A/N: I originally published this at the end of my series of oneshots, Accidents and Experiments. Today I reread it and decided to publish it as a stand-alone fic.

PLEASE NOTE: This is a death fic. You have been warned.

It was an October day.

It wasn't one that was particularly memorable; the sky was bright blue and clear except for a few plump clouds drifting lazily across. The trees were vibrant with dying leaves and many were beginning to shed already, blanketing the sidewalks with dry leaves that tumbled in the crosswinds of passing cars. People continued their daily traverses through London, but now the short-sleeves and sandals were abandoned for autumn jackets and boots. The smell of apple cider had filled Baker Street since Mrs. Hudson had made a vat of it, and its warm scent had wafted upstairs into 221B.

Sherlock had been practicing a new tune on his violin. It was strikingly mournful, John noticed as he sipped his coffee while reading the newspaper. The notes were relatively quick-paced and deep until he seemed to reach a climax where the low tones were swapped for high ones, and the change was so smooth and fast that one second the song was relaxing and the next it was practically depressing.

"What's that called?" John asked when Sherlock had finished and placed his violin down to rosin his bow. "It's nice."

"Danny Boy," Sherlock answered in his usual clipped tone before adding, "It's Irish. One of the first songs my teacher taught me."

John glanced up, startled; Sherlock rarely offered elaboration when it wasn't necessary. "You had a teacher?" he said, surprised.

Once he considered it, he supposed it wasn't that odd, but for some reason he'd always pictured his flatmate playing the violin expertly since he was a toddler.

Sherlock too realized the unnecessary question and only gave John a look that clearly read, Why on earth wouldn't I have a teacher? Don't ask stupid questions.

John stood up, setting down the newspaper. "I'm going to make some eggs," he reported to Sherlock, who said nothing in response.

He waited pointedly, standing with his arm outstretched on the fridge handle. When Sherlock didn't look again, he cleared his throat. The sharp eyes flickered up to his face, to his arm, and back to the sheet music he was annotating.

"Want some eggs?" John finally asked.

"No, thank you."

That was to be expected. John took out the eggs and milk, and on second thought he made enough eggs for two.

Sure enough, when he had put scrambled eggs on a second plate, Sherlock meandered into the kitchen to take them. It was an unspoken system they seemed to have, and though Sherlock seemed to take no notice of it, it happened nearly every weekend morning. The detective sat placidly on the stool next to John and they ate in silence as the morning rays crept from the edge of the table to across the counter.

"You got some new cases," John said once they had eaten and he had settled at the table in the living room with his laptop.

"Hm. Read them," Sherlock requested, pacing the room. He was still in his tee shirt and pajama pants, accompanied by his blue silk dressing gown which swished behind him as he walked.

John obliged. "The first is from an elderly woman in Woolwich. Apparently, her plants keep dying even though she's watering them the proper amount and giving them the right amount of light. She thinks it's sabotage from her next-door-neighbor, whom she competes with to have the most plants." He awaited Sherlock's response.

"Dull. If it's the neighbor, that's boring. If it's her own lack of understanding on how to care for a plant, that is equally boring. Proceed."

John scrolled to the next entry. "Alright… this man is saying that his son keeps leaving the house during the night, and he doesn't know how he's sneaking out nor who he's meeting."

Sherlock stopped his pacing for a moment to throw a look of disbelief at John.

"Okay, then," John muttered. "Moving on. This mother says that her daughter committed suicide - hanged herself - and the police said it was suicide… but she thinks it was murder." John looked up at Sherlock. "This sounds like-"

"A case!" Sherlock interrupted, glee flitting across his face. "I love when the authorities are wrong, it really emphasizes their stupidity, don't you think?"

John stood up, automatically prepared to change out of his pajamas, knowing that Sherlock would be impatient. "Are we talking to the mom first? Or the police, for the records?"

"The mother," Sherlock said, his voice short yet excited, and he disappeared to his bedroom to presumably put on one of his fancy button-downs.

John got dressed as well, and after a glance at the trees outside - which appeared to be shivering in the October wind - he put on a knit sweater. Sure enough, when he returned downstairs, Sherlock had put on a white button-down and a suit jacket.

"A new game, John!" Sherlock told him, his eyes glinting as he whirled his scarf around his neck and yanked his Belstaff on.

The mother was a small redhead. Her clothing was wrinkled and her house smelled like cats; it was a bit pungent and John felt it tickle his throat as soon as he stepped inside.

He looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and saw the detective surveying the room. No doubt he'd already collected enough information to tell her entire life story.

"Your daughter had crippling depression and her father died right before her apparent 'suicide', Mrs. Henry," Sherlock said as the woman led them into the living room. "You're unemployed and you dropped out of high school, so I doubt you're not particularly clever - how did you come to the conclusion that your daughter was murdered?"

The insult was so quick that John almost missed it, and he first shot Sherlock a reprimanding look before apologizing hastily to the woman, who barely took note.

"My daughter confessed to me, shortly before her death, that she was an atheist," the woman said. Sherlock's expression cleared.

"Hang on - what does that have to do with anything?" John asked, feeling like he was missing something.

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling.

"Her family is devout," Sherlock explained quickly. "If the daughter was an atheist, then she wouldn't believe in an afterlife."

"And she told me that she was afraid of dying," the mother continued. "We had a long conversation. She had depression, but she had no intentions of killing herself - she was absolutely terrified of dying." She picked up a tissue and blew her nose loudly.

"May I ask, Mrs. Henry, if your daughter was close with your uncle?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward.

"But what does that have to do with-" the woman said, confusion crossing her freckled face.
"You know, I really don't have time for your silly questions. I've already solved this and I'm only double-checking for your sake. So please, do us all a favor and answer," Sherlock said brusquely, looking at her unblinkingly.

The woman looked from Sherlock to John, a stunned expression on her face. "She was," she said quietly.

"That's all we need to know," Sherlock said, standing up. "Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch."

They left the flat and entered the cold October air again.

"Okay, explain," John said as soon as they were outside. "How did you already solve the bloody thing?"

"I recognized her uncle in the photographs," Sherlock said quietly. "He's murdered before. Got away with it, but I couldn't prove it to the police. There wasn't enough evidence."

"But how do you know he killed her? Maybe she did kill herself."

Sherlock loosened his scarf as they climbed into the cab and he gave an address to the cabbie.

"She didn't."

"But how do you know?" John persisted. "I mean, you've got to have some internal reasoning. We need to make sure that you're right before we go storming in to Scotland Yard demanding the uncle's arrest."
"I know because the mother knows that it's the uncle that killed her," Sherlock snapped. "She knows it's him, it was obvious from her behavior when I asked about him - she must have found out somehow. But it's her brother, and she didn't dare testify against him, so she had no evidence."

John shook his head in amazement. "That's so simple, but I would have never figured that out."

"It's simple once you apply knowledge of basic human tendencies and behavior."
"Yeah, easy for you to say," John said, smiling. "So, where are we going?"
"We're going to confront the uncle."

John felt his smile slide off his face quicker than he could've thought possible. "What? No, we're not ready!"

Sherlock frowned. "John, you're so handicapped by your conceptions of 'ready'. So long as one has their mind with them, there is nothing they can't do."

"Are you becoming a poet?" John asked, conceding. "Fine. But I didn't bring my gun with me, and Lestrade has no idea that we're tackling a killer on our own - I'll let him know, just in case."

Sherlock looked at John's phone as he pulled it out as though it had personally offended him though he said nothing in opposition.

"You know, we could die on a case," John said once they'd arrived and were walking down the sidewalk to the flat that the uncle lived in, according to Sherlock. "He could pull out a gun and murder us on the spot. Do you ever think of that?"

"I don't burden myself with the possible outcomes of a situation. There are too many to try to prepare for each."

John looked at his friend, laughing. "I really think you should start poetry. Sherlock Holmes, acclaimed poet. It's not too far-fetched, to be honest."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as they made their way down the blustery street. The sun was dipping behind several clouds in the dimming afternoon light and rays of sunshine came in and out of focus. They finally arrived at a dumpy little flat, and Sherlock pounded on the knocker without hesitation.

A man with a beer belly sticking through his tank top opened the door. His hair was wet like he'd just gotten out of the shower and half of his face was shaved while the other half still had cream on it.

"Hello. We're coming in," Sherlock said, and without waiting for the man to respond he stepped inside. John followed warily, hoping that Sherlock had a plan because he certainly had no idea as to what to do.

The man opened his mouth to argue, belched instead, and followed them in.

"Hey, ya can't just come in 'ere! I've got privacy, ya know, it's a 'uman right, and ya just violated it! I'll call the cops!"

"No, I don't think you will," Sherlock said pleasantly. "Not with the guilt of murder you're bathing in. Even if they don't have evidence, you wouldn't dare."

The man's mouth flopped open like a fish gasping for air. John stood next to Sherlock, feeling that this wasn't one of their most intelligent moments - bursting into a flat to confront a murderer, of all people, without any sort of weapons with them.

"Now, here's what we're going to do. You're going to confess to the murder of your niece, or I'll alert Scotland Yard that you've got a meth lab in your flat," Sherlock said, nodding to the kitchen. "Which will it be?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the man exploded. A long string of other curses came out of his mouth. "Get out, now!"

