They would always end up here, in the end, at gunpoint. It wasn't possible for the great Sherlock Holmes not to pick a case whose chapter would close with threats being pushed into his impossibly clever mind like verbal bullets, wounding him even further. Of course, the cases where death was forthcoming were always the most exciting, and the more dangerous a case was, the less bored Sherlock was going to be, and so therefore, the more likely that the detective was going to take the job Mycroft or Lestrade offered him. He liked the feeling of fear shivering down his spine, he craved the surprised and angered gasps of those around him as he solved the case in record time, hinting on the tiniest of details that were unbeknownst to the other ordinary humans. To Sherlock, these cases were his escape, his solitude, his (frankly, as John put it, just as dangerous and as stupid) alternative to drugs.
So here Sherlock was now, with John somewhere to the left of him, in a dark and dank part of the homeless network. Foul water dripped from the broken pipes, whispering as they shot like bullets to the uneven cobblestones below. Some had the audacity to nestle their uncleanliness into Sherlock's hair, burrowing their filth deep into his blackened scalp. It seemed as though this was the entrance to hell itself, the ends of all the tunnels swallowed up by the devil's home. Sherlock knew where they led to, of course, his sources always reported back to him with new developments already in progress. The tunnels were curved, like a bent over old witch you read about in fairy tales, her plump, warty, and granny smith green finger hunched over, twitching as it did so, beckoning you to come inside her house of marvelous treats and sweets. Sherlock could taste the stale mildew of it all, right on the tip of his tongue. Winter wind engulfed him, the icy blanket completely covering him with the chill of the season, freezing his bones to the point of brittleness.
They were both in the same position, kneeling, heads down, hands behind their back like weak and submissive dogs. The Russian mafia had found out what they were doing, and they wanted to put an end to it. They were like snakes, the mafia, and they had taken down Sherlock and John fairly easily, drugging the both of them with their backs turned. Sherlock couldn't blame them. People in gangs were generally secretive, and the drugs that they sold and the murders they committed behind Scotland Yard and Mycroft's back were practically untraceable, unless of course, you're Sherlock Holmes. The case was easy enough. Find the perpetrators, give them to Lestrade, and obtain any drugs that they found. Of course, Sherlock was given strict orders not to touch the narcotics.
That was John's job, it seemed. Even after two and a half years, Mycroft and Lestrade didn't trust Sherlock around addictive substances, and that was fine with him. If their roles were switched, Sherlock wouldn't trust them either. In fact, he didn't trust himself. Sherlock felt one of the man's grubby hands slide under his thin throat. There were five men in all, and they had until previously formed a star pattern around John and Sherlock. The detective could conclude that four of the five wanted to be here, and they were born and raised into this terrible (but exciting nonetheless) life of crime and drugs and violence, mixed in with a little murder and it made one stormy cocktail of hate. One man, Sherlock concluded, was forced on this mission by blackmail. His wife and four year old child were held captive back in their native country.
"Я попрошу вас снова, мистер Холмс. Кто вас послал?!" The Russian man asked, authority bubbling up in his gruff, heavily accented voice, much like the way water would boil over a shiny copper pot, demanding attention from the cook on the other side of the kitchen. Sherlock jerkily shook his head, his restricted movement rebellious. There wasn't anything his captor could do to him to make him utter one word of significance that would give away Mycroft's position. Some called it 'brotherly love'. Sherlock called it saving his own skin. His brother would rat him out, give his arch enemy his entire life story to get out megar secrets, like bread crumbs given to an orphan who had nothing to gain and absolutely everything to lose. But Sherlock wouldn't do that to Mycroft, his brother would kill him, find some old dirt on him that he had covered up long ago, and send him to Siberia or someplace equally boring and uncharismatic as London.
"Sherlock?" John's voice cried out drowsily, striking the detective with a heartfelt blow. They'd knocked him out, and he had only just woken up. Sherlock felt a great need to protect his blogger, because without him he'd be utterly lost. He looked to his left, and for a moment saw John's beaten and bloody figure. He'd gotten the worst of it, of course, by protecting Sherlock, and Sherlock thought a great fool of John Watson. He didn't need protecting. He needed cases to solve, terrorists to catch, criminal masterminds to outwit. Protecting was the last thing Sherlock wanted or needed. John was patterned with little blue and black bruises all over his tired face, and the spots danced around his cheekbones like calico prints. His left eye was tumid, and Sherlock vaguely saw crimson blood trickle down the side of his head like a dried up red river.
"Shut up, John." Sherlock breathed back to his companion. Everything, everything could be jeopardised right at this very moment if Sherlock didn't use his brilliant mind. As much as it hurt to admit, he really did not need John Watson ruining his chances at one of the greatest cases he had had all year. He turned his attention back to the Russian mafia, and looked at the mens shoes. It was odd, what could be given away by looking at something so insignificant as shoes. Then again, the Carl Powers case had been solely based on the item of clothing one wore on one's feet.
These men were finely dressed, like death if it were part of the court system. The shoes were all the same oily black, so oily, in fact, that Sherlock could almost taste the tanginess of it on his tongue, sliding down into his stomach and lining his throat until it was black instead of the pink that was considered normal these days. Sherlock, in an experiment, had swallowed some oil he had recovered from a crime scene. The outcome was what he had expected it to be, however, John's attitude towards the whole thing was completely blown out of proportion and unnecessary. Sherlock didn't care about health risks, much to his bloggers dismay.
But even though the brand and colour were the same, the way that the men tied their shoelaces were not, and that was how Sherlock could tell (with the help of nervous tapping of some shoes or perfect posture of others) which man was which, and who was more of a threat than the rest. Obviously at this point in time, the man with the gun pointed at Sherlock's head was the most menacing presence in the room. His shoelaces were perfect, tied horizontally and each measurement was precise and clean and perfect. Sherlock could tell he prided himself at this job, and it was easy to deduct that by the way the man held himself and how tight he pulled the laces through the loops.
That very same man, after Sherlock had not answered for a long while, walked up to him, gun pressed against his temple. Sherlock could feel the bite of the freezing metal, stinging his skin like thousands of bees poised to defend their hive. Sherlock felt its threatening presence, but he pretended to ignore it. Fear was a chemical on the losing side just like love was. If you didn't show fear, you didn't die. So Sherlock, instead of cowering in fear at the sight of a pistol, deduced the man even further, unravelling the thread of his entire spectrum of life. "Я не думаю, вы понимаете серьезность этой ситуации, мистер Холмс. Вы можете умереть, Джон Уотсон может умереть." He spoke into Sherlock's ear, ruffling the hair around his earlobe the way that the wind might when it wasn't too gusty outside.
Now, make no mistake. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and highly functioning sociopath, could handle death threats. He had gotten them since the age of twelve, when he decided it was time to hack into the governments website and procure information not meant for the publics eye. So he shrugged them off most of the time, knowing that the killers could never pull it off, and even if he did die, it wouldn't be any great loss to the world. But make a death threat to John Watson, or Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft Holmes, or anybody Sherlock cared even just a little about, and you were bound to feel the full integrity and rage of an overprotective detective. He couldn't let John die for two very important reasons. One was that Mary would kill him if she ever found out, and she would find out sooner or later when her husband never returned from a case. Two (and perhaps the more important one in Sherlock's opinion) was that Sherlock couldn't live without John. He had tried that. For two years he had tried living without his best friend and it nearly almost drove him insane with longing. So when they threw John into the mix, threatening to take his own life, Sherlock was filled with a rage so deep and so pure, that everyone within a 5 mile radius should cower in fear of the detective. These men were not permitted to touch a hair on John Watson's head, and Sherlock would see to it that they were taught that very valuable lesson.
"John," Sherlock whispered, knowing full well that all of his foes could hear him. His voice echoed off the walls, settling into the rust coloured cracks of the decades old bricks like they owned the place. "When I say run, run." The man with the gun glued to Sherlock's head promptly fell to the ground, clutching his broken femur like it was his heart after Sherlock struck a particularly nasty blow with his cranium, which now had a deep, throbbing sensation to it, like monkeys were pounding his skull with hammers studded with broken glass. The world swayed as if Sherlock had gotten up from laying in a hammock, but he got up nonetheless and sauntered towards John after he had picked up the man's gun. He pointed it at the rest of the men, who were all unarmed. They were all unarmed because previously before they were so rudely captured, Sherlock had taken their guns and daggers and poison darts and hid them where only he could find them. "If you move from the spot you're standing in, you morons, I will not hesitate to shoot you dead, and believe me, I never miss my mark. Don't move, don't talk, don't breathe." This, of course, wasn't exactly true, Sherlock wasn't a seasoned marksmen or a killing machine, though he was good enough that he believed his own words, but Sherlock needed to install fear into the minds of these men, who were so moldable like clay.
"Psychopath," Whispered one man under his breath. Obviously the message wasn't getting through to him.
"I'm a highly functioning sociopath, do your research!" Sherlock roared, pointing the gun at the man who had talked and pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times as quick as lightning the bullets settled in the man's chest like fresh fallen snow, and already speckles of ruby red blood started to fly out of the impending wounds like sparks. He was dead before he even hit the ground. Sherlock started untying the knots that bound John's hands together. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked him, half looking at John, and half watching the Russian men for any other disturbances. There didn't seem to be any yet. John didn't answer right away. Sherlock shook him, still trying to undo the entanglement, which felt like thorns cutting into his hands. "Are you alright?" He pondered a little more urgently this time, looking into John's cerulean coloured irises. They were tired, and showed signs of usage that Sherlock hadn't seen before until now.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Sherlock." Came the answer, and Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding. A couple of seconds later, and the bonds that held John in one place were free. Sherlock told him to run, and he grabbed John's hand, not really caring at the moment if people were going to talk or not. Unlike John, he didn't mind when people called them a couple, although now it was getting slightly more tedious because John was married. Sherlock had been subjugated to taunts and teases all his life, and being considered gay with his former flatmate was not the worst insult he had ever been given. It wasn't even an insult, actually. Sherlock wouldn't mind having a husband like John Watson. "They're right behind us." John said loudly as they rushed down the hallway like a train. His voice was almost lost among the whispers of the winter wind that still cascaded into the tunnels. Sherlock could feel the bite of the cold on his exposed skin.
Sherlock handed him the gun. He couldn't be distracted with the weapon while he was finding the quickest route to get them out of the tunnels. John was also, out of the two of them, the better shot, though Sherlock wouldn't admit it for 50 pounds. "Shoot them," He commanded John, and he was happy as the blogger obeyed instead of arguing about how they-are-humans-and-therefore-we-can't-just-discard-them-like-they're-dead pigs-Sherlock. At this point in time, however, Sherlock really didn't care. He just cared about getting John out of this very deadly situation and going back to 221B Baker Street to start on another case. Sherlock led John around twists and bends, not registering the bang of the gun behind him as another man fell like a fallen demon, screeching as it was sent into the fiery depths of hell it was born into. After a while, the gunshots stopped and everything was almost peaceful. The only sounds to be heard was the clanking of their shoes against the worn and faded red and orange and brown coloured cobblestones, delicately laid with no distinct pattern like the leaves that fell during autumn.
Sherlock never once rested. He wouldn't rest until John was safe and sound and out of harms way. John Watson was all Sherlock Holmes cared about, and until the detective breathed his last breath, he would do anything in his power to protect his blogger. He could kill a man with his bare arms if John wished it so, and Sherlock hoped John would do the same for him someday if their roles were ever reversed, which they would never be. John's mind was too ordinary for Sherlock to comprehend, and if he was ever just a regular human the boredness that would be placed upon him would drive him to madness in a chariot of insanity. John saved Sherlock. If it wasn't for John, Sherlock would be like Moriarty, crazy, deranged, and a consulting criminal, the only difference would be that Sherlock would have a pension for drugs. But John also saved him from death countless times, more than Sherlock cared to remember. He was reckless and stupid and he just didn't give a damn if he died or not. No one would care, no one would mourn him. Mycroft would certainly turn a blind eye to his brother's death, and his mother would get over it quickly enough. Sherlock thought he would never leave a lasting impression on the bleak and dreary world of England, that is, until he had met John. John cared. John saw through the facade of insults and cruelness, and Sherlock knew that John would always remember him until the end of his days. So Sherlock, in return, stopped trying to deliberately put himself in situations where he'd likely be killed.
There was the night sky. Sherlock could see twinkling stop lights, like frozen stars trapped in a metal box, shining when told to. They were almost out. Freedom was theirs, after five hours, freedom was finally in the detective's grasp. Sherlock looked back at John, smiling as they ran. Their hands were still connected, still bonded like glue. It was all there, and then, with one word, it shrunk away and slipped out of his fingers like murky water shrinking back into the recesses of a dirty lagoon.
"Sherlock!" John yelled, his voice rising above car horns and shouts of other people like it was soaring up in the air. It wasn't a call of joy or happiness. It was a call of fear and destruction and worry, like it was the beginning of the end. Sherlock tore his gaze from John and looked in front of him, his mind filled with horror. A lone man, all muscle and sleek blackness stood between Sherlock and the street just a few feet away. John, it seemed, had missed. A simple mistake, but deadly enough. He'd gunned down three of the men, missed one, and Sherlock could tell, not by his shoes or the awkwardly placed limb that held him upright that this was the man that had threatened them both and pointed a gun at Sherlock's head. He could tell all of that merely by his face. Boiling with anger, Sherlock could see his mustache, thick as an overgrown jungle that had not seen human tools in centuries, and it was twitching like a clock in pure, unsatisfied rage. Sherlock had barely registered the gun in the man's hand, he was too busy deducting his life story. Anger. That was the man's motive behind joining the gang. Anger at the world for putting him into an abusive family that never once loved or accepted him.
BANG!
Sherlock felt a sharp pain just below his pectoral muscle, and he let out a restricted groan as he fell to the grungy and tarnished ground. His head hit the floor, little swirls of dust flew into his sight of vision, curling in the crisp, stale night air like that of a wicked claw. His sight was then tarnished, black dots zooming in and out like flying monkeys going to do their mistresses bidding. Sherlock knew he had been shot, the blood rushing out of the gunshot wound like cheap, runny strawberry syrup sliding down the creamy pale side of an undercooked pancake. "J-John." Sherlock's voice sounded scrambled and weak in his ears, which were ringing. The effects of blood loss were beginning to show. This wound was fatal. Deadly. Diseased. There was no returning from the land of the dead this time, no matter the danger that was exposed to John Watson.
But his partner, the one who was always by his side, always concerned whether or not he had slept in the past week, always worried about Sherlock getting into more trouble than he could handle, the one who, no matter what Sherlock did or didn't do, always believed in him despite the odds against them both, wasn't by Sherlock as he was supposed too. Sherlock gasped for air, desperate for oxygen to reach his collapsed respiratory system so he could call out to his blogger again. Enough air came into his lungs so the black spots were shooed away, afraid of the blood that could wipe them out like a deadly disease. He saw John grasp the stolen gun and fire, the sound like sonic booms in his ringing ears. He had to keep his mind off of the pain, he needed to focus on something else to make sure his soul was tethered to his body which was just as broken and battered as his heart. One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Six... Sherlock counted in his head, the gunshots like cannons, piercing another part of the man's body, and in turn scarlet blood flew across the walls like an artists brush creating paint splatters, fulfilling his dream of creating a masterpiece. John never stopped firing until the click, click, clicking sound that meant there was no more bullets issued from the weapon. Then, and only then, did Sherlock see John come to him, throwing the gun behind him as he slid to his knees.
"Jesus, Sherlock." John whispered, looking at the detective's gaping hole in his chest rather than at his face. Sherlock didn't need to use his deductive skills to know that his blogger was worried as hell about him, and he was glad that at least one of them was worried about him dying. Sherlock didn't mind the pain of death so much as he minded the pain he was going to put John through yet again. There was no doubt in his great and glorious mind that John was strong, one of the strongest men he had the pleasure of knowing, but Sherlock had a hunch that John would not be strong enough to survive another one of his deaths. Once, he had faked his suicide, and it almost drove John to insanity. Another, he was shot by John's wife, and John was worried sick and never once left his bedside. This time, however, Sherlock was sure that his death would kill the army doctor that was so proudly named John Hamish Watson. "Can you hear me?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded feebly, weak as a newborn kitten. He wasn't going to last the night.
