Chapter One
Death in the Alleyway
-.-
A gunshot.
John shouts, flails, falls.
He collapses onto the tarmac. Stills. Sherlock runs up, screams his name, crouches beside him. Turns him over. Sees the damage. Fatal. The street lights flicker above them, the only source of light in the narrow alleyway. In the gloom, pain is etched on John's face. He wheezes hard. He knows he doesn't have long. The detective clasps his hand, his face white, his bottom lip trembling slightly.
"John." The word pierces the silence pounding through his ears. It can't end like this. He and his blogger… they have so much more to see. So much more to do. Crimes to solve. Jokes to laugh at. No. John won't die. He's too strong. He survived a war. "John." And he realises he's pleading. Because up until this point, he has never imagined a life without John Watson.
And this is too real. Too soon. Not now. Not when… Not John. No. Please, no…
"Sher – Sherlock…" The wounded man is gasping, staring up at him, eyes wide. The crimson is staining his hands, but Sherlock doesn't notice, because the whole of his attention is focused on one man and those fateful words. "I… I c-can't…"
"No." He whispers the syllable over and over, shaking his head slowly. His mind seems incapable of thinking. His whole world is dying before his very eyes. I can't… I can't…
"P-Please… This… isn't y-your f-fault…"
But it is. They both know it. It was Sherlock's idea to hunt that killer on their own. Sherlock's idea to pursue him across London. Sherlock's idea to use John as bait… He squeezes John's fingers. Tears are in his eyes, threatening to snake down his cheeks. His vision blurs. The ground appears to be lurching violently. I can't… I can't…
"It is my fault! All of it! Don't leave me!" He can't control himself. He is a spectator, trapped in his own body, listening to himself plead. "You can't leave me! I need you… I've always needed you! J-John! N-No."
"Don't… worry…" John murmurs. He smiles at Sherlock with one final effort. And the look he gives conveys nothing but genuine untainted love. Sherlock bends over and kisses his friend's cheek lightly, hardly able to comprehend the whispered fragments. "What… I said… b-before..." Time freezes. They share a look. "I… I m-meant every word."
And with that, his eyes close and he goes limp in Sherlock's arms.
At rest.
Sherlock screams.
"JOHN!" He shakes his beloved army doctor. But John is dead. "NO! NO! NO!"
He drops the body and staggers to his feet. A dog is barking. People on the street opposite are singing in drunken stupors. Police sirens wail in the distance. A haze of noise, weaving around him. Hemming him in. Suffocating him. I can't… I can't…
Sherlock turns back. Sees John's body, crumpled beneath his feet. He can't be… he… just a moment ago we… he said… he told me that he… The blood is still spilling onto the concrete, the crimson liquid staining his flatmate's coat. And I said… I was the same… and… and… and we… John's face is ashen. Grey. He doesn't look like John. He looks like something Sherlock would find in the mortuary. But… he isn't… he's my… how do I… I can't… I can't…
I can't breathe.
He sinks to his knees. Clutches a lifeless hand.
He's gone.
Something snaps inside him. His heart feels as though it has been wrenched from his chest. He sways. Then, something in his mind clicks. And his eyes roll up and he plummets down and the last thing he remembers is…
John.