Sherlock didn't even blink, but he kept his hands behind his back and stood just as tall.

"I said, get out!"

John took a step forward. "Look, mate, the cops are on their way, and-"

He didn't finish his sentence because the man had pulled out a gun with shaking hands. "I'll shoot ya! Ya 'ear me? I won't 'esitate, I swear!" He pulled the safety off and John put his hands calmly in the air.

"Okay," John said, keeping his cool. "Look, you've got the gun. You're in control. Now, how about you put that down, and no one gets hurt?"

The man pointed with his gun at a door off of the living room. "Go."

"Your basement," Sherlock breathed out. "You keep the bodies down there, Mr. Henry?"

Mr. Henry didn't acknowledge the question. He swung the barrel of the gun back to them. "Get down there, or I'll kill ya both," he threatened. John made eye contact with Sherlock, who nodded, and they slowly made their way to the basement door. John opened it cautiously, finding rickety wooden steps. He flicked the light on but it didn't do much in the dim light.

Sherlock suddenly turned around. "If you shoot us, the cops will hear and they will give you a life sentence on the spot," he warned. "I wouldn't advise that."

The man's breathing was labored and he sounded drunk. John didn't doubt that notion once they reached the bottom of the stairs; the basement stunk of beer and open cans were littered across the floor.

But more striking was the noose hanging from the wooden beam.

"That's where you killed her," Sherlock said quietly. "Quiet and quick. No one would know." He examined the rope, and John didn't doubt that his friend was making deductions based on the texture of it - or whatever the hell Sherlock looked at when he made his analyses - when a thick, heavy weight suddenly slammed into the back of his skull, ringing and solid.

He woke up in the basement, but this time he was tied to one of the beams. The man was standing in the room still, and for the first time it struck John how tall he was. The man's girth was vast and he doubted he could take the man on in a fight.

Sherlock was tied next to him; he could feel the detective's curly hair on his neck.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

"Awake, yes," Sherlock said, not bothering to whisper, and his tone was clearly annoyed. "So this is your plan? Kill us, and that way no one exposes your murder or meth secret?"

Mr. Henry turned back to him, and John was startled to see tear stains on his cheeks.

"It killed me. Hanging my niece? After I did it, I couldn't sleep for days. Couldn't believe what I'd done. And I promised myself I wouldn't kill anyone no more. But now you've gone and threatened me, and I… forgive me. I'm sorry."

He bent by John and untied the rope that had been pinning him against the beam. John instantly struggled, his hands still tied behind his back and his legs tied together, attempting to fight off the stars flying in his vision, but the man's grip on him was too strong. He nearly lost his balance when the rope around his ankles didn't yield, but managed to stay upright.

John could see Sherlock's face now, and wasn't surprised to see the pale skin and blood trickling down the side of his head. Concussion. He must have been nailed just as hard, he thought woozily, as he fought off the ringing in his ears that resumed upon standing up.

"The police weren't comin'," the man noted. "They never came. You two lied."

Sherlock's face twisted into a scowl. "Well, you are a murdering druggie. Do you expect us to treat you in a civil manner?"

John tugged as hard as he could with his wrists but couldn't get his hands out. "Not the time," he reminded Sherlock. The man suddenly lifted him as though he weighed nothing onto the chair in the center of the room.

Wait.

This isn't actually happening.

Is it?

"Hang on," John protested. "Can we please talk about this? Mr. Henry - you don't have to kill again. That feeling after you killed your niece? You don't want that again, do you?"

The man's breath hitched. "But ya know things. I can't let ya go, knowin' ya know things. I can't."

John could see Sherlock straining at the ropes.

"John, I…" Sherlock began, his face looking, for the first time, scared. Sherlock Holmes, brilliant detective, master of wit, all-knowing man, was scared.

And that made John more scared than he'd ever been.

"John, I didn't prepare for this," Sherlock said finally, exhaling sharply. "Mr. Henry, please - there are other ways, and we won't turn you in - I promise you that we will leave, and never return. I swear!"
Mr. Henry looked torn with himself. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he was averting John's eyes, his hands wringing and twisting.

"But… I can't… I can't take risks," Mr. Henry muttered, glancing up wildly. "I can't. My life would be ruined."

"But do you want to ruin ours?" Sherlock said, and John realized it was also the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock plead. "I swear to you that we won't report you to the police. Let us go and you'll never hear from us again."

Mr. Henry turned to John. "I… I don't know. I can't," he repeated, his words shaking and stumbling. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

John tried to jump off the chair in a leap that would potentially knock Mr. Henry to the floor, but he was impeded by the man's arms that wrapped around him like a bear hug. The rope that had been hanging from the beam was slipped around his neck, and he fought, but now he was like a dog on a leash, and there was nothing he could do.

