I'm sorry for those waiting for a new chapter of Kiara - it will come soon!

Okay, this one was inspired by a tumblr post - valkyrie-of-the-dead . tumblr post / 75141056394 / archiaart-if-you-truly-wanted-to-escape-youd

I know the picture looks a bit different and has a different meaning (the link is on my profile as well) but I just had the idea to do this.

Enjoy!

Harry's eyes were wide and terrified. Her hair was ruffled and her hands wer tied behind her back, as far as John could see, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

This was something he had always feared, and since he began solving crimes with Sherlock, whenever the thought came up he send it to the furthest corner of his mind. He had never believed a criminal might make the connection between John Watson, blogger and best friend of the famous Sherlock Holmes, living in London, and Harry Watson, an alcoholic lesbian whose ex-wife was living with someone else now.

Harry always seemed so far away. She only lived in the outskirts of London, but the name Watson was common and their meetings or calls were the opposite.

When he heard her whimper through the gag which was tied tightly to her head, he narrowed his eyes once more. Whoever this criminal was, couldn't they just get on with it? It was obvious that his sister was only a bait, to get him, and through him probably Sherlock, to come. So here he was, even though Sherlock wasn't, so what was the man waiting for? If he was indeed waiting for Sherlock, he'd have to wait a long time.

The last time he saw Sherlock was five days ago, they had been fighting and eventually, John had stormed out to calm down. But not before he had insulted Sherlock, thrown words at him that were designed to hurt him. And being Sherlock's only friend also meant being the only person knowing how to really hurt him. With words, anyway.

„Do you know why they call you Freak, Sherlock? Because that's how you present yourself to them, and I'm starting to wonder what's the real act. Because do you even really know how to care? Does a freak know how to care?"

The words were bouncing around in his head, mocking him. Of course Sherlock cared, he had proven that many times: At the swimming-pool, in many of their cases...

When he came back from his walk, Sherlock wasn't there anymore. He hadn't left any information where he was going whatsoever, but regarding that it was late afternoon, he'd probably just gone to the Yard or to Molly.

If only. When Sherlock hadn't returned at midnight the same day and hadn't responded to any texts or calls, John had decided to call Mycroft, who somehow seemed to be awake anytime of the day. Or night, if you wanted to be completely correct. But Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock the whole day, and since four o'clock that day he hadn't been on any CCTV at all, and he hadn't reached the Yard or the hospital. It was as if he hadn't been in London or anywhere near London the whole afternoon.

The only thing John could think about those days was Sherlock. Something had happened to him. It wasn't like him to sulk for this long or not answer any attempts of communication. John feared, and he guessed under Mycroft's mask the older brother did as well, that Sherlock had been attacked and kidnapped, if not killed.

But why wasn't there any kind of communication from a possible kidnapper? They had been in this kind of situation a few times before, a video or a picture of the other one being beaten up was horrible, but better than this uncertainity.

And to make everything worse, there had been a break-in at Harry's and Harry was gone. John didn't know how, but somehow he had figured out, with some help from Mycroft and the police, where she was – because there was no sign of real struggle and somehow he had a hunch.

Harry was in the warehouse by the Thames.

And stupid as he always was, John had stormed right in, not waiting for back-up. He had been quiet, of course, but the back-up was at least five minutes away. With his gun drawn, he had gone into the warehouse, but he wasn't careful enough. The sight of Harry so frightened in that chair was something he wouldn't forget, neither was the glint of the metal of the gun, which was pointing at her temple, nearly touching it, ever leaving his memory.

The man holding the gun was wearing casual clothes, jeans, boots, a hoody and a cap under the drawn up hood. The gloves he wore were high quality, as was the purple scarf he had put over his mouth and nose, barely leaving the eyes free, so he wouldn't be recognized. Everything John could see right now where slightly panicked brown eyes.

Putting his gun on the floor was hard, stepping away from it even more so, and when he raised his hands he was hating his own stupidity. Then again, the distraction he had brought with him had stopped the man from shooting Harry, which was definitely good.

John frowned. Things weren't adding up. If Harry had been a simple bait, why had she nearly been shot? Not good of a leverage dead, was she?

John could see the tiny tightening of the trigger finger and jumped forwards. He didn't get on with his sister, she was at times annoying and couldn't stay of the bottle, but she was his sister, and had some, few, good parts. And she was family.

But as soon as he started moving he knew it was too late, but that didn't mean he couldn't try.

The bullet enters and leaves Harry's head. Blood and brain-matter splatter through the room, and she slackens instantly.

John saw this with a doctor's, a surgeon's eye, and knew that his sister was dead, but her killer wasn't. With his left hand he twisted the gun away from him, with his right he grabbed the scarf on the man's face and pulled it down.

Shock, confusion, anger, despair and betrayal coursed through him, and he stumbled backwards. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Barely managing to stay on his feet, he took a few steps backward, then finally turned and fled. He ran as if he was running for his life, indeed, running from the truth was a very good description.

The gun still in his hands, eyes wide open, mouth opened to defend himself, the gun-free hand stretched out to hold the fleeing man, Sherlock Holmes stood there and and closed his eyes in horror.

What do you think? Why did Sherlock do that?