This is meant to be the sequel of the Dangerous Mould stories, however, I will try to write it in a way that you don't necessarily have to have read the other two stories.
Librarianmum, you are the greatest and sweetest beta on earth! Thank you![I had a virtual rose here for you, but it doesn't show! :-(]
I really also have to thank Prothoe who provided me with the most pleasant and crucial information on Sherlock during the past weeks. ;-) We will never find the answer to the question as to how old we are...
Enjoy! Feedback is greatly appreciated.
The great cover for this story was made by Rephis. I'm really excited about it, but it is a pity that it doesn't show completely here, so go check out the original picture at rephis. deviantart. com (without spaces). Thank you so much for it! It's just brilliant to have a cover that was particularly made for Shot in the Dark!
Disclaimer: "Sherlock" is not mine, it belongs to the BBC and its producers; I just love the characters and borrow them. No money is made from this.
Shot in the Dark
Prologue
John's world stopped turning and shattered into millions of pieces.
He felt the cold rain on his head, running down his face and the droplets of water soaking his collar. His trousers were all wet and the cold was crawling up his legs, giving him goose-bumps. However, it wasn't just the cold from the rain and the chilly temperature, it was a gruesome cold clutching him, eating him up.
His hands were grazed from the concrete and he was vaguely aware of the burning sensation the wounds caused. He was numb, unable to move. His mouth opened and yet remained silent, the scream wanting to escape from deep inside him stuck in his throat.
Some droplets of rain dripped from his upper lip into his mouth. They didn't taste of water, though. Iron. Blood. There was blood in his mouth. He had apparently hit his head hard on the asphalt.
Everything hurt under the surface of the numbness, a dull pain that became stronger. It was strongest in his leg. He was sure it was broken. He was lying in the pouring rain – injured and broken - but did any of that matter?
John couldn't avert his gaze from Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was lying short distance away from him, the bullet hole in his head clearly visible even in the rain and the dark, a cruel black spot on the pale skin. There was a dark rivulet running from the hole, finally forming a small puddle under Sherlock's head. Raindrops splashed into the dark liquid. Sherlock's arms were extended and his coat was spread under him, giving him the surreal look of a dark angel fallen from the night sky.
He had failed. Failed to save his life. All the times in the past months that he had been able to save his friend's life had been in vain. The thought of it tore him apart. John took a deep breath and eventually screamed from the bottom of his heart and soul before darkness embraced him, the echo of his desperation reverberating in the street.
No worries, it's not a death!fic :-)