A/N: Major spoilers for S3E3. Those of you who haven't seen His Last Vow, read at your own peril. That said, enjoy.

It wasn't like how it was in the movies, being shot. It was something else entirely.

A silent thud as the bullet arced across the room and embedded itself in his chest.

A split-second pause, where Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly at the woman he had believed to be Mary Watson, weaving slightly where he stood, before time reasserted itself and crimson blood began trickling down his shirt.

Sherlock, usually so hyper-sensitive of his surroundings, felt rather like a shroud had been drawn, shielding him from the world, so that the only thing he could concentrate on was the gaping wound in his chest.

An icy coldness seemed to be spreading from the bullet wound, radiating outwards until it had permeated his whole body. Sherlock could hear himself breathing shallowly, rapidly. He could feel the thumpthumpthump of his quickening heartbeat, as the organ desperately supplied more blood to make up for what he was losing.

Somehow he worked out to fall on his back, with the bullet still lodged in his chest effectively acting as the cork that was keeping him from dying of blood loss – at least for the moment.

The moment he landed on the floor was when the pain set in. There wasn't a build-up; it was simply a tidal wave of agony that crashed over and into him, an acidic burn that consumed him until all he could think about, all he could feel, was the pain.

He might have blacked out; he couldn't tell. Disjointed thoughts and memories surfaced, until the line between reality and what was in his head blurred, and he couldn't quite tell which was which. The pain was the only constant.

'If you were dying, if you'd been murdered. In your very last few seconds, what would you say?'

'Please, God, let me live.'

'Oh, use your imagination!'

'I don't have to.'

He wondered, dimly, whether he would ever get the chance to tell John he was sorry, and that he understood, now. He silently vowed to apologize to John, if he survived this.

And now Redbeard was loping towards him, his ears flopping, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in greeting. Sherlock ran his hands through Redbeard's familiar silky coat, ruffling the fur in the process.

Redbeard licked a broad stripe up his face, and Sherlock grinned. He could almost feel the wetness on his cheek. "They're putting me down now, too," he whispered conspiratorially. Redbeard wagged his tail in response, before abruptly vanishing, leaving him clutching at thin air.

The next thing he knew he was on his back in a padded room, with a straightjacketed Jim Moriarty singing (rather annoyingly) beside him. "It's raining, it's pouring, Sherlock is boring. I'm laughing, I'm crying, Sherlock is dying."

"How do you do it?" he found himself asking the consulting criminal. "Not – feel?"

Moriarty sighed, like it was an obvious question. "Sherlock, honey, you still don't get it, do you? It's not what you let yourself feel that matters, it's who you get close to. And right now, I'd say Mary Watson was your biggest mistake."

Moriarty began pacing in a circle around him, dressed now in his favourite Westwood suit. They were now in what appeared to be the morgue at St. Bart's, and Sherlock found himself in the unusual position of being the one on the examining table.

"Look at you, lying there, useless and pathetic," Moriarty taunted, eyes glinting as he surveyed Sherlock's prone form, still circling him. "The great Sherlock Holmes; this is what you've been reduced to – just another body on the table. And all because you trusted the wrong person. Ooh, just imagine how they'll all cry, when they find out their precious hero is dead."

The sounds of a riding crop whistling through the air did nothing to prepare Sherlock for the sharp bite of leather as it landed with unerring accuracy over the bullet wound, over his heart. He writhed on the table, twisting away from Moriarty and the crop.

"Mrs. Hudson," Moriarty murmured, punctuating the name with another lash of the crop, "Detective Inspector Lestrade," another lash, "Molly Hooper," and another, until Sherlock was one unending nerve of hurtpainagony, and Moriarty paused, crop poised and at the ready, before breathing the final name, "John Watson."

Sherlock braced himself for the next blow, and when the crop came down he somehow found it in himself to twist up and grab on to Moriarty's forearm, savouring the look of stunned surprise on his nemesis' face as he sent the riding crop clattering to the floor.

They were back in the padded room, with Moriarty was once more in chains and a straightjacket, and him on the floor. The consulting criminal looked, if anything, extremely put out. "You're such a spoilsport, Sherlock. Things were just starting to get fuuuun.

"You can't save everyone, you know. You're not a hero, Sherlock. You're just a psychopath like me, trying to fit in. Trying too hard, if you ask me. But every psychopath needs a pet, and it looks like you've found yours. He's got spirit; I can see why you chose him. But now his life's in danger, and there's nothing you can do to help – nothing!"

"Get out," Sherlock groaned, curling in on himself, as next to him Moriarty giggled rather hysterically, "Get out of my head."

"Come now, Sherlock, you don't really mean that," Moriarty sing-songed in that annoying Irish-lilt of his, "We're the same, you and I. You have to stop fighting it and just let it go. I promise you, once you stop fighting, the pain will go away. Remember what life was like before John Watson? Less pain, less hurt, less… heartbreak."

Sherlock closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block out Moriarty's words. But it was hard given that for once, Moriarty was the voice of reason. Stop fighting it… let it go… but John… pain, hurt, John, heartbreak… imagine how he'll cry… his life's in danger now…

Too many voices, and too much noise. All of that inane, useless chatter filling his mind palace, cluttering the hallways until he had nowhere to run. Sherlock gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate, focus on anything, anything, but what Moriarty was offering him. He came to the door that led to John's wing. Ah, yes, that was good – John was good, John was safe.

He turned the doorknob. At once a plethora of John-related memories assaulted him, and Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief, as Moriarty's nattering faded to background noise against the virtual onslaught of John and jumpers and home.

'You mean I'm your – best –'

'– man.'

'–friend?'

'Yeah, course you are. Of course you're my best friend.'

Sherlock smiled. That had been a good memory. A particularly good one. But then, most John-associated memories were. He could hear Moriarty talking outside the door, something about John dying at the hands of his wife because Sherlock would be too dead to the world to save him.

He was speeding past cabs and buses on a motorbike, Mary's arms around him, breaking approximately twelve traffic laws as he cut across pedestrian walkways and bypassed red lights without so much as a second glance, in his desperation to get to John.

The throng of shouting people was carelessly shoved aside as he sprinted towards the blazing bonfire, an endless litany of notJohnpleasenotJohn the only coherent thought going through his head.

"John." His voice sounded weak with relief to his own ears, as John blinked and blearily stared up at him. Sherlock didn't trust himself to speak, so he simply laid a gloved hand gently on John's face.

The drained, but genuine, smile he got in return made everything worth it.

Moriarty had somehow got into his John-palace and was now standing in front of him, smirking. "I said I'd burn you, Sherlock. I said I'd burn the heart out of you. Did you really think I was going to give up that easily?"

Sherlock frowned. "Go away, I –"

"Ah, ah, ah," Moriarty sing-songed, "That was a rhetorical question, doofus. Just think – in a few seconds your heart will stop beating and that overgrown brain of yours will finally stop thinking. This is it, Sherlock. Your payback time."

"My what?" Sherlock asked, caught off guard.

"Your payback time," Moriarty repeated, slowly, as though talking to a child. "Everybody you love leaves you, don't they? Redbeard, Grandmother, Victor, John. And John hurts you the most because you see him all the time, but you know you can't have him – you know you'll never have him.

"Well, this is your chance to die first, then you'll never be the one left behind," Moriarty crowded into his personal space, and jabbed with unerring precision at his bullet wound, at his heart, "and you'll never be the one left with a –" another jab "– broken –" and another "–heart."

Sherlock wavered, torn. Moriarty was definitely sounding more and more like the voice of reason, and with each jab to his heart agony coursed through him, reminding him once more why not fighting it, why giving in, would be a good thing.

Unbidden, another memory surfaced, effectively muting Moriarty for the moment.

'There is a proper time to die, and when it comes one should embrace it – like a soldier.'

'Yes, but not at John's wedding. We wouldn't do that, would we. Not to John Watson.'

Damn John Watson. It was always him. John would be extremely disappointed, to say the least, if Sherlock died. There was also the slight matter of his wife being an assassin to contend with. With that thought in mind, Sherlock managed to stagger to his feet, pushing past a befuddled Moriarty as he fumbled the doorknob and followed the well-worn pathways of his mind palace, back to the main hall, which he had coincidentally fashioned to look exactly like their – his – flat in 221B.

Ah, and there was John, sitting in his accustomed armchair. He didn't appear to notice Sherlock, occupied as he was with Sherlock's skull, which was loosely clasped in his hands. He also appeared to be talking to it.

