Hey there! So I don't really know where this idea came from but I couldn't let it go! The title might (and probably will) change so if you have any suggestions please let me know! There's going to be at least one more chapter sometime in the next week and, if this gets enough reviews/favorites/follows I may possibly continue it! Enjoy:)
It wasn't hard to know that this was it. That it was actually over. No matter how hard John Watson wanted to deny it, he couldn't. Sherlock Holmes was dying in his arms. And it was all his fault.
Sherlock had warned him, even begged him, not to come, saying it was too dangerous. But he just couldn't stay away from danger. And his stupid, so utterly stupid decision is what led them to this moment, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, taking his last breaths in his arms.
There were so many things John wanted to say to Sherlock, 'thank you' being the main one, because it should be him dying on the cold ground. The sniper was trained on him. Not Sherlock. Him. But Sherlock had to push him out of the way and take the bullet himself.
John still wasn't even aware of what had happened, one second Sherlock and Moriarty were talking, and the next a sniper had been trained on him. And this time Sherlock couldn't do anything to stop it. All John could remember was Moriarty telling his sniper 'Shoot him', the gun going off, and the pain never coming. It wasn't until he heard the strangled cry coming from Sherlock that he realized what had happened. Sherlock had taken the bullet for him. And now he was dying.
'John...' Sherlock weakly coughed, as more blood trickled out of his mouth and down his chin.
John Watson had seen Sherlock Holmes in many difficult situations, and saw many different emotions through them all. But never, never in his whole life had he seen Sherlock like that. He looked down as Sherlock looked up and saw something in Sherlock's eyes that he had only ever seen one other time, back in Baskerville. Fear. Sherlock Holmes was afraid to die and it was all John's fault.
John didn't even have to look at Sherlock to know that he was taking his last breaths, that in a couple of minutes the great Sherlock Holmes would be dead for a third time. Only he wouldn't be coming back this time; the bullet was too close to his heart. Even if an ambulance did get here before he died it would be too late. For once in his life Sherlock Holmes was completely and utterly helpless.
John looked down at Sherlock's pale face and could feel him struggle to breathe, any breath now could be his last. He felt Sherlock take a shallow breath and stared into his weak icy blue eyes as Sherlock barely managed to get out four words, 'The game is over.'
John waited for something else, one more word, another breath, a laugh, anything. But nothing came. Sherlock Holmes was dead. John was so busy cradling Sherlock's head in his lap he didn't even hear more gunshots go off. Only when he felt Mary's hand did he remember the original plan; stall Moriarty long enough for Mary to take out his snipers, and then finally Jim.
'I'm sorry,' Mary whispered as she glanced down at the detective's body, 'I tried to work as quick as I could and get them all but there wasn't enough time. I got to the guy that fired the gun right after he pulled the trigger. I'm sorry.'
Her words were only met with silence, but she didn't say anything more. She knew that any second now Mycroft's men would rush in and take the body from John. She would be there for him when he was ready.
The sound of doors opening and banging against the walls finally broke the eery quietness that the couple had submerged theirselves in. Mary watched as the paramedics took the body from John, and looked at John as he only nodded at them, more numb than anything.
When the paramedics finally drove off a while later, Sherlock in their truck and a shock blanket around John, Mary knelt down besides John. She looked down at his red hands and knew that he would never get them clean. No matter how many times in the future she would tell John it wasn't his fault, that this was Sherlock's choice, John would never forgive himself. To him, his hands would always be stained red with Sherlock's blood.
She thought about saying something as she wiped the tears away from her husband's eyes, but knew better, John would talk when he wanted to. So instead she just wrapped her arm around him and pulled him closer, pulling his head onto her shoulder.
'The game is over.' He whispered as he looked down at his blood covered hands. He didn't need to look up to know Mary was looking at them too. In one quick motion he ripped the orange shock blanket off of his shoulders and dried his hands in it, not giving a damn about the stain it would leave. It's not like he was going to return it anyway. Besides, his hands were, and always would be stained with Sherlock's blood. So why couldn't the blanket that had once been wrapped around Sherlock's body be, too?
After more minutes of silence, the blanket gripped in John's hands and Mary's head on his shoulder, John finally rose, Mary getting up after him. No words needed to be spoken between them to know that once they got home they wouldn't speak of what happened. Neither one needed the guilt tonight, John for not getting out of the way in time and Mary for not getting to the sniper in time, because when they wake up tomorrow the pain of it all would hit them, and reality would come crashing in on them and smother them alive. But not tonight. Tonight they would act like none of this had happened, that Sherlock was still alive and that their hands weren't stained with his blood. Not tonight. Once they left this old building they would go home to their daughter and forget about everything and just sleep.
They left the building hand in hand, the bloody blanket left lying on the ground.
Sleep never came.