The sound of the rain pattered on the window of the flat and Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. It was one of those days - a day without a case, a day with no drugs to lean on. Even Mrs Hudson had decided to disallow the tobacco he had been taking. But ever since the baby had started to show with Mary, Sherlock felt slightly.. Unneeded.

So as he sat in this flat, he looked down at the floor, then back out the window, where he saw a black car pulling up beside the window. "Mycroft." He murmured to himself, pissed in a few more ways than one. After looking as his brother walked to the door, the detective walked down to the front door and opened it, greeting his brother with an annoyed grunt, though kept the door wide open for him to come through.

"Brother dearest, it seems you're needed." Were Myrcroft's words as he stepped into the house, sitting down in Sherlock's chair.
"Brother dearest, I don't seem to care." Sherlock growled back at his brother, though appeared to be listening to the man.
"Mass murders going on in the Leicester Square area." Myrcroft said, passing him the papers, which Sherlock picked up quickly, kaleidoscope eyes scanning over the writing.
"Fine." The sociopath growled, and stood up.

As Sherlock looked over the crime scene with John at his side, he smirked a little. "Wanna-be murderer. Left fingerprints everywhere. In fact, I could find him in seconds if we had Molly in.." He sighed lightly as he thought of the girl who appeared to have a strange thing for sociopaths.
"And because we don't?" John asked, his eyebrow cocked in a slightly annoyed position. He didn't seem amused by the murder solving, but Sherlock was past caring. The detective imagined he had ripped him away from some kind of housework like baby-shopping.
"We can get pissed."

It wasn't many days that Sherlock agreed on getting drunk, but as they walked to the bar he saw John's hand twitching a little and sighed gently, raising a dark eyebrow. He walked into the bar as usual, until he realised that the public tavern was completely empty.

John looked around, then back at the door. "Is it really that late? Is it Sunday or something? Why's it so empty in here?" He was rattling off with a million questions a minute as Sherlock walked around the empty public place. It seemed suspicious, fuck, it was suspicious, and yet he found himself walking along to the bar with a small smile on his face.

He completely misinterpreted the footsteps he heard behind him as John's, and yet the doctor was outside, taking a long smoke, he presumed.
A long yelp came from Sherlock as he heard his skin rupture and feel a sharp blade go into his back, falling back on the knife as the man ran off. He wasn't killed instantly, which was the worst bit of all.

Sherlock looked back at his stabber, before feeling the blade leave him, and hearing himself fall back on the ground. He hadn't even thought of John, who was running into the room, cradling Sherlock's head as he hugged him close to him. "Shit, Sherlock.. Shit! What the fuck happened?" He asked, shaking lightly.

Sherlock was about to point out the obvious and say that he had gotten stabbed, when John shook his head lightly. "No, save your breath.." He said, his tears falling onto Sherlock's face. John played with his curls, talking to the detective quickly as he fought sobbing while Sherlock got paler and paler. John opened his mouth, then closed it again, and repeated this again, much to Sherlock's amusement.
"You look like a goldfish," he said, voice hoarse and looking like a sick man.

After two minutes, John looked down at Sherlock's still-breathing body, and managed to choke out an "I.. I love you, Sherlock.." He cried, cupping his face. The detective made the most heartbreaking half-laugh half-sob and managed to force out "Quite right, too. And I suppose, if it's my last chance to say it.. John Watson, I-"