"…please, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead."

Sherlock froze. Was John… crying? Yes, those were definitely tears streaming down his face, and those were definitely sobs he was trying to stifle. That couldn't be right. John – his John – the army doctor and war hero and loyal sidekick and best friend – didn't cry. Even when he had stood beside what he believed to be Sherlock's grave two years ago he hadn't shed a tear. Sherlock decided he didn't like it when John cried – it made his chest ache and his throat constrict and all he wanted to do was apologize over and over again to John for making him cry.

He opened his mouth to do so, but somehow the words wouldn't come.

I'm sorry, John. For all the hurt that I caused and am causing you. Forgive me.

Then suddenly John was in front of him, sans skull, and Sherlock blinked. Had he said that out loud? (Or, well, as out loud as you could get when you're having a conversation inside your head.)

John looked torn between punching him and hugging him. "I asked you for one more miracle, Sherlock. I asked you to stop being dead."

Sherlock grinned. "I heard you."

Then John punched him in the face, and Sherlock woke up.

xxx x xxx

John wasn't there when he woke up in an unfamiliar hospital bed, and Sherlock immediately berated himself for the surge of disappointment he felt because the man might be his best friend, but that didn't mean he had an obligation to stand vigil by his bed all night.

Instead, Mycroft was there, sitting beside his bed in the uncomfortable chair the hospital had provided, his umbrella propped against the bedside table, and reading the day's newspaper. Sherlock could tell all this without having opened his eyes, and debated keeping them closed until Mycroft buggered off.

A rustling of the paper as it was folded and put neatly away told him that was not to be the case, however. Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, stop being difficult – I know you're awake. That monitor over there shows me your pulse rate has increased, your eyebrows have drawn together showing frustration, and incidentally, you have an intermittent tremor in your right hand as though you're quite literally itching to asphyxiate me – which I would not recommend you try, seeing as that would aggravate your injury and send you into no doubt unbearable pain."

Sherlock methodically clenched and unclenched his right hand, before opening his eyes. "You can be extremely obstreperous at times, Mycroft. So much so that enduring agonizing pain seems a reasonable price to pay for strangling you."

"You always were extraordinarily stubborn, even as a child," said Mycroft dismissively, "But tell me, brother mine, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Mycroft, now go away." Sherlock counted to three. "Why are you still here?"

"I think it's because we both know you're not fine, and I don't just mean that," here Mycroft swept a hand in the general area of Sherlock's chest, where the bullet wound was still throbbing painfully, even with all the morphine he had been given, "I mean mentally, in that cluttered-up brain of yours, you're most definitely not fine."

"How would you presume to know whether or not I'm fine?"

"Because, like it or not, I know you, Sherlock, and I saw you after Redbeard was put down, I was with you at Grandmother's funeral – my point is that I know you're hurting and I'd like it if you were more careful in the future, because next time you might not be as lucky. So before you leap in front of any more bullets, you might want to think about John, and what you promised him."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What promise? And how would you know about it?"

Mycroft merely smiled his infuriatingly smug smile. "You know what it is, Sherlock, deep down, you just don't want to admit it. Good day."

With that nebulous comment, Mycroft stood, collected his umbrella and left.

xxx x xxx

"Sherlock, do we have a plan?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he have made such a foolish mistake? Sherlock could only stare in disbelief at the plain white walls of what he had believed to be the Appledore vaults. Beside him, John gave a frustrated huff and stalked off in the direction Magnussen had taken.

It was impressive, really. It was more than impressive, to have a mind palace of that size and scale, to be able to memorize every insignificant, miniscule detail. Saying Magnussen had an eidetic memory would be a gross understatement; Sherlock wondered if the man ever forgot a single thing.

Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie, because the last thing he wanted to feel was admiration for the dead-eyed blackmailer. He found Magnussen gleefully flicking a pissed-off John's face on the front steps that led to the building.

'Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes… but look how you care about John Watson, your damsel in distress.'

Irrational rage filled him then, because Magnussen had had John abducted and placed in a bonfire just to prove a point. And it was his fault – because if it weren't for him, if John hadn't been his pressure point, then his life wouldn't have been at risk at all.

