Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its associated characters.
This story takes place approximately one month after "His Last Vow".
If you're looking for something light-hearted or upbeat, turn back now! This story will be very emotional, intense, and tragic. There is a very major character death right off the bat. You have been warned!
It's my first time writing something like this, so I am really looking forward to it. I have two jobs, so there could be a week or more between each new chapter (though I will try to be quicker than that!). Apologies in advance for any long hiatuses. But then again, we Sherlock fans are used to waiting by now, aren't we? ;)
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Prologue
As he stood in the darkened alleyway, bathed in the black shadows of the crumbling brick building beside him, there were three things of which John Watson was absolutely certain. First, he had just been shot. Second, his shooter was quickly escaping around the corner ahead. And third, he was going to die.
It had been foolish coming out here, John knew. He'd tried in vain to convince Sherlock of this fact, but when had his friend ever really listened to him? Sherlock was convinced that this was what they were meant to do, and when Sherlock was convinced of something, there was no going back.
The doctor and the detective had spent the past several weeks working with Lestrade, trying fruitlessly to track down James Moriarty once and for all. At first, John wasn't even entirely convinced that Moriarty was truly alive– after all, he'd blown his own brains out on the roof of St. Bart's, hadn't he? How could he possibly have survived? But then again, John had also seen Sherlock fall to his death from the same rooftop over two years ago, and here he was, alive and well. Who's to say Moriarty couldn't have pulled off the same thing? He was certainly clever enough – he had already made that perfectly clear long ago.
It was soon after Sherlock had stepped off that plane, reprieved from his exile before it had even begun, that the crimes began popping up all over London. It was much like it always had been – elaborate break-ins with nothing stolen, murders and disappearances with seemingly random victims, cryptic messages and clues left at the crime scenes – it was all a game, just like before.
"He's playing with you, Sherlock. Just like last time." John had tried to warn his friend. "You can't let him win again."
"But he didn't win, don't you see?" Sherlock had insisted. "He thought he did. And I'll let him think it again, if that's what it takes. But he's not getting away this time. Not again."
The game was certainly on, and its latest move had led them here, to the shadows of this derelict factory in one of London's quiet suburbs. At first, the place had appeared deserted, and it seemed as though it was just another of Moriarty's red herrings. But as the pair crept around the side of the building to investigate further, a distant figure awaited them in the shadows.
That was when it happened – two shots, right in the chest, and it was all over.
For a moment, it was as though time were standing still, and John knew he would have to act quickly. He staggered backward, nearly toppling over from the force of the bullets' impact, but managed to keep his unsteady footing on the soft dirt below. The attacker was already nearly out of sight as John lifted his pistol, trying to get a clear shot. It would be so much easier if his hands were not trembling. He took a few shaky steps forward, pulling the trigger as he did so. The first shot ricocheted off the corner of the building – he could hear the bullet's impact even from here. The second struck its mark. There was a small cry of pain, and the distant silhouette clutched its right thigh with one hand, but did not halt its hasty retreat.
Seconds later, the figure was gone, and the night was quiet and still once more.
It all happened very quickly then. There was a sudden impact – a hard, blunt blow to John's back and head. For one wild moment, he thought that someone had begun to attack him from behind, but John soon realized that he had fallen to the cold ground below, his legs no longer strong enough to support him. It felt as though all the air had been knocked from his lungs. He tried to take a deep, calming breath, but found it nearly impossible to do so. His breaths were short, gasping, and extremely uncomfortable. Of course. He realized. He got one of my lungs…
That was when the pain came – white-hot and burning, deeper and more excruciating than anything he had ever felt in his life. A deep, guttural cry filled his ears, and it was a moment before John realized that the sound was coming from his own mouth. But there was another sound, too. One that felt both very near and very far away at the same time.
"John! John! Oh God…"
There was a blur of movement to John's left as Sherlock came into view, crouching down at his side. Sherlock's mobile phone was already in his pale white hand and his fingers dialed rapidly on the touch keypad.
"We need an ambulance immediately. Someone's been shot." The man began reciting the address very quickly to the operator, then repeated it once more for good measure. "Please, hurry." He implored them.
John thought that Sherlock was looking down at him as he continued speaking, but he struggled to make out any of the words. It was becoming more and more difficult to focus on anything else but the pain. He grit his teeth, failing to suppress another cry of agony that cut through the still night air as a jolt of stabbing pain ripped through him. John closed his eyes, trying again in vain to steady his breathing.
"Stay with me, John, okay? Please. Fight it. Stay." Sherlock's voice was oddly calm as it broke though, reaching John's ears at last. He tried to let it fill his mind, to block out the pain. For a moment, it almost worked.
He sensed a slight stirring beside him, and, through his pain, John realized that Sherlock had begun to rise to his feet. Perhaps he hoped to pursue the shooter. Maybe he wanted to search the nearby road for a sign of the ambulance. It didn't matter – either way, John didn't want him to go. It was selfish, maybe. But he didn't want to die alone.
Though it was a struggle, John managed to open his eyes, peering through the now-blurred darkness to find his friend. He reached out feebly toward Sherlock's arm, trying to pull him back. Instead, he merely batted the sleeve of the man's jacket weakly. John tried desperately to clutch the fabric and give it a tug, but his fingers refused to cooperate, and his hand fell heavily to the ground once more.
But somehow, he'd understood.
"John?" Sherlock was down on the ground beside him again. "I'm here, John. Just stay with me." He repeated, his voice more urgent this time.
It wouldn't be much longer now. Everything was muffled, like he was underwater. He could already feel himself beginning to slip away. Fumbling, John reached out into the darkness, too weak to open his eyes another time. A soft warmth filled his palm as Sherlock's hand found his.
The calm, soothing voice was gone. "John..." Sherlock's voice shook slightly as he spoke. "Keep fighting."
It was getting more and more difficult to form coherent thoughts as the blinding pain filled John's chest, consuming him. If only he had the strength to find his voice. There was so much he wished he could say.
He wished he could tell Mary that she was everything to him. That he was sorry for ever doubting her, or judging her for her past mistakes. That, despite all they'd gone through, he wouldn't change one thing. Not one.
He wished he could hold his daughter in his arms, or even look upon her face, just once. He wished he could tell her how much he loved her. How excited he was to be a father. How sorry he was that she would have to grow up without him.
"Take care of them, Sherlock." He'd say. "For me. Can you do that?"
Instead, he used the last of his strength to give his friend's hand a gentle squeeze. Thank you for everything. I'm sorry… He thought desperately. John hoped that would be enough.
He took a few more gasping breaths, struggling to hold on. But it was no use. That slipping feeling returned, as though something were pulling him, carrying him away. And this time, he let it. The darkness closed in around him at last and, for one perfect moment, everything was silent, everything was still, and the pain was gone.
The last thing he would feel was the comforting warmth of Sherlock's hand in his. Then, even that was gone.
Only a memory lingered – Mary's lips, soft and warm against his.
Then it was gone, too.
And so was he.
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I am so, so sorry for that. Please don't hate me! This is only the beginning… (For better or worse!)
