Bored, and sad. People were bombed at a race in boston, one my teacher went to. At least 3 have died, last time I checked. over 120 injured. Just mad, and exparated with the planet. So this is dedicated to everyone affected by anything evil ever. Even anything little. I care.
Guns. Interesting subject really. They can save lives, but can also destroy and end them. Guns can wound without even firing. Such multi-purposeful little objects of terror.
"Sherlock..."
Guns are powerful, they get the job done. Whatever your job may be.
"That man over there... He's staring."
Guns can kill slow, and fast. The fastest bullet reached 2700 miles an hour after all. A shot to the stomach, a shot to the head, either way. You're dead.
"I'm sure it's fine John. He might be a reader."
"I haven't put pictures up yet.
Sherlock Holmes knows guns. Almost every criminal has one; they are small portable, and quick. He has been shot at before. Not quite hit. But still, it counts, and since then, Sherlock has been looking up on guns. He knows them. But today nothing matters, the adrenalin is already coursing, as he knows it will. The two men are in an alleyway, waiting once again for an assassin. A couple people have stared as they walk past, the pair must look strange. Sherlock is bouncing up and down absentmindedly, excited for chase. John is beginning to mutter to himself, mostly about the date he had to cancel. Both are nervous.
"Never know an assassin to be late..."
John grins happily. He then peeks down the alley, across the street, and a bit to the left. The strange man is still there. Just watching.
"Sherlock, that guy has been staring at us for about 37 minutes now. Something is up."
Sherlock begins to answer the concerned doctor, but a loud clang draws his attention.
"It's him! Go John, RUN!"
Sherlock wears a big sloppy grin on his face. John catches a glimpse, and smiles back. He turns.
Everything changes in those few precious moments.
"Oh I am so stupid."
Stupid, stupid me. John-
John hears Sherlock say it.
'I am so stupid.'
He wants to say Sherlock isn't.
Sherlock isn't stupid.
John never gets a chance.
Bang.
Bang.
The doctor whips around.
Sherlock is standing up, for the first time; a surprised look is etched to his face.
"Sherlock!? What's wrong?"
The detective doesn't answer. Instead, he falls. Falls down, down like John never thought he could. Falls down like he will never get up. He doesn't.
John's world collapses. Without being aware, he runs over, and drops down next to the detective. He yells his name, not sure if the people gathering are real. He lifts up that cold, pale face. Looks into those cold pale eyes. Sees the blood from a wound on his forehead. No, two wounds. Twice. Sherlock was shot twice. But there's still a chance? Sherlock can't be dead. He doesn't just... die... Not like that.
John is only slightly conscious to the medics pulling him off of Sherlock's slender body, and doesn't even notice boarding a car. He finds himself suddenly listening to Greg Lestrade.
"-Don't know what happened they took him away so fast, is he dead!? He can't die now, not now. What happened? Oh god. No. Please. Please god. Let him live."
John gasps, the coldness of Sherlock's eyes hitting his face like fresh snow.
"Sherlock!"
Greg turns around, eyes puffy.
"We're driving to the hospital right now. I don't know how bad the shot was, so he could be fine. We have a chance. He could live."
John is silent. He will believe Lestrade.
/
Sherlock is hooked to many machines, all beeping frantically. His head is bandaged, and he is not breathing. The machines are breathing for him. John is sitting in a room, with Lestrade, Donavan, and Mycroft. They are waiting. Mycroft feels unnaturally worried. Sally wants to make a joke, about freak being so hard headed the bullet should a bounced off. She can't. Lestrade wants to murder the man who shot Sherlock. Wants to tear him limb from limb. John? John wants to tear the world apart. He will not rest until his detective is safe. But none of them can do a thing until news arrives. Mycroft sighs. Somehow this breaks the ice.
Sally and john begin to cry, not caring what anyone thinks. Greg hugs them both tight. Mycroft, not knowing what to do, sighs again.
"He'll be fine. You remember the time he was thrown into the Thames?"
John smiles at Lestrade's words.
"Yea. Climbed right out and was annoyed because his scarf fell off in the water."
The group, including Mycroft, laughs.
"Yes, whenever he fell over and scraped himself, he would just take the blood for testing!"
Mycroft's words seem to fit Sherlock, and the four people laugh again.
John smiles.
"He lost his scarf in the ambulance..."
"Don't worry; I've brought a new one!"
Mycroft produces a rose coloured lump.
"He'll absolutely hate that!"
Sally laughs the end of her sentence.
Soon the room is cheerful, almost. They all exchange stories in which Sherlock is either very clever, or incredibly stupid. This goes on for hours, until a nurse comes in.
Her presence quiets the lot. No one knows what to expect.
"G-go on. Tell us how he is."
The nurse smiles sadly.
"He didn't die."
For a moment, John's stomach has lifted, and a jittery feeling encases.
"Not right away. He... He's been pronounced brain dead. Officially. We're taking him off life support in 10 minutes."
John hears the words. He understands. He knows. He's a doctor. But no, his mind screams. No, this isn't right. Sherlock doesn't stop. He goes, runs by so very fast. John has hardly caught up. He didn't want to. He hates to stop.
Mycroft nods.
"I must go. Elections."
Sally stares after the broken man. He was so happy a minute ago. She was too. What happened? How is freak gone so fast? Suddenly the name freak sounds horrible. She hates herself.
Greg takes in the words. The detective can't die. Not now. He was supposed to live, like he always does. Like he always did, Lestrade's brain corrects. God he hates the thing sometimes.
The nurse leaves.
/
John is next to Sherlock. He has the scarf, the one his detective would've hated. He holds Sherlock's hand. John doesn't know what to do. So he cries.
"You never liked the caring lark did you...You are such a fool, you know that!? What am I going to do now Sherlock?"
John squeezes Sherlock's cold hand. The nurse begins to switch off machines.
"You aren't stupid. You were brilliant. Absolutely fantastic. And- I am going to miss you. Everyone is."
She takes off the breathing mask.
John is now choking out words between gasps and sobs.
"Goodbