Lastrade cocked his pistol. He, Sherlock, John and 20 other police officers stood in front of the, neighbor dubbed, 'empty' house.
Sherlock had just solved a case about four rather nasty murders…in a hour. It annoyed the DI to no end that his entire police team couldn't solve it, but one man could. And in such a short time.
But Lastrade needed the consulting detective, God help him.
The inspector had thought the murders were unrelated. Different methods of killing the victims, different places, none of the victims had any connection. Until, of course, Sherlock had deduced something that made them all look like complete idiots.
So, there they all were. Ready to run into the house of a vicious murderer and save the day.
Sherlock and John, and one officer to keep them from running in the house and ruining everything, were around back.
"I need to check something." Sherlock had said, running behind the brick structure.
"Here we go." Lestrade muttered under his breath, motioning for the police to fall in behind. They started up the walkway, guns at the ready.
. . .
"Oh, no!" Sherlock gasped, whipping his head up from where it had been in the trash-can.
"What?" John asked, alarmed. But Sherlock was already sprinting toward the front of the house, his coat billowing behind him. The army doctor ran after him.
"Lastrade! Stop!" Sherlock yelled, pushing past police, knocking some over. Lastrade had opened the door and was stepping in. "No!" Sherlock cried.
. . .
Inside the house was dark. But a well practiced murderer needed no light to shoot madly at his front door where 21 of Scotland Yard's finest were about to ambush him.
. . .
Lastrade stepped over the thresh-hold and glanced about the darkness. He heard yelling from behind him then he was being slammed to the ground and bullets were flying everywhere.
Lastrade cried out when he felt several bullets pierce him. But only a few? There were so many gunshots ringing out in the house. Only a few?
. . .
"No!" Sherlock cried. He pushed through the door and smashed the DI to the floor just as bullets started flying. He shielded Lastrade under him.
He heard a symphony of shouts from outside. He only understood three. "No!" "Take cover!" and a scream of him name, "Sherlock!"
Sherlock felt pain, so much pain….. The last thing he thought before everything went dark was, 'Please, God, let them live.' Then blackness.
. . .
John watched in horror as Sherlock was pelted with a rain of bullets. "Sherlock!" he screamed as Donovan pulled him to the side.
"Get off me!" He threw Sally away and snatched her gun. He saw the trajectory of the bullets. He knew where the man in the house was. He didn't need to see. His mind flashed back to Afghanistan. A cold night, a machine gun and his comrades dieing around him.
John was back in the present now. He put his back against the outside wall and took in a deep breath. He whirled past the door and fired. One BANG and the fire from inside ceased.
. . .
The gun fire had stopped, Lastrade noted. He also noted a heavy weight on top of him. He groaned and rolled the thing off of his back-
Oh, gosh, no. The 'thing' was Sherlock.
Sherlock was covered in blood. Three bullet holes had opened through his chest and one through his stomach, those now resting in Lastrade's own self. The DI looked at Sherlock's back. It was torn by who knows how many bullets.
Oh, gosh, no.
. . .
John dashed through the door and stopped short when he saw a horrified Lastrade looking at a blood covered Sherlock.
John dropped to his knees by Sherlock, who was laying on his side. He press his fingers to his neck. No… No, no, no!
"No! No , please!" he growled/sobbed, pushing the consulting detective onto his back.
John began chest compressions. Even though he knew there was no hope to save him.
. . .
Four police officers came though the door and lifted the bleeding DI from the dirty floor and took him in a car to the hospital.
No one touched John.
. . .
John soon was sobbing so hard he couldn't even do compressions. Both his hands still rested on the lifeless form of Sherlock Holmes.
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