*Warning, definite feels and epic sadness If you want happy JohnLock, turn away now*

Sherlock Holmes was a famous detective. He solved crimes using an intelligence and passion that bordered insanity. He constantly called himself a "high functioning sociopath."

John Watson became his flatmate later in their lives and together they found how to fight, love, hate, and glue the pieces back together with one another.

Together, they worked cases and shared breakfast and watched over one another.

Therefore, when the shots happened, Sherlock was pushed past what he could hold. His handle on life crashed upon the floor. No matter what intelligence the man had, or control for that matter, became utterly useless in the face of loss.

This story is how Sherlock realized how important Dr. John Watson was to the world.

On a routine scene, Sherlock and John stood before a bloody mess that had once belonged to a pretty little thing named Dolly Molean. One of three murders of tourists that had occurred in the last two weeks. Today, Lt. Lestrade had called Sherlock and the two men had shown up in time to do a full overview of the scene.

With little said, Sherlock requested to look at the photos of the first two murders, as well as be informed of every detail no matter how minuscule.

"I mean ever detail, Lestrade. I don't want a piece missing." Sherlock said blandly, with a hint of irritation.

John stepped forward and offered an explanation. "He's been having the worst feeling that everyone has become liars."

Eyeing Sherlock, Lestrade informed the two of the murders. He continued to do so as they drove to his office where he laid out the folders upon a long table. Sherlock spread out pictures and document papers. Studying them in a way only Sherlock could, he pieced answers together for the questions that may otherwise have not been answered.

John and Lestrade spoke of the less technical pieces, such as what had been seen, who had been seen, and any other detail among Lestrade's memory John could pull.

Later in the evening, John came into the living room they shared and eyed the wall covered with clues from the case. He handed a cup of tea to Sherlock, who was sitting in the chair with his legs up, eyes glued to the wall. He accepted the cup regardless of his spinning mind, and sipped slowly over the next hour or so.

Three days passed before they were called, mid-afternoon, to another scene. This was another woman, another tourist. Sherlock and John arrived, looked over the crime scene, and went back with Lestrade to get pictures and more document papers so he could add them to the wall.

Late the next evening, Sherlock, whom had been intently staring at the wall for hours, suddenly rose sharply. John, sitting quietly with a book, started and spilled some of his drink. He looked over to Sherlock and recognized that face. He was coming upon an answer to a question that had yet to be found. He sat his drink and book down, rising from the couch just as Sherlock started for his coat and hat.

"He never hit the same place twice. He's going down the list of highest rated hot spots for tourists. I know where he will be next." As Sherlock flew through the front door, John struggled to follow behind him. By the time they arrived at the restaurant Sherlock was absolutely certain the killer would be, John had long caught up.

"Tonight, for certain?" John asked and Sherlock nodded, grim faced as he saw all the tourists, possible targets. John sent a text to Lestrade, telling them of the location and that it was possibly a false alarm, but also that Sherlock said it was happening. Lestrade said he'd send a few cars without lights.

"No one remembers him coming in and firing. He was always there already, hidden in the crowd. I gather he was picking his target over the span of time he felt comfortable about his decision. Possible held conversations with some of them, if not all. He made certain they were tourists." John nodded at Sherlock, roaming the heads and unknown faces of the crowd.

The restaurant was a lovely place, expensive but worth it to some people, or on some nights.

"Or," John ventured, "he offered them a fancy dinner." Sherlock looked at his partner, curious as to what he may have seen. The description of the shooter had been fairly basic to the backdrop anyone basically say a person as. Normal, medium height, brown or blond hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. These descriptions more often than not didn't match the murderer or assailant. John noticed the attention he was receiving and shrugged. "Just a thought." He mumbled and Sherlock looked away, displeased at the small amount of a distraction.

"It had occurred to me, yes." Sherlock said. "Scan the crowd and ask around if need be." John nodded and too the left, Sherlock headed to the right.

Minutes passed as he wandered slowly, pretending to be simply leisurely walking back to his table, or to the restrooms. He was just about to stop at a table with a young lady who resembled one of the victims when a sharp gunshot rang out. Screams and terrified people suddenly filled the room.

Unlike the rest of the room, Sherlock ran towards the sound of the shot, hoping he could save whichever tourist had been struck. On his way, he saw a few cops running as well, each had their firearm pulled. Just as he was rounding the last few tables, a cop rose, holding a hand out to him to stop.

"I'm helping on the case, I can help." Sherlock snapped, for he knew the man knew him.

"Stay back, this one isn't for you." The man said. A second stood and looked to Sherlock.

"Let him through." The new man said and the first dropped his hand, backing away. A few of the officers had already phoned for an ambulance.

Inside of Sherlock's mind, as well as his heart, he knew what to expect. The shooter was skilled and none of the other victims had survived. Worse even, John wouldn't have run from a gunshot and yet was no where in view. Regardless of what he knew waited for him, Sherlock moved all the way to where his friend lay.

