Sherlock has expected almost everything that came to him in his life. He didn't expect John to think he was incredible. He didn't expect to befriend him. And he certainly didn't expect to fall in love with him.
Above all, he NEVER expected John to kill him. He also never expected John to snap like he did. Or how to kill with a harpoon.
Sherlock woke up to find John already gone. It's four o'clock in the morning. Where is he? Sherlock thought. Sherlock scanned the whole house. After a whole 10 minutes, he came to his conclusion.
Sherlock's rifle, cell phone, and harpoon were all missing.
John's cell phone, car, and laptop were missing.
So were any bullets they owned, not to mention their two home phones.
All doors and windows were locked and jammed, all keys missing.
Someone has decided to attack Sherlock. Personally.
Sherlock paced around his house, wondering what to do. He could break his window open. But that would be hard to fix. Sherlock decided to use that as a last resort. Fixing a door lock shouldn't be hard. He ran to the door, trying everything he could. Nothing worked.
Sherlock went and sat on the couch. Well, rather, he tried. The moment he sat down, the couch totally fell apart. If he had not jumped up immediately, he could have been injured. Damn it! That's a brand new couch. Sherlock tested each piece of furniture. No others broke. How odd. Sherlock made a pot of coffee and sat down. He took one sip of the coffee, and spat it out. What the hell…?
Sherlock ran into the kitchen, pouring al the coffee beans out. Mixed with the beans were Cyanide pills. Oh god. By now, he was scared. His thoughts snapped to John.
Oh fuck. Where's John? What if they hurt him? What if he's… ohfuckohfuckofuckohfuck
Sherlock grabbed a book and threw it through the window. He used another book to get all the glass out. He hopped out of the window, so happy that he was on the first floor of their house. If I was still in the flat, I'd probably be dead. He ran down the street in his robe and slippers, ignoring the gasps and confused looks. He called up a taxi three times before one finally took him.
"Sir, are you okay?"
"You are paid to drive me. Not talk to me. Take me to the police station immediately." The driver rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet. He stopped at the police station, and Sherlock hopped out immediately, nearly forgetting to pay him. He ran straight inside.
"Somebody get Lestrade!" He yelled as he flung the doors open. But no one was inside. The cameras had been torn out, a few of the wires let out little sparks every few seconds. Oh god oh god oh god oh god please don't let that be blood He spotted a bloody trail, leading down the hall. He followed it like a bloodhound. It led to a room filled with dead officers. In front of them, Lestrade's head on Sherlock's harpoon. Sherlock didn't even want to touch it. He ran straight out, back onto the street, nearly getting hit by a car. He jumped back like a cat. He ran off, ignoring the man's calls. He ran straight into the park. No children were there, after all, it was a Wednesday. They had school. Sherlock sat on the bench, constantly looking over his shoulder. He couldn't do this alone. Get it together, Sherlock. You need facts. Go to Molly.
Fifteen minutes later, another taxi dropped him off at the hospital. He ran straight down to where she worked. A bunch of workers ran after him, but he ran in, shutting and locking the door too fast for them to catch up. It was only now he realized he was missing a slipper. He took a moment, staring at his bare foot, catching his breath. He was facing the door. The room smelled like death. I should run now. I shouldn't even turn around. Just open the door … He looked up, turning around. Molly. Poor, poor, Molly. She had been drowned in the sink. She had a huge gash running from her shoulder to her wrist. Sherlock scanned the whole room. His heart fell to his stomach when he saw the opposite wall.
nononononononononononononono nonononononononono
Written in Molly's blood are the words YOU NEXT, SHERLOCK
Sherlock unbolted the door, rushing past the angry workers. "Call the police!" He instinctively yelled back. That would do no good. He ran straight back, to the doors. He tried to open them, but they were locked. Suddenly, he heard gunshots, and loads of screaming. After it was all over, he carefully walked back down. They were all dead. But only one bullet was shot. Sherlock looked around at the scene. Suddenly, something poked him in the back. He spun around, getting his side cut.
"Hello, love!" Sherlock stared. His shoulders sagged, he felt hollow. He slumped to his knees. The killer went on his knees, too.
"Why. Why this? Of all people, why you? Please tell me this wasn't you. Please." Sherlock whispered. He could barely breathe.
"Why wouldn't it be me? Sherlock, really. I spent all those years watching people die. I thought with you, it would be different. But you let people die, too!"
"No, I save them." He said hoarsely.
"YOU DON'T! YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES, ARE A MURDERER!" He roared. Sherlock flinched. John was holding his harpoon in his hand, and was going along the gash in Sherlock's hip with it. Sherlock let out a small sob. John laughed. Sherlock just stared, his eyes hollow.
"Aww. Look at you, Sherlock. You look like a lost puppy. A lost, murderous, puppy." He whispered.
"John, you are insane. Please get help. Please. I… I will forgive you. For all this." Sherlock barely managed to choke the words out. John screamed. He grabbed a knife from his belt, tearing it down Sherlock's face, cutting his eye. Sherlock let out a painful yell. John moaned. For a second, Sherlock was disgusted. Is he getting off on this? The thought barely ran through his head once before John turned around. Sherlock, at this point, was shaking.
"Sherlock. Sherlooooock. Are you okay?" John sneered. Sherlock accidentally let out a sob, making John roar with laughter.
"John, please. Stop this. I l-" John slapped him, on the side of his face with the knife cut. Sherlock tried not to scream. John rolled his eyes.
"Come on. Scream. Let me hear it. Try and blow my eardrums out." He whispered. Sherlock made no sound of any kind. John's face twisted up, and he tore at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock couldn't help it this time. He screamed himself hoarse. He gasped for breath.
"Ugh, look at you. Pale as a ghost. You have one last thing to say, Sherlock! Say it. Then it's time for me to kill you." John said. He sounded gleeful. Sherlock stared at him.
"I… hate you." He hissed. John stared, shocked.
"Hate me? I thought you looooved me." He mocked.
"I hate you. I hate you, John Watson." Sherlock growled. His vision was blurred. He was going to die soon. Sherlock saw a gun in close range.
John was laughing hard. "Oh, wow. A man can change fast. What now, Sherly?" John said. Sherlock could smell his breath. He had the gun in his hand. But John grabbed it from him.
"I'll see you in hell, love." He whispered in his ear. He threw the gun aside, and walked away, leaving Sherlock to bleed to death. No one came until an hour later. It was far too late. Sherlock had died. Murdered by his best friend, and the man he loved.