At that notion, Sherlock observed as John whipped out his phone, dialing 999 and then promptly barking orders in a very military like voice to the person at the other end. Sherlock flinched at the man's tone. John could be scary when he wanted to be, and he usually wasn't. John was the calm before the storm, the man who could defuse a bomb of tension in a man prior to exploding into a ball of indignation. However, there were times where John could be the demon that hid under children's beds, terrifying them to no end. This was one of those times, and it was all Sherlock's fault. It was always his fault, in the end. It was his fault that the tea was bad because he hadn't bothered to go get milk from the supermarket. It was his fault Mycroft took away his nicotine patches because he was so insistent on using them every goddamned day (Though, to be fair, Sherlock got extra bored with no cases and no John Watson around. What was a consulting detective to do in times of need?). John, after slamming the phone back into his pocket, turned his attention back to Sherlock.
"John," Sherlock said again, choking on a mixture of phlegm and spit and blood. Blood was frightening, and Sherlock turned every bit of his attention back to his wound. "Pressure, John, put pressure on it." He ordered his blogger, although he had already started that earlier when he had knelt beside him. The laceration caused him great pain, as if the devil was taking great joy in stabbing the flesh and muscle and vital organs with his heated pitchfork over and over again, laughing like a deranged maniac as he did so. The only devil Sherlock could think of besides himself, was Moriarty. Even in death, shadowy, thickened death that you could never escape, Jim Moriarty still taunted and teased and tortured Sherlock Holmes, driving him to madness and insanity and even more sleepless nights because of nightmares of falling and guns and dead Johns and Mrs Hudsons and Lestrades.
"Shut up, Sherlock." John painfully whispered, his voice strained against the cool night air. Sherlock closed his mouth, focusing mainly on not convulsing into spasms that would surely mean his death quicker than he would have liked. Blood poured from the wound like a thick scarlet waterfall, trickling into the cracks and making lagoons and pools of plasma and gore, returning to the earth it was born from. "Keep your eyes on me, do you understand that? Keep your eyes on me." Sherlock felt John's cool hand reach up from the hole in his body, allowing for more of the precious vital fluid used to keep humans alive to leak out, and firmly move Sherlock's head to his face for more easy access. The grey found the blue and stared relentlessly at them, unblinking and unwavering, as if the cerulean was the storm's anchor to this world. "You're- you're gonna be fine. Yeah. Just fine." John said, now positioning himself to hold his body next to Sherlock's, much like the way a mother does to her newborn child. "Doctor's will come, and they'll heal you, and you'll be able to embarrass them with shameful stories in the morning."
Sherlock scoffed, momentarily lolling his head around, trying to shake his head. "You're the only Doctor I trust. You seem to think I'll live, so tell me why you presume that. Go on, Doctor Watson, do your deducting."
John cleared his throat, and began to examine the wound that Sherlock had obtained, speaking quickly as he did so, nevertheless, Sherlock understood every single word. "The bullet is lodged in your ribcage, from what I can tell. The impact has shattered three ribs, causing internal bleeding from your lung, which explains the mass amount of blood coming from the wound." With that, Sherlock felt the strange pressure of hands on top of the ragged hole in his chest. "Your lungs will fill up with blood. It's likely you'll suffocate if the blood loss doesn't get to you first." The awful, awful truth.
The human brain, after a fatal gash such as this, did not last a long time before it shut down completely, leaving the rest of the body to follow like clockwork. In that time, people spent their remaining time on this godforsaken planet reliving their entire lives, and it was spun and stretched into a blanketed dream that lasted until your last breath. Sherlock had wasted time, precious precious time that he could use to put John at ease for the hundreth and last time, staring at the blogger as he murdered another man for him, because that was just what loyal, ex-army doctors did. They killed for you. Sherlock didn't mind, after all, sociopaths didn't exactly care about people and the well being of the human race. "I'm going to die. You know this. You have to know this, John." Sherlock said, urgently pressing his hands into the other man's. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Not much more time was left.
