Death by Your Hand
(Special thanks to GloriousBlackout, based on an Omegle RP on 4/4/2012)
Three years. Three sodding years since Sherlock jumped, and John didn't want to sit in 221B for another second. Of course, in order to not sit there, he would have to move first, and that wasn't happening. He was finally off the 24/7 suicide watch, meaning that he now got checked on by Mrs. Hudson in the morning, had lunch with Lestrade, and was frequently kidnapped by Mycroft for dinner. Sarah always had her eye on him at work. It was amazing how much she really still cared about him.
His phone buzzed. 4:15. Mycroft should be by with Anthea in an hour with dinner. After the last fit John had thrown over being nabbed every time he stepped out of the flat, Mycroft had finally agreed to just bring him dinner. Probably saying he'll be late or changed his mind on bringing food, John thought, picking up his phone and checking the text.
Hello, Johnny. Missing your friend? -JM
John almost dropped it, very wary of the source.
What do /you/ want? -JW
I want some entertainment. And I think I should tell you something. -JM
Moriarty saying he had news was like taking all of Mycroft's cakes at tea time; it was never good. But John was curious and bored and figured he had nothing to lose anymore.
Like what? -JW
Your pet detective isn't dead. -JM
John felt his heart stop.
Liar. -JW
I assure you he's not. I'm looking at him right now. -JM
No, that's not possible. How could you be looking at him? He's in the ground. -JW
He's lying at my feet. Last time I checked, corpses don't bleed. -JM
No, nononononononono
What I don't believe you. It's your fault he died in the first place. Why should I ever, ever trust you? -JW
He really should stop. This could cause a total relapse, but Jim's next text changed everything.
Because if you don't then he dies all over again. Unless you'd prefer that? -JM
What if, just what if Jim were actually telling the truth?
No! Wait, wait, let me talk to him. -JW
John held his breath, almost breaking the buttons on his phone to open the next text.
I can let you see him. I'll even tell you where he is. He isn't exactly capable of talking right now.-JM
You son of a bitch. Where is he?-JW
221C Baker Street. Come unarmed, I'd rather you didn't cause a mess. -JM
221C...
You're...you're in the basement?-JW
Yes. I'm not surprised you didn't hear us. He isn't one to beg for mercy. -JM
John could feel his pulse in his fingertips and his heart in his throat.
Coming down. -JW
John stuck his gun in the back of his pants, tugging his oatmeal colored jumper down over it. No way was he going anywhere near Moriarty unarmed; he wasn't that stupid. He crept down the stairs to the landing of the building, pausing outside the door down to 221C; it was open slightly.
Warier than ever, John snuck down the stairs, wincing every time something creaked. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone went off.
I hear you now. The door's open, just come in. -JM
John reached the door and gently pushed it open, letting it swing into the room. He stood there, taking in the scene that meets his eyes. His heart stopped.
Moriarty stood in the center of the room, wielding a bloody knife and smiling at John as if he were greeting an old friend "Hello Johnny." He glanced down at the pale, unconscious figure by his feet, still bleeding from multiple wounds across his chest. A thin sheen of sweat was visible on Sherlock's pale face and he seemed to be struggling. "Do you like my artwork? You haven't seen him in a while, have you?"
SHERLOCK!
John was overwhelmed by the sight before him, the shock of seeing what he presumed to be Sherlock crumpled and bloody on the floor slowly wearing off. He turned his attention to the door, and when he decided there were no traps, he crossed the threshold. Fighting to stay calm, he said, "Moriarty."
"Like what you see?" Moriarty crouched down beside Sherlock, knife still in hand, and brushed a stray, bloody curl away from his eyes with the tip before smiling up at the doctor. "Or are you still trying to tell yourself that he died three years ago?"
"Get away from him," John snapped taking two steps before freezing in horror.
"Still protective I see..." Moriarty pressed the knife against Sherlock's throat, smiling in triumph as the action seemed to freeze the doctor in his tracks. "Do you know why I asked you to come here? What I want you to do?"
John shook his head, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins, not trusting himself to speak or move. Sherlock...
