Just a short one-shot about what would've happened in TGG/SiB had Sherlock not waited long enough to fire the gun. So with that, my dear readers, I leave you with this, the product of my musings! Enjoy!
~oOo~
"… Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"
Little, red dots of light danced threateningly across his shirt. Sherlock's heart pounded faster and faster, almost beating out of his ribcage. Although his palms were sweating, he tried his best to hide his growing anxiety. Through his panic, Sherlock's body supplied him with just enough pure adrenaline to keep him going.
He glanced at John, who nodded minutely in understanding. They were on the same page, at least. Good.
"Then probably my answer has crossed yours."
He pulled out the gun and pointed it at Moriarty. There it stayed, unmoving. Waiting. The two consultants stood, just smirking nervously at each other, each daring the other to make the first move. But Sherlock was feeling brave that day. His gun lowered down and down until it was pointing at the floor.
Pointing at the bomb.
The consulting criminal had definitely not been expecting that. In an instant, the uneasiness in Moriarty's eyes grew to alarm, then to fright. The side of Sherlock's lip twitched into a slight smirk, celebrating his small success of having truly outwitted Moriarty. He tried not to think about the cost of such a victory.
Tension grew to an unbearable level as the weapon remained tauntingly motionless, as if waiting for the most perfect, unsuspecting moment.
The seconds dragged on. At first, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to shoot. He began to hope dearly for an interruption, surrender, any advantageous happening that would stop the bullet from hitting its fatal mark. But Moriarty stubbornly stood his ground without admit defeat, like he was urging – no, daring Sherlock to fire.
As he thought over everything about his predicament, the detective was beginning to doubt the possibility of him getting out alive.
One thing was for sure – Sherlock definitely wasn't bored anymore.
It was now or never. Waiting any longer was not an option. A sniper could consider Sherlock's hesitation as a wonderful opportunity to shoot both him and John. Without a yin to his yang, Moriarty would get very bored, very quickly. Sherlock wasn't about to let a bored, lonesome, criminal psychopath walk free to set the world aflame without anyone to stop him. If Moriarty's death meant his death as well, then so be it.
John was willing to take that risk, too. The look in his terrified, yet forever loyal eyes said just as much. With that final reminder, Sherlock lined up the sights and slowly exhaled for the last time.
His finger pulled the trigger.
There was a loud bang, closely followed – and greatly outdone – by an ear-splitting roar.
He couldn't breathe. His head hurt. There was fire. Fire and smoke and things flinging dangerously through the air. Then the deafening roar was replaced by an alarming silence and Sherlock could practically hear the aching in his ears. Everywhere hurt, but the pain almost seemed too distant to be real. It was... fuzzy and out of focus. Then it was completely gone and the world faded into nothing.
Amidst the rubble and smoking debris, an ironic tune rang out just moments too late.
~oOo~
This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. Reviews and favourites are appreciated. Criticism is my friend!
Thank you, LostThyme, for being my Beta! I could not have published this without you! I pelt delicious cookies at your profile for you to savor and enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these delightful characters. Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and Godtiss.