Blood was already spilling from a corner of his mouth. The bullet looked to have gone straight through the chest bone, hitting a lung as well as a number of other things. Possibly the heart as well. He knelt down as John's eyes focused on him.

"I... saved her." He wheezed, talking about the lady huddled by some officers who were taking her statement. Sherlock felt a squeeze in his chest.

"She is alive, and well. You saved her life, John." Sherlock nodded at him.

Behind him, Sherlock heard a cop run in. He turned his body, watching as the man came closer.

"We got the son-of-a-bitch just down the road. Attempted suicide by cop. He's held in one of the cars now." The other cops nodded but Sherlock felt pain broil inside of him, heating his skin. He turned back to John who had a stupid smile on his face.

"Saved them..."

"You protected all the other tourists, John. You're definitely an amazing doctor." Sherlock said, wiping blood from the corner of John's mouth.

"It was... a.. privilege... with you..." John wheezed slowly. Sherlock knew the wounds were more than bad. He couldn't bring himself to think the word, "fatal," anymore than he could start dancing like a five-year-old girl.

Being a realistic, he couldn't tell John it was going to be okay.

"I was the privileged one, John Watson. You are an amazing man, of that I have no doubt. You did great things in your life." John smiled, laughing a little. He started coughing, blood splattering out from between his lips. Sherlock raised his hands to try and calm John only to get blood all over them.

"Shhh," Sherlock cooed, putting his hand on John's face, trying to calm him. He could hear the ambulance almost here but knew, by the way John looked, they wouldn't be on time.

"Sher...lock..." John whispered, his eyes unfocused.

"Right here," Sherlock whispered back, moving his fingers to prove his point.

"There... is ... no...thing... wrong... with you." He wheezed, smiling really big before his face straightened and his muscles relaxed. Sherlock waited a few moments, stiff as a board. Not even a breath came.

He heard the paramedics coming, heard the police ask him to back off, but nothing went through. Somewhere, he heard Lestrade say something but couldn't make it out. He felt the anger rising, rising higher and higher into his whole being. He slowly let John go, closing his eyes and trying to wipe the blood from his face but only smearing it. Sherlock stood and turned, seeing everyone before him. Lestrade was trying to say something to him, the facial expression that of a man trying to comfort.

Had that been what Sherlock had shown John his last seconds? Sherlock breathed out slowly and felt everything inside of him slip out with that breath. Using all the speed, strength, and knowledge he had, he spun into a policeman, grabbing his gun and running out of the restaurant. He heard them chasing, yelling behind him. He located the car with the murderer inside and he tore the door open.

"Do you know his name!" Sherlock yelled, startling the man. He looked at Sherlock with avid curiosity but didn't answer. Not even the gun leveled at his face seemed to make an affect. "Do you know the man you just killed!" Sherlock yelled once more, the ferocity and, maybe the look in his eyes, finally got to the man.

"No." To the sides, policemen paused, waiting to see what would happen.

"He was John!" Sherlock cocked the gun and fired three shots into the man, who looked startled that such a thing could have happened, before Sherlock was tackled by two officers. He screamed to be released, he screamed for John, he cried out for John. Lestrade came into view, prying the gun from Sherlock's hand, frowning a lifetimes worth of sadness.

"Weak pulse, too much blood loss." An officer said to Lestrade about the killer and Sherlock laughed in a way that Lestrade would later say had been closer to a madman's cackle.

"Sherlock, you just killed a man." Lestrade said calmly. Sherlock kept laughing. After they cuffed him, he paused in his laughter to ask if John would be there. The police shared a look but said nothing as they put him in a car. It was Lestrade's car. He sat in the front seat and he turned to face Sherlock as the back door was closed.

"I hope you realize what just happened." He said softly. "Do you know?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock scoffed, looking fierce and agitated. "Do you take me for an imbecile?"

"No, I take you for a sociopath. What did you just do, Sherlock? Tell me, because I don't know."

Sherlock smiled and leaned against the backseat. Lestrade was very unsettled by the smile and shifted in his seat. Sherlock smiled wider but made no move to Lestrade, only seemed to relax more.

"Of course. I wiped a useless bug from the Earth. Can I talk to John now?" He looked around expectantly, not seeming deterred by the empty spaces around him.

"Hold on tight there, Sherlock, I'll be right back." Sherlock nodded and Lestrade left the car. He made a call to Sherlock's brother.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Sherlock just killed someone."

"What?"

"The killer we were looking for killed John. Shot him in the chest. Sherlock snapped and shot him three times. Didn't make it longer than a minute." There was a pause. "He's not coming out of it. Keeps asking for John. You're going to need to get involved here."

"On it. Keep me informed in changes. Bring him here."

They hung up and Lestrade turned back to his car. The door, wide open, was an unwelcome sight. Sherlock, nowhere in sight and handcuffs on the top of the car, gave a very cold shiver down Lestrade's spine and he dialed the man once more.

END