"Nothing?" Moriarty rolled his eyes before standing up. "I'm not going to hurt him, not anymore. After all, that's your job."
"What?" John couldn't stop the squeak his voice made as he spoke, although he felt his muscles relax slightly as Moriarty stood and removed the knife from Sherlock's throat
"I want you to kill him." Moriarty stated this as if it was a perfectly acceptable request, before admiring the bloodstained knife under the light. Son of a bitch...
"What makes you so sure that I will?" John sounded much braver than he felt, knowing full well he would kill himself before carrying out such a request
"I have three snipers trained on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Harry Watson. If you don't kill him then..." The consulting criminal mimed shooting himself in the head, smiling like a playful child as he did so. "They fire and your friends die. Your choice."
"Is this the same choice you gave him?" It was the only explanation that made sense in John's mind.
"Similar. Except he cheated. Obviously." He looked down at Sherlock with a look of mild amusement before meeting John's gaze again. "So, what's it to be, soldier?"
"Why? Because he survived? From the looks of it you pulled a similar stunt. I had heard you died on that roof."
"I wasn't part of the bargain. He was."
"I'm not doing anything until I can talk with him. I'll wait."
"You can't wait. I told my men that if they don't receive word from me within the hour then they can take matters into their own hands. And your hour ends in..." Moriarty pulled out his phone from his pocket and glanced at the time. "Seven minutes."
Seven minutes? How the hell can I solve this in seven minutes? John walked over to Sherlock, crouching down to get a good look at the detective. How is he still alive? The sheer loss of blood alone should have killed him, but the look of pain on Sherlock's face and the sweat that continued to drip down his brow suggested otherwise. John looked up at Moriarty, only one question on his mind. "Why?"
"Because I'm bored. And you killing him is a hell of a lot more interesting than me doing it." He crouched down again, looking up at John with a sneer. "Want me to wake him up for you?"
"Yes," John whispered, the word out of his mouth before he can stop it.
Moriarty smiled. "You shouldn't have said that Johnny..." Before John move to stop him, the mad man took the knife and plunged it into Sherlock's shoulder, grinning in triumph as the detective woke with a pathetic whimper.
John gasped, dropping to his knees, hands going to Sherlock's shoulder to stop the bleeding, eyes choosing this moment to start making tears. "You sick son of a bitch," he snarled at the grinning Moriarty. "I'll kill you myself I-" John broke off as Sherlock caught his wrist, eyes open and staring at him with a mixture of fear, horror, and extreme sadness.
John could see Sherlock's heart shatter in his eyes, and he knew his own tears weren't helping matters much. "Some reunion," John said, attempting some humor.
Sherlock reached a shaky hand up to John's face, swiping away a tear and whispering, "I'm sorry John..." The effort was too much as it had him writhing in pain in seconds.
"Don't move," John whispered, catching Sherlock's hand. "Please, it'll make things worse." He takes one hand and strokes the detective's head to calm him down, quickly succeeding. "Moriarty wants me to kill you, or Greg, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson will die. I-I can't do this, Sherlock. Tell me you have a plan. Something. Anything." He blinked the tears away angrily, feeling weak and useless, his hands covered in Sherlock's blood
Sherlock shook his head, and John's heart sank, but he could see that Sherlock could barely move now, let alone defeat Moriarty. "I can't John... I can't let the others die." He was attacked by an onslaught of violent coughing that bent him double, causing him to gasp in pain before he managed to gather enough breath to talk again. "I can't do anything..."
John knew his time was running out. "What do you want me to do?" Please, say anything, anything but-
"Kill me." The words somehow managed to sound cold, despite the situation. "Save the others."
John's tears dripped onto Sherlock's face now, his shoulders shaking gently. "Sher-Sherlock," he wept; then he bent and kissed the detective, trying to soothe him, to calm him. One last show of my affection for you, Sherlock Holmes.
He felt Sherlock's attempt to smile fail as his facial muscles were losing strength fast. The kiss tasted of blood and tears, but it was perfect in its own way.
"I love you," Sherlock whispered.
"I love you too." John pulled back, pressing one more kiss to Sherlock's forehead before turning to Moriarty. "I'm ready."