Only now he realized just how high the beam was. If the chair was taken out from under his legs, he wouldn't be able to reach the floor - nor would Sherlock.

"Please, I'm begging you," John said, trying to keep his voice calm but even he could hear the slight tone of hysteria. "Don't do this. You can choose to let us go. You can. I swear to you, Mr. Henry, this isn't your last option."

Mr. Henry avoided making eye contact with him again. "I don't trust ya. I can't. I can't."

"No!" Sherlock's voice had risen to a shout. "Mr. Henry! Please!" He was so desperate that John couldn't help but look at his friend in wonder.

This is it. This is the end.

How ironic. They'd been talking about the what-ifs of this case only mere hours ago. What if they died on it?

And now, that seemed like their immediate future. John shook his head at the thought, trying to disregard it, but it seemed inevitable.

He couldn't see any way out of this one. And Lestrade knew that they were on the case… he'd texted him on their way here… but Lestrade didn't know they were in peril… and now there was no way he could let him know.

"I'm so sorry," Mr. Henry whispered. John chanced a look at Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock," he said. His voice slipped a bit and he choked slightly. "Hey. It's going to be okay."

Sherlock looked near hyperventilation. "John, I don't have a plan. I don't have a plan!" His voice rose to a bellow by the end of his sentence and in it were the emotions he always hid, the emotions people claimed The Great Sherlock Holmes didn't have - the emotions John scarcely saw.

"If this is our last case, Sherlock, then I'm glad it was a good one," John said, keeping his voice controlled again, for Sherlock's sake.

"John, this isn't our last case - don't be stupid-"

"Thank you, Sherlock. For all of the cases you've brought me on. For sharing a flat with me. For helping me see the world a lot differently." John managed to smile. "For being my best friend. Really."

Mr. Henry had tears in his eyes. For the tiniest of moments, John thought that his last words to Sherlock had convinced him not to pull the chair… to not make an irreversible decision… to not kill him.

One second, the chair was below him, holding his weight up.

And the next, it wasn't.

And John fell. He felt the rope snap taut around his neck.

Eight seconds, he discovered, was a long time when you were in the process of being hanged.

He heard Sherlock's cry of despair - it was agonizing, raw with grief.

The rope cut off his breath. It was painful. Exceedingly painful. But in those sparing moments, those eight seconds - he ignored the pain.

You're a soldier. Soldiers don't tolerate pain. They win over it.

John was a damn soldier, and his last few moments weren't going to be spent thinking about the pain.

Sherlock was bucking violently from where he was tied, but it was all in vain; he couldn't move. John would have offered reassurance but now his vocal cords weren't working… probably because of the pain… that would make sense…

Sherlock's shouts were echoing in his mind. The baritone voice. Sherlock's deep, intelligent voice would be the last thing he'd ever hear.

Interesting.

If he had predicted how he'd go down, this wouldn't have been how. He would have guessed - or hoped for - old age.

He realized with a jolt that wasn't happening.

His feet were dangling in the air… kicking… but he ignored the pain.

The rope was tight… so tight… but he ignored the pain.

Then, he lifted his eyes ever so slightly to meet Sherlock's. The detective's eyes were red, wet, and wild. Emotional. Sentimental. Everything that Sherlock hated.

So different from the first time he'd met him… walking into that lab with Stamford, he'd been met with steeled, calculating eyes.

These were different… so different…

And the eight seconds finished.

Sherlock could feel his throat tearing. John fell. For eight seconds, he kicked, and maybe… maybe John could fight it. Maybe he'd live.

But the rationale in Sherlock knew that was stupid. Don't be stupid… don't be stupid. Never be stupid… that was what he lived by. Yet now, he hoped, for some silly reason, that John was immune to hanging.

Eight seconds passed.

John went still.

The moment should have been blurred, but instead Sherlock saw it with horrible clarity. Mr. Henry touched John's wrist with a trembling hand then brought it back as though he'd been burned.

"Tell me he's alive!" Sherlock yelled, still pulling violently… uselessly… at his bonds.

Mr. Henry stepped back. "He's still alive," he said, his voice hardly audible.

"Let him down! Please, let him down! Mr. Henry, please!" Sherlock sought the man with his eyes and found only emptiness.

Dead silence.

Two minutes before John died.

Two.

Minutes.

And Sherlock cried.

It had been thirty-five years since he'd cried.

Mr. Henry guided him to the stool after. Sherlock didn't fight. Limply he felt the noose around his neck.

The chair was pulled.

He counted. Nine seconds until he saw nothing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nothing.

A/N: I wrote this because I was thinking about how many "close calls" there are in every television show and book… what if, on a random case, Sherlock and John didn't make it? This was the result.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks so much for reading!