'O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!'
Romeo & Juliet Act V Scene
'Remember those walls I built I found a way to let you in
Well, baby they're tumbling down
And they didn't even put up a fight
They didn't even make up a sound
But I never really had a doubt
Standing in the light of your halo
I got my angel now.'
Halo - Beyonce
Sherlock & Watson – Halo
As soon as Sherlock pulled the trigger, John knew what he had to do. The world slowed down around him, he leisurely glanced at the bullet flying towards the bomb, the smell of chlorine sharp in his nose. Moriarty's face looked momentarily shocked, he hadn't been expecting that. Sherlock had his usual look of smug calm smothered across his face, still staring at the gun in his hand. His face contorted in surprise when he saw John leaping towards him. Just as the bullet hit the bomb, John's arms wrapped around Sherlock in an eternal embrace, completely covering him. John looked into Sherlock's eyes and so many words were exchanged in that one moment. Then they were blasted onto the floor as the bomb blew. Sherlock's head smashed against the concrete tiling painfully as he was dragged half way across the room by the blast. His mind went black.
Sherlock's eyes opened groggily, the wail of an ambulance siren in the distance. He struggled to breathe. There was a heavy weight on his chest. Then suddenly it all came flashing back. John jumping on to him, saving him. He cried in panic. He had a painful head wound which was oozing blood. He gently rolled John of his chest, assessing his injuries. John had several large pieces of shrapnel in his back; one of his arms had what looked like a very severe burn on it. He wasn't a doctor, but he could see that John was badly hurt, but still shallowly breathing. Sherlock felt a tear roll down is cheek. He wiped it away angrily. Sherlock never cried. He hadn't had any need to. He'd never had a friend before, only John. And now John was dying in his arms. He'd managed to kill his only friend, because he was bored. He hated himself then. He gently rolled John onto his back and cradled him in his arms, his shaking hand stroking John's short blonde hair. What he saw next shocked him even more. Looking down at John's chest, he gasped as he stared at the bloody shrapnel wound buried next to John's heart. Blood was streaming from the gaping hole, seeping through John's shirt and pooling into Sherlock's hands as he desperately attempted to staunch the wound. His ever present logical mind was whirring, calculating the time it would take for the ambulance to arrive, and how long John had left to live. He knew John wouldn't last that long. The tears were streaming down his face, despite his best attempts to remove them. John was panting now, struggling to hold on. He was gazing up at Sherlock, his eyes glazed over in pain, a weak struggle of a smile crossing his face.
"I've really done it this time now haven't I?" John smiled. "I know I don't have long left, the ambulance won't make it."
"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered hoarsely, a fresh bout of tears rolling down his cheeks. He saw that John's face was wet too. "I've killed you."
"No, you didn't Sherlock. I chose this. I'd rather die fighting than in a care home, old and decrepit. You saved me Sherlock, when I needed someone the most. You gave me new life. I love you Sherlock, I always have." he gazed up at Sherlock. "Don't hate me for it."
"Oh John, how could I?" Sherlock stroked his face. Then John, coughing, gave one last huge gasp of breath, shuddered, and went still. His grip on Sherlock's hand loosened. His eyes grew peaceful; he was free of the pain. Sherlock howled then, inhumanly. His howl was filled with all the grief, the loss, longing and pain. He lent down to John's lifeless face, and planted the gentlest of kisses on his lips. Sherlock's salty tears ran in rivulets down John's chest, pooling in his bloody wound. John was gone. The thought hit him in the chest. He felt his heart rip in two, mutilated. The only person he'd ever truly loved. Then his eyes glazed over in hatred. Moriarty. The cause of all this suffering. His vision red, he pulled the partially melted gun out of his tattered suit pocket. He walked over to Moriarty, he was still breathing, looking up at Sherlock, a smug, evil smile on his face. He was not far off death, but his gun was in his hand, pointed at Sherlock.
"Bet you that didn't turn out liked you planned, eh Sherlock?" he still managed retorts on his deathbed. Sherlock aimed his gun, Moriarty his. Two of the world's greatest minds. They pulled their triggers almost simultaneously. Moriarty's bullet hit Sherlock just under the heart, his hit Moriarty straight through the head. He died instantly. Sherlock had one last thing to do. Staggering over to John's body, half crawling, he curled up beside him, took his hand, and looked at John's calm face, smiling gently. "I love you John," and then squeezing John hand gently, he died, his face relaxing, heart whole again, joined with John eternally.
This is how Mycroft found them 5 minutes later when the paramedics arrived, rushing into the building. It was the most bittersweet moment he had ever observed. A silent tear rolled down his cheek. What was it that inspired such great emotion in him? Sherlock had finally found someone he had loved.