Moriarty had clearly been watching the scene with mild interest, but at John's words he smiled, before holding out the freshly stained knife for John to take. "Go on..."
John took the knife; it was heavy and sticky, still slick with Sherlock's blood. He turned back to his friend, his flat mate, his love. "Any last requests?" John tried to smile, tried to make this better than it was. He could feel his gun digging into his lower back, heavy and useless, just like him
Sherlock replied without hesitation. "Look after the others. Can you promise me that?"
John nodded, crossing his fingers so Sherlock couldn't see. He took a deep breath. "Where do you want it?"
"Not my heart, not when it's you..."
That request sends a new round of sobs through John, Not only is the heart only a symbolic icon of love but it makes no difference either way if that's where it's done. Sherlock still going to die, and it's still going to be John who does it. He chooses something else anyway, finally settling on his throat. He is a doctor after all; he knows where to cut so that Sherlock will at least die quickly.
John nods, blinking tears away. He rests the knife against Sherlock's pale throat. "On...three"
"One..." Sherlock shivers as the cool blade reaches his throat and closes his eyes.
"Two..."
"Just do it." Sherlock's voice comes out a mere whisper now.
"Three!" Pretend you're in the war, pretend this isn't Sherlock. John's arm acted on its own, drawing the blade across the pale and bloody throat, but he made the mistake of looking into Sherlock's eyes as he did. He saw the fear and the pain, but also the love and forgiveness. "NO!" John screamed, sobbing as the blood gushed everywhere, soaking his jumper and jeans. He watched as the last spark of light left Sherlock's eyes, and the detective's body collapsed in his arms. John cradled Sherlock's body to his chest, face buried in the detective's shoulder. "No, no, no, no..."
Moriarty reached for his phone and called off the snipers, smirking at the scene. Leaning back against the wall he watched for a few more moments until John finally stopped crying, settling for cradling the dead man in his arms protectively like he would a child. "Interesting..." Moriarty piped up, admiring the pool of blood that has gathered on the floor. "He did have a heart after all."
"SHUT UP!" John rounded on the criminal, moving fast and pinning him to the wall. He threw Jim's phone so it smashed into hundreds of pieces and pressed the knife at Moriarty's throat throat. "Say goodbye."
Moriarty grins. "Some day for you, hmm? Killing the one you love and his enemy in the space of a few minutes..." Betraying no reaction, he lowered his voice to a venomous hiss. "Goodbye Johnny..."
John yanked the knife across Moriarty's throat, stabbing him in the heart and then the back of the head for good measure before stepping back and letting the body fall. He dropped the knife, walking slowly back over to Sherlock's lifeless form. The tears were gone, a gaping hole in their place. He sat back down by Sherlock and picked him up, cradling him against his chest once more, his cheek on the dark curls matted with blood. After a few moments, he reached for his gun.
*click*
"Safety's off, Sherlock," John said very calmly. "I know it was your last request, but Mycroft can handle it. I've lost you twice now, and once was my fault. I can't bear to live with myself now." He presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and then to his lips. "Goodbye"
When Mycroft arrived with dinner an hour later, he hadn't expected to find the door to 221C open. Concerned, he ventured down the stairs and through the open door.
The food hit the floor as the sight met Mycroft's eyes.
The normally grey-ish flat was stained a dull red; he figured it had been pretty vibrant just a short while ago. Moriarty was in one corner, throat clearly cut, body sporting other various stab wounds, the offending weapon at his feet, but what he saw in the center of the room drove him to his knees.
His baby brother, covered in blood, throat also cut, was in the arms of one John Hamish Watson. John was covered with Sherlock's blood, his oatmeal jumper a dark red. The wall behind him was splattered with what could only be John's brain. John's handgun was hooked around his trigger finger and John was slumped over, holding Sherlock even in death.
Mycroft forced himself up and forwards, noticing John's phone a few feet away. He picked it up, seeing an unsent text addressed to him of all people. Mycroft opened it to discover John's note.
Moriarty forced me to kill the only man I ever loved to save the lives of others. I killed Moriarty in revenge, and I don't want to live in a world without Sherlock Holmes.