It should have been like any other night. John and Sherlock had been assisting with a case of homicide for Lestrade – and when they said 'assisting', they meant that they'd been called in to help, and naturally Sherlock had withheld all relevant information until the very last minute, leading to he and John running through the streets of London after the culprit.
But John didn't mind. The danger the adrenaline, the sheer absurdity was one of the things that had first attracted him to the tall, dark, brooding consulting detective. And now, here they were, 5 years later, each with a matching silver band on the ring finger of their left hand. Sherlock had indulged John's needs for them to wear rings, because for John, it provided more evidence that he was Sherlock's, and Sherlock was his, and nothing was ever going to take that away from them.
They shared another of their moments, still riding the adrenaline high, where their eyes met and a surge of energy passed between them. The smiles on both their faces were genuine, warm and full of anticipation of what was to come. In the privacy of 221B, they would have acted upon their impulses and come together in a desperate, passionate kiss just to dull the aching need for each other. But now, surrounded by what seemed to be the entirety of NSY, they kept only to the heated eye contact.
John didn't see the armed man in time. Neither did Lestrade. But Sherlock did.
John only noticed him at the last minute, gun held in both hands, taking aim, pulling the trigger.
Sherlock noticed where the bullet's intended target was standing.
He used all of his strength to push John out of the path of the bullet. But it found a new target, instead choosing to bury itself deep into Sherlock's chest. He seemed to fall to the ground in slow motion, and yet John was still unable to catch him. But he moved as fast as he could to where his husband was lying on the cold, concrete pavement.
Around them was a flurry of movement. The shooter had been bought to the ground by several officers who had run at him the moment he'd fired the shot. Clearly, more people at NSY cared about Sherlock than John had originally thought.
There were several shouts, crying from Sally Donovan, and screaming, but John didn't hear any of it. He was too focused on the man who was now bleeding out in his arms. He cradled Sherlock close to him, as you would a small child.
Sherlock had completely drained of what little colour he possessed, and his breathing was becoming shallower. His eyes struggled to focus on his surroundings.
"Sherlock, stay with me." John noticed that his vision was blurring as hot tears threatened to spill. At the sound of his voice, Sherlock's grey eyes snapped to John's blue ones. They were full of fear, tears shining like tiny diamonds. A hand came up to John's arm and grabbed it desperately, keeping an unrelenting, tight hold as he maintained his focus on John's face.
"John." His name was no more than a breath on Sherlock's lips and it was clear he didn't have strength to talk.
"Sherlock, please. Don't leave me. I love you so much and you can't leave me. Don't let it take you from me." The tears were falling thick and fast down John's face, but he made no effort to wipe them away.
Sherlock's lips quirked a smile as John's words stirred a memory in his head, momentarily eclipsing the pain.
"John." Sherlock gasped. John moved closer, determined to hear Sherlock. "Our song."
"I remember it." It was the song John had sung to Sherlock one night after he'd woken up from a nightmare, shaking horrifically and screaming his partner's name. John had moved his fingers through Sherlock's hair as he sang, trying to calm him down, soothing Sherlock into sleep.
"Sing? Please? It'll be like I'm going to sleep." Sherlock's words clawed at John's insides, ripping his heart into tiny shreds, destroying him from the inside out. John wanted to refuse. He wanted to forbid Sherlock to die. He simply could not leave him. Not again.
But John would never refuse Sherlock anything. He opened his mouth and began to sing, every now and then his voice cracking as he continued to cry, holding Sherlock close to his chest and rocking him gently.
"You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You'll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away."
As John sang, Sherlock's eyes gently closed, his breathing becoming shallower and more erratic. There was silence all around, as the officers of NSY watched toe two men as they shared their final moments together.
John felt the hand on his arm give a feeble squeeze as Sherlock managed to whisper into the night.
"John, my dear John. My sunshine." And with a few more breaths, Sherlock stilled. His lungs were no longer pushing air in and out of his lungs. His face was relaxed, almost as if he were sleeping, and John could almost imagine that they were back in Baker Street, back in their bed, and Sherlock was simply asleep. The grip on John's arm went slack, and when John reached for Sherlock's wrist, he could find no pulse.
The world shattered.
John clutched his husband closer and wept, loud sobs escaping him as he held tightly onto the one thing that had made his life worth living. He burried
The officers around them bowed their heads, a few cried along with John. None of them wanted to move; to intrude on what was happening before them.
As john continued to weep, a few words managed to escape his lips involuntarily.
"You'll never know dear,
How much I love you.
Please don't take my-"
But he found himself unable to finish. Because Sherlock had been taken from him.
And now there was no more sunshine. No more Sherlock. Only darkness and a world where John was utterly and completely alone.