"I'm... sorry, Mr. Holmes. There was nothing we could do."
Sherlock looked down at his hands, tears welling up in his eyes. He nodded his thanks at the man, lost in his thoughts. John. He was gone. Forever.
This Morning-
John sat in his flat, bored as ever. Sherlock was at the police station, wrapping up an investigation with Lestrade. Normally he would be with Sherlock, but today he was feeling a bit sick and decided to stay home and watch telly. He glanced at the clock. 11:30 am. He let out a huff of air and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
There was a knock on the door. John cursed under his breath and hopped out of the chair, advancing towards the sound.
"Coming!" he yelled, annoyance quaking his voice. He yanked the door open. It was a young man, short brown hair and grey eyes. He was wearing all black.
"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot, perhaps a bit nervous.
"No, that would be my flatmate. He should be back soon, do come in." The man smiled and stepped through the doorway, following John up the stairs. They chatted about nothing in particular for a while. John couldn't help but wonder who this man was. He seemed alright, probably just another case for Sherlock to solve. As if on cue, Sherlock bounded through the door, throwing a questioning glare at the man in his flat.
The young man stood up. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. My name is Steven. I'm a big fan. I have this friend though..." Out of nowhere, the man pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket and and aimed it at John. Sherlock gasped.
"Put it down." Sherlock ordered, pulling out a gun of his own and trailing it on the boy.
"You're smart Mr. Holmes. There's a car outside. Get in or I'll blow this man's brains out."
Sherlock looked at John, worried. John just nodded at him. "Who is this friend of yours?" Sherlock asked, concern for John cracking his words, never taking his eyes off John.
"Hmm... an old fashioned villain, he likes to call himself." The man smiled as he traced the gun around John's neck.
Moriarty. Of course. He must have sent this man to do this. That means the man in their flat was just an assassin. Sherlock smiled and put his gun away.
"Sounds fun... let me get my coat." Sherlock walked over to the side of the room, a smirk on his face.
The gun fired. The room was ringing with the noise. Sherlock yelled and spun around, only to find John on the ground, blood surrounding his shoulder. Sherlock was dazed. He pulled out his own gun aimed it at the boy.
"I told you to get in the car, Mr. Holmes. I didn't tell you to get your coat." The boy smiled at him.
That was the last smile that boy would ever have on his face. Sherlock pulled the trigger without hesitating, taking the life out of the boy before he even hit the ground. Sherlock gasped, his eyes trailing back towards John. He dropped his gun and ran over to the man on the ground. John was struggling, coughing up blood with every breath.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled. She bolted up the stairs, took one look at John, and whipped her phone out of her pocket, calling the police. She ran back downstairs to get medical supplies, screaming the whole way.
"John...?" Sherlock asked, on the verge of tears.
"Sher... help." John muttered, blood in his throat gargling his words. John kept coughing, barely able to get a sound out. He wailed, an inhuman sound. Sherlock wanted it to stop. He pulled John's head into his lap and stroked his cheek, denying the inevitable. This was his fault. If he hadn't had to go grab that stupid coat... John reached up and wiped a stray tear off of Sherlock's face, a small smile on his lips.
There were sirens in the distance. The police were approaching. John might make it. Sherlock continued to stroke John's face, whispering calming words to him.
"Sherlock...?" John started. "I love you. Remember that."
"John... I-"
Sherlock was cut off by one final cough by John. The life drained out of his eyes, glazing over with the coldness of death.
He never got to tell him.