saw, as he expected, that the rest of the group was staring at him with varying degrees of alarm and…in Molly's case at least….outright fear…everyone except Mycroft. He was still staring at the floor.

"Idiots!" John repeated, "Sherlock's right…we're all idiots!"

"John," Lestrade said slowly, as if he were addressing a panicked animal, "I know. We should have protected him better…"

John shook his head, "No, you don't get it! Don't you see?"

"See what, John?" Lestrade sighed.

"He's not dead!"

Silence crashed upon the group. John knew-he could see it on their panicked faces-that they did not believe him. Only Mycroft was not staring at him as if he belonged in a mental institution; he just clutched his umbrella a little tighter and continued his examination of the floor.

"John," Lestrade said in that same, deliberately soothing voice, "John. I'm sorry. But Sherlock's d-"

"You just think that because you're an idiot!"

"John," Lestrade did not seem angry, which only increased John's fury. They were still treating him like a child, "John, there is no way he could fake his own shooting."

"We thought there was no way he could fake his own suicide," John said furiously, "But he did!" He looked meaningfully at Molly.

The pathologist was trembling, though John was not sure why, "N-no John," she spluttered, her voice firm, yet terrified, "Sher-Sherlock did not ask me to help him fake his death again."

She did not admit it before either, John reminded himself; he grunted and turned away from her.

"Why would he do this again?" Mrs. Hudson pleaded. John felt a small twinge of regret as he saw her fear…fear for him…but Sherlock was more important.

"Same reason he did it before," John explained. Why were they refusing to see? "Lestrade said the drug lords were closing in on him. He knew they were planning to kill him, probably the rest of us too, so Sherlock decided to fake his death so he could finish destroying their networks unnoticed…just like he did with Moriarty!"

A wave of objections assaulted him; even Mrs. Hudson seemed to be the closest John had ever heard her come to shouting: "He wouldn't! John! Be reasonable! Impossible!" It was making the doctor's head pound; he closed his eyes in an attempt to drown out the din. He knew he was right.

"Stop."

Silence again. John opened his eyes and saw, to his surprise, that the group was no longer staring at him…but at Mycroft. The Elder Holmes had finally looked up and was staring at the group with broken, yet somehow even more terrifying, eyes.

"John believes my brother may still be alive," Mycroft's words were cold, crisp, as detached as ever, as if he were mediating a petty squabble between toddlers rather than a dispute over the death or survival of the only person in the world he cared about, "What right have we to disabuse him of that notion?"

"But Mycroft!" all three voices cried as one.

Mycroft lifted a hand for silence; it came.

"It is what John believes," he said, "And we have no right, or need, to amend that…there is even a certain logic to his view," Molly's mouth opened again in protest, but Mycroft stood and continued speaking before she had the chance to voice her objection, "Sherlock has been declared dead, and the funeral will continue as planned. Whether John feels the need to attend…" Mycroft glanced at John, and there was a strange, unidentifiable, emotion reflected in his eyes…almost like understanding, "That is entirely up to him," and without another word, he strode out of the room.

The entire story is finished, and I'll probably post a new chapter every few days.

Points to anyone who knows where the title comes from. :)

I'd love to hear your comments and/or criticism, but as always, thank you so much for reading!