You're poison, Sherlock, Moriarty's voice taunted in his head, Everywhere you go, everyone whose lives you touch, you corrupt. You should have listened to me – you should have ended it two years ago on that rooftop. Great. Just what he needed. Another psychopath living in his head. As if he didn't have enough crazy in his head.

Shut up, shut up. Sherlock shook his head to clear it, and as Moriarty's jeering laughter faded into the back of his mind, he strode over to where John was still being subjected to Magnussen's face-flicking.

"I'm sorry – just let him keep doing it," Sherlock said apologetically in response to the look of utter fury John threw in his direction, "Just let him – punch."

Magnussen returned to his task with gleeful vengeance, while Sherlock looked on impassively as John got closer and closer to his breaking point. The doctor's right hand was trembling intermittently, but not from stress. Sherlock was positive it was trembling with the force of willpower it took for John not to punch Magnussen in the face.

The distant sounds of helicopters converging on the compound pierced the still night air, causing Magnussen to straighten and finally stop his assault on John's face. Ignoring the glare John levelled at him, Sherlock moved to stand beside him, gazing up at the rapidly approaching aircrafts.

'Because Sherlock Holmes has made one very enormous mistake, which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves, and everything he holds dear.'

For once, Sherlock could see no way out of the situation. He had made a gross miscalculation, and now both he and John would have to pay the price. He had been stupid, stupid, not to see this coming.

You know all about being an arrogant smart arse, don't you, Sherlock? Moriarty said tauntingly, You're something of an expert in the area yourself.

Sherlock shook his head, frantically trying to dispel the consulting criminal from his mind. He had to concentrate, to think. Surveying the immediate vicinity, he counted fourteen different possible ways the scenario could go, nine being near impossible, four somewhat more probable, but only one that gave the end result Sherlock wanted. Something he had promised, as Mycroft kept reminding him.

The helicopters were practically on top of them now, the whirring of their blades deafening at this distance. Sherlock could see Mycroft's men shimmying down ropes to land at a crouch on the ground, their guns up and at the ready as they began running across the expanse of grass.

"Sherlock, what do we do?" John must have worked out by now how hopeless a situation they were in, and yet Sherlock saw the implicit trust in his friend's face – trusting that he, the ingenious sleuth, would have something up his sleeve that would get them both out of this in one piece. Trust Sherlock had never felt more unworthy of.

"Nothing," Magnussen declared delightedly, dead eyes glinting with fervor, "There's nothing to be done. Oh, I'm not a villain; I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them. Sorry, no chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now." God, how was Mycroft's voice even more annoying when magnified? How?

Sherlock decided now was as good a time as ever to carry out his half-formed plan. Sidling to one side, he slid a hand into John's coat pocket and palmed the gun the doctor was carrying.

"Oh, do your research," he snapped at Magnussen, "– I'm not a hero, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!" Then he raised the gun, aimed it at the bastard's face and fired.

The resounding crack of the gun's discharge sounded loud, too loud, as Magnussen's body crumpled into a lifeless heap on the floor, blood oozing from the wound in his forehead.

Sherlock dropped the gun, practically throwing it away from himself, and slowly raised his hands in surrender, turning to face the guns pointed in his direction. "Get away from me, John, stay well back!" he shouted, because John looked like he was rooted to the spot, shock and disbelief the predominant emotions on his face.

Then – "Christ, Sherlock! What the hell!" as John glanced wildly around, looking for a way out where there was none, "Oh, Christ."

"I promised you, remember?" Sherlock said, over the whirring of the helicopters, and the blaring of Mycroft's megaphone, "At your wedding – whatever it takes and whatever happens, I'll always be there for the two of you."

"Sherlock, I –" John cut himself off, seemingly unable to continue. He looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe he was.

"Give my love to Mary," said Sherlock, glancing back at his friend, "Tell her she's safe now."

Preoccupied as he was with talking to John, Sherlock didn't hear the second gunshot, didn't understand the slight widening of John's eyes, the slackening of his jaw, the scream of 'I said don't shoot!' from Mycroft. He was aware only of the pain of the concrete as he landed on his side, and the now-familiar ice-hot burning that accompanied a bullet wound flaring to life on the side of his head.

John's face, twisted in agony, a cut-off 'Sherlock –" on his lips, was the last thing Sherlock saw.

His last thought before the world faded to black was that at least he had managed it, at least he had kept his last vow.

For you, John – always.