Hey guys! So it's been a while since I've uploaded, so I'm not sure if this is better or worse than my previous fics. I think this one should be great (warning: feels alert). I have a different twist on His Last Vow (not that I didn't love how it was, it was brilliant - this is just for how it may have also ended :P) Probably going to have a couple of chapters, so this first bit won't be the last. So follow this story if you like it so far and I'll be adding some more (hopefully) ASAP. Thanks and enjoy! Please please review if you liked it or didn't like it. And be kind if you do. :D
"You're really gonna like being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you…"
He was right, Sherlock thought, his thoughts becoming increasingly slower as his heart rate followed suit. But Mary… that woman was quite literally the death of him. Ironic, too, because she'd been one of the only people he'd grown to like. His gut gave another painful surge as he remembered the bullet wedged there. One little pop, and he'd be gone. He wouldn't be able to help it either.
"...and John will cry buckets and buckets. He's the one I worry about most. That wife..." Moriarty taunted, twirling around in his chains. Chained, forever held in Sherlock's mind, unable to escape or be forcibly removed. Both held captive and wanting to be there.
JOHN. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, suddenly given a motivation to live. For John. To protect him from the liar named Mary Watson. He grabbed at his chest, a strong will coming over him to live, to fight for a life he'd sacrificed so much for. A life that he'd tried to take before he met John Watson. And he owed it to that wonderful, brilliant man to live.
But in his ears all he could hear was the loud, but flat buzzing noise, that meant his time was up. His heart had stopped, and resuscitation hadn't worked. Come on! he urged himself You have to!
"You're dead, Sherlock," Moriarty hissed close to his ear, "You're dead. I finally beaten you, ordinary Sherlock. But don't worry. I'm sure with that wife of his, John will be joining us here very soon. You won't be lonely."
"No, I can't, I…no…" Sherlock grasped at consciousness, but he was too far gone. His thoughts thinned to nothing as he heard a final word from the world of the living,
"Please." The last thing he thought of was John.
The doctor walked out of Sherlock's room with his eyes lowered to the floor, wringing his hands slightly. He looked up at me with a sad, but resigned look on his face. This was not the first patient he couldn't save. But I wouldn't believe it.
"He's almost gone. His heart's stopped, and there's minimal brain activity. I'd say if you want a final word, you should do it now." My mouth was slightly open in shock before I put on a determined face and walked in the door. Sherlock was lying on the bed, limp, deathly pale, his eyes closed and the oxygen still feeding into his mouth. They wouldn't stop it until I was gone, but I knew there was no use keeping it there. I stepped forward slowly, unable to believe my friend had finally been beaten, and by a bullet too! It was such an ordinary way to die, and it was a way I'd seen so many of my friends go before. It was unfair, as if the universe was mocking me, that he should die in a way that was so familiar to me, and so close to my heart.
I stopped that train of thought quickly. I would not be angry. Not now, not here. He didn't deserve that. And the last time I thought he was dead, there was evidently some wiggle room for him not to be. But now, lying eerily still and obviously shot through the heart, I didn't see how he could get out of this one. Sherlock Holmes was really, truly dying, unless by some miracle it wasn't him or he wasn't actually dying from a fatal wound. But I knew that was silly. This was Sherlock, and he was dying. And he needed me.
I took a seat close to his bed, holding back any frustrated thoughts, and picking my words carefully. I took his hand gently, his long, pale fingers limp and unmoving.
"Sherlock," I choked out, "I'm so so sorry we couldn't save you. And...I swear it, I swear on my life I will find out who...and I will kill them." It was all I could manage. I was tied down with anger, both at the shooter and somewhat at Sherlock. How could he? He promised to be here. Always. So I pleaded,
"I asked you for one more miracle last time you were dead. And I will ask it one more time: Please don't be dead. Fight back, you're still technically alive. No, that's silly, you're not, but you can do it. You promised, Sherlock. For the three of us. Please." As an involuntary reaction, it seemed, Sherlock squeezed my hand back briefly before his hand went limp again, and that's when I knew he was gone. My body felt heavy all of a sudden, as if there was a weight there that I had just realized. He was gone. Really and truly, gone before my eyes. But he couldn't be. He promised.