"No!" John ululated, jerking his body in self denial, the sudden movement like cold water being poured on top of Sherlock woke him up a bit more, so to speak. Now Sherlock could plainly see the agony and torture in John's face, iridescent tracks of tears carving into his face like knife grooves in a tree. He just hugged Sherlock closer to him, and Sherlock clutched John's cardigan as a last resort, as if to say to death 'not today'. However, it was unlikely death would listen. Sherlock knew that he had passed through death's cold and icy grip far too many times for the lynch's liking, and this time he would not be spared. Blood seeped through the fabric of the thick and heavy fabric of Sherlock's midnight strung coat, coating his fingers and John's sweater and hands with the metallic scent of it all. Black spots again swam into the detective's vision. "No, I don't have to know that you're going to die, because you're not. You're my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, you arrogant dick, so you can't die."
Sherlock was fading fast, his soul finally leaving the mortal world for hell. Yes, he was on a one way course for hell, because that was where demons belonged, and Sherlock was most definitely a demon even if he did side with the angels for a while. But despite that, he had to smile and laugh, even though it caused him extreme pain to do so. Holding onto John's cardigan was getting more and more difficult. The slick blood ran through his fingers like claret ran down an aristocrat's throat as they danced the night away and chortled heartily at the peasants who were too poor to attend such a magnificent ball. Weakness was also overtaking him more stealthily now that Sherlock had given up any chances of surviving this ordeal. He couldn't even lift his head off of the pavement below. "Come now, John. We both know that there is nothing to be done about this. Besides, even when I'm not there Mary will keep you right. I doubt she'll let you out of her sight when I'm gone." Maybe John was worried about companionship, about who was going to be there for him when Sherlock was nothing but dust and bones inside of a coffin.
"Mary isn't my best friend!" John screamed with agitation, removing all contact between him and the detective so he could run his bloodied and gun-powdered hands in his grimy hair. The action sent Sherlock's head swimming. He screamed in pain, and this left him with very little air in his lungs. "I need you, Sherlock! I need you to not die! Jesus, why can't you just wrap that simple concept around that impossibly thick head of yours, huh?" John paced back and forth, ranting like this, and Sherlock let him, what more could he do? He was slipping away, the edges of his eyesight becoming blacker and blacker, as if someone was burning the perimeter of film.
And then there were sirens, and John ran to the dying detective once again, clutching at his rough overcoat and soft scarf, a strange contrast in texture. Sherlock was almost dead. In a few moments, his soul would fly out of his body and join the millions that were already waiting for him where he would end up. He could feel death's icy grip on the nape of his neck, making the black hairs stand up on end. He was gasping, the blood overtaking the air in his lungs. Death by suffocating, just as Doctor Watson predicted. "John..." He whispered huskily, licking his lips. Even forming words was task he was not willing to partake in now. "I'm scared."
For once, the know-it-all detective was an open book, emotions displayed on his pallid face like a painting. John just hugged him harder, as if he could absorb Sherlock's pain and suffering for him. Sherlock's head was laid on John's shoulder, and the blogger's hand came up to cradle the soft black curls that would never feel a morning breeze again, which was sad, because Sherlock would have been delighted to die in the early morning where wind could carry him off to the land of the dead gently. Breathing was shallower and harder, as if fifty pound weights were being smashed against Sherlock's already broken lungs, which had filled up to the moment where breathing was pointless and so Sherlock stopped altogether. The east wind had arrived. "I know. I'm scared too. I'm scared because I don't know what's going to happen, and I can't stop it. I'm scared because I love you and you'll never be able to say it back because you're Sherlock Holmes and you just don't do sentiment. I'm scared that I love you for nothing, and it's all just rubbish and pointless and I'm scared I'll never love anyone like I love you again. I'm scared that when you die, I'll die too."
But Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and highly-functioning sociopath, never heard John Watson say those things. He had died before John began speaking, and he had died in his almost lovers arms, just as he had wanted in the first place on the day on top of Bart's but couldn't because that death was fake. The paramedics showed up right then and there, scrambling over to the already dead man who had gone slack in John's arm, leaving the army medic to sag with the dead weight that Sherlock had left behind.
"Sir, you need to step away." The man dressed in the very familiar medical uniform said to John, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder. John roughly pushed it off, not willing to acknowledge the fact that they were trying to help him. He didn't need help. He needed Sherlock to not be dead. However, there were no more miracles to be performed this time. Sherlock Holmes was finally and truthfully dead, much to John's dismay. He had tried so hard to keep that idiot, that sociopathic moron that never considered anyones feelings but his down safe and out of harms way. John thought that if he treated Sherlock like he was a glass prince that wasn't meant for the public's eye, the detective would never die. Of course, that was a silly notion. "Sir," The man tried again, his tone mostly soft but picking up a side of firmness.
"No, you don't understand. He's my friend. I'm his Doctor." John sobbed, still clutching onto Sherlock's overcoat that smelled faintly of cigarettes and tea leaves and various chemicals that John never could quite put his finger on. He's my friend. The broken Doctor looked at the dead detective's face and memorised it, because he was never going to get a chance to do it again. John didn't have the money to pay for a funeral, and Mycroft wouldn't conjure one up because of sentimental reasons. Sherlock looked so vulnerable in death, almost as if he was a sleeping five year old that could be woken with true love's kiss or a soft nudge to the shoulder. Purple bruises flowered onto the high cheekbones, showing the telltale signs of being physically abused by the Russians. John almost forgot about that part of the adventure, he had been too focused on not letting Sherlock die to notice the wounds he had obtained while being held by kidnappers. The adrenaline rush was flushed out of his system, replaced by large increments of pain and John wondered if this was even half of what Sherlock had felt in his dying moments. The grey-blue irises, once tortured by boredom and intelligence, were now glassy, smoothed over with ease and nothingness, as if death had granted him peace, something Sherlock could never have while alive.
"Regardless, we need to take the body away, for examination. You understand, don't you, Doctor Watson?" There were more people now, slowly coming to pry John's numb fingers away from the rubbery flesh of Sherlock's skin.
Something inside John Watson snapped, as if a cord was cut inside his ordinary brain. He turned to the medic personnel, his eyes crazed with grief and shot red with longing. "What is there exactly to examine?! He died by suffocation, even an idiot could figure that out! If you want to examine someone, go examine the dead Russian man over there, whom you seem to be ignoring for reason that I really could care less about right now. But you are not laying a finger on this man." John scared himself. His voice was rough like the knife of a blade and as rocky as the side of the mountain that was untameable as the sea itself. He held Sherlock's corpse closer to his body, shielding it from the medic's arms.
John knew why Sherlock had died tonight. It was because of him. Because of Sherlock's need to protect the blogger. John hated Sherlock for it. He hated himself for it. Ultimately he had killed his best friend, and John could never forgive himself for that. There would be condolences, reassurances, letters, cards, E-mails, comments on his blog about how it wasn't his fault that Sherlock died, but it would mean nothing to John Watson. He felt the unwanted presence of people fade, slowly one by one, as they let the shattered man grieve, which was what John wanted in the first place. He had too talk to Sherlock, alone, just like he did after the ingenious fall, only this time, Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear it.
"You're not dead, Sherlock." John began, swallowing the lumps that formed in his throat everytime he paused to take a gasping breath full of cold air that never soothed his aching, burning trachea. "I know you're not dead because I'm still here, and you'd never leave me alone because you're an annoying git. So I personally think that this is a dick move to play on me, and when I see you again I will punch you harder than I've ever punched anyone. But by the time you hit the floor I'll have forgiven you just as I did months ago when you came back from the dead. I wonder how long you're going to take this time. You'll come back, Sherlock, I have faith in you. I believe in you." Denial had passed through his body just as soon as it came, and it was replaced with the fiery flames of anger, turning his blood into hot iron that poured down the racing rapids of his veins.
"I also strongly hate you. You never said thank you to anyone, you were always so selfish. Selfish to the point where you experimented on me to see if I'd been drugged. You didn't sleep or eat, even when I begged you to do so, and it was a struggle to get you to talk to me. You're a pitiful man, Sherlock Holmes, but I'll always forgive you. I just don't understand why you had to die because it isn't fair to me. It isn't fair to me, or, or Mary or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or Mycroft or your Mum or really anybody who you've left a lasting impression on. Don't you ever think about them? How your death is going to affect them? I'm going to have to tell them, I hope you're happy, because I'm not.
"Please don't be dead, Sherlock." John said, leaning forward to touch his brow with the dead man's. It was his fault. All his fault. He should have shot everyone. He shouldn't have been stupid. Raw, uncensored grief passed through John's body, making him convulse into tears. His cries were muffled by the fabric of the midnight scarf that had begun to grow cold due to lack of warmth. "I'll do anything you want. I'll come with you on every case, I'll make you tea everyday and hand you your phone even if it's an inch away. But you've just got to come back. Please? For me. I don't think I can handle you being gone again. I may be brave, and I may be wise, and I may be kind, but I am not going to be able to get the strength I need to battle through this. So you need to come back. I'll even trade my life for yours." Bargaining wasn't going to help of course, John knew that. But there was nothing else to be done and he just needed to do this. He had left so many things unsaid, even though he had had thousands of chances to voice them.
It was driving him insane, the grief that John was feeling. Sherlock's death had left a little parasite called madness in John Watson's heart, eating away at what little sanity the man had managed to save over the course of four years since meeting the cold-hearted detective. He didn't know what to feel, but it wasn't this nothingness that gnawed away at his heart and brain, making him no more useful than the lifeless corpse he was holding. John couldn't handle Sherlock being dead. So there went bargaining, and in came depression, the 4th step of loss and grief that John Watson had never really mastered. He was never used to having to say goodbye, and to him, dying was just an absolutely ridiculous notion.
"It's my fault that you're dead. I'm sorry. I'm a screw up. You may be the drama queen, Sherlock, but I am an idiot that can't kill everyone that has threatened you or I. I wish I could. I wish I could be the hero everyone thinks that I am, but I'm just not. It's okay, I know you'd call me an idiot if you were still here, but you're not and so I'll just do it myself. I am an idiot, and it is because of my idiocy that I couldn't save you and for that I am sorry. I don't want to let go of you because then I'll never get to redeem myself again. The others will think that I'll get over your death just like last time, moping around for a bit but then overall become happy again and move on with my life. But you and I both know that's not going to happen. I died with you."
The medic's had finished looking at the dead Russian man, and John felt their gloved hands on his jacketed shoulder once more, trying to tug him away from the corpse he was holding so strongly, as if it was a lifeline. But the lifeline hadn't helped in the slightest, because John had already drowned in a sea of sadness and loneliness that could never be filled again. There was another hand which was ungloved on his right shoulder. This one wasn't trying to pry him off of Sherlock, and John looked at the person to which the hand was connected to. It was Lestrade, and his face was soft with understanding. "C'mon, mate."
"One more minute. Please, Lestrade." Croaked John, and the DI sighed and nodded to the other medic that was on the other side. They both stood up and walked away, their coats trailing in the blackness of the early morning air. John hugged Sherlock tightly one last time, and he rocked back and forth, letting the tears wash down his face like waterfalls. He stroked the black curls and kissed the bruised forehead of his best friend. "Sherlock," John managed to whisper. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please." At last, John let go of the dead detective's body and got up, wiping the back of his hand across his face to get rid of the tears that had settled there, replacing them with streaks of Sherlock's blood, which still ran across the brick floor in a thick, syrupy mess. He walked away from the crime scene, not turning back too looked at the crumpled form of his fallen best friend. If he did, there would be falling onto the pavement and sobbing his smashed heart out.
He kept walking stiffly out of the tunnels, where he was greeted by medical personnel, Lestrade and Donovan, but most importantly, Mary. The person that John really wanted to be there wasn't. He was on the ground a few feet away, and that couldn't be helped. Mary ran up to John and hugged him, and then, in front of everyone, John broke down for what seemed the millionth time. He cried, silently, and he wondered why he still had tears left. Surely he had wasted them all back in tunnels, and he was positive some tears will still caught in Sherlock's blackened hair, like silver stars. Mary rubbed John's back in soothing circles, comforting him. But it did nothing, because John Watson was dead.