John stepped into the flat just a moment before Sherlock. Maybe if he had gotten out of the car a little slower, if that one stoplight had been longer, if his coat hadn't got caught on the door, Sherlock would've gone first, or they would have gone in together. Maybe it was just fate.

Either way there was no going back.

When that bullet ripped through Johns chest, and he heard Sherlock yell his name at the top of his lungs, and he heard the mangled sounds of a suffocating human being, and he felt the pain tear through his body, John knew it was the end. And he only had one thought; his last thought, the last words to escape his bleeding lips;

Don't let me go…

"JOHN!" I heard myself scream.

I felt my hands grab at the killers neck. I felt my fingers coax the life out of the throat of the man who had most inevitably killed my best friend. I felt tears on my face. I heard myself weep. I held my best friend in my arms, and I felt his last breath on my cheek. "Oh god, John. Please don't leave me here. John, you have to stay with me."

I held on to him as they took him away. I did not cry when they put him in a bag. I was still when they asked me to speak and I took the blanket they gave me and used it to wipe my face. Then I walked home.

10 hours previous

"Sherlock, we've got a client! Put some trousers on and get in here!"

"One moment, I'm experimenting. Ow!" John rolled his eyes and sighed. That man will be the death of me.

He addressed the young man at the door. "Um, please come in, sit down. He should be out in a moment. Do you want to begin explaining, or wait?"

"I'd rather wait, if you don't mind, Mr. Watson."

"Not at all." John smiled cordially and gestured for the man to sit in 'the chair.' The clock on the wall ticked. Mrs. Hudson bustled around downstairs. John tapped his foot. After about 8 uncomfortable minutes of awkward small talk with the stranger, Sherlock finally came out of his room, in a dressing gown with curlers in his hair. John frowned at him and bit his upper lip, trying for all the world not to laugh or rebuke him. The young man coughed and looked everywhere in the room but at Sherlock. When he sat down, Sherlock apologized for his appearance. "It's part of an experiment, one which I will not explain at this time. So what is your current predicament?"

"Well, my father was in the Imperial Navy, and a few days ago, he was foun' dead a few miles south of London in the Thames. The police say he must've committed suicide, but I can't believe it. He was very happy to be 'ome, bein' honorably discharged about 6 months ago an' all. I think he was murdered, but I don't know how. Please, help me Mr. 'Olmes. I don't want my dad havin' a bad reputation by hain' the papers sayin' he killed 'imself. If this prints, it'll be all ovar. He was pretty famous in the regiments." Sherlock decided to take it. A few hours later, they were at the mortuary examining the body.

"John, tell me what you see," Sherlock asked before deducing the body.

"Erm, he seems to have no bruising or any signs of a struggle, but he's incredibly bloated which indicates he drowned. He was found a few miles south of London in the Thames, correct? Perhaps he was ambushed and forced over a bridge somewhere up river?" Sherlock had been nodding and pacing slowly with his hands clasped behind his back while John was talking. "Yes, you are correct about the bloating. But this man was not killed in the river. He was murdered, and then thrown into the Thames. More than likely we're dealing with an amateur here. Obvious."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"You're doing it again."

"Oh, fine. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible piercing in the side of his neck. He was poisoned with an injection, too small to have been administered by force, there would be bruising. It would have had to be given to him by a doctor or a nurse, like a routine injection or medication that may have been tampered with by the killer. I need to have his medical files and records, see when was the last time he visited the doctors in the past 10 days before he was found, and know who was in contact with him or allowed to treat him." Molly bustled off to find the needed files. John still had a question. "What makes you think the killer is an amateur?"

"What kind of a bloody idiot disposes of a body in the Thames?" John just shrugged and nodded.

Molly returned with the records, and Sherlock began to flip through them. "I need any criminal records of this man here," he handed Molly a file; "he may be a culprit."

"Why him? His credentials are good, he looks to be the most trustworthy of them all."

"Never trust your eyes, dearest Watson. Often it's the ones we love and trust the most who are the worst amongst us." John's memory took him back to when he found out about Mary, all those months ago. Molly left again to phone Lestrade about the records. "I say we search the man's flat, just to see if there's anything that might indicate he may have enemies," John said after a moment. "Actually, that sounds quite like a good idea."

"Well, thank you." They made their way to the officers flat after getting keys from the client. And that's where everything went

Black

"…not dead… very nearly there…..treatment…..surgery…Sherlock…"

Sherlock could not listen. He was busy in his mind, thinking of every probable factor that could have lead up to the shooting of his best friend.

The case was easy enough. An old enemy, lethal injection by a bribed medical man, poor disposal of a body. Question the doctor; get him to blab for a price, arrest the murderer, case closed. But who was at the flat, and why did he shoot John- these were the real questions. Sherlock hadn't got a good look at the shooters face while he was strangling him because he was wearing a ski mask, and after they took John to the hospital, he hadn't had the brain power left to think about such things. All that was on his mind was John, in those, his darkest moments.

As soon as he heard the shot in the room, Sherlock had known that John was most probably dead. While the logical part of his brain had told him to take out his gun and shout at the shooter, ask him why he was there; do all the Sherlock smart stuff, the tiny, suppressed, emotionally compromised part of his mind told him "Your best friend is most probably dead and the man who is responsible is in that room. We should go and kill him. Now." You can guess which one won over in the end. As he had burst through that door, he had felt his essence, all the sociopath drain from him, leaving only the rawness; the sadness, the hopelessness, the rage- the hate and the murderous loathing for whoever was standing in that room.

They hadn't been able to save him.

Maybe Moriarty was right. Maybe he had won; because Sherlock's heart did most definitely feel as if it had been carved out with a white-hot knife and burned in a roaring fire. At the funeral, Mary had clung to him, and little Hamish had stood without a word, holding his mothers trembling fingers. Sherlock had been stoic, seemingly unfeeling. Even Mycroft had come, for a few minutes, and placed a black rose on the humble gravestone. Yet, when everyone had gone, even Mary, Sherlock had sat, and he had wept; heaving, wet, horrible sobs that racked his body until he wretched. He shook and his eyes stung. The sounds of his agony echoed across the grounds, and birds flew away at the pitiful sound of his anguish.

He must have fallen asleep, because Sherlock woke suddenly, with dirt clinging to his cheek. It was dark, and he was bitterly cold and soaking wet in the downpour. He stumbled up, not sure where he was. Spinning about, disoriented, he mumbled "John! John where are we-"but then he saw the grave and remembered. He stared at it, as if it was the most confusing clue to a case he had ever seen. Sherlock was confused, yes. He didn't understand anything anymore.

"I told you not to get involved." Sherlock whipped around, to find Mycroft standing alone in the rain about a yard away. "I told you, caring is not an advantage. I tried to warn you. Of course, you didn't listen. You never do."

"Is this what it's like? For everyone? Do ordinary people feel this much all the time?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Everyday. It's horribly painful, isn't it."

"Yes."

There was a pause as the brothers stood in the rain, peering intently and with malice into the others eyes. Sherlock had just agreed with Mycroft about something important, probably for the first time in ten years. It felt silly…but good. "I should go…" Sherlock said absently, as he began to walk inattentively towards the gate of the cemetery. "I'll drive you." Mycroft avowed this without question.

The ride to 221 B seemed long, and the silence that ensued was painful and the atmosphere of the car taught, ready to snap. Both men wanted to speak, but, fearing the others annoyance or incompetence, didn't utter a word. When they finally arrived at the flat, and Sherlock stepped out of the car, Mycroft had a change of heart about his silence on the matter. "I'm sorry this had to happen, Sherlock." The detective stopped in his steps, not turning, a dark silhouette in the lamplight. After about a moment's pause, he entered the flat, without a word.

Sherlock stepped in, and shut the door behind him, leaning against it with his hands behind his back. His face was expressionless, but tears were falling quickly downward, making dark spots on his already saturated scarf and coat. He slowly made his way up the stairs, stumbling as if he was drunk, until he made it to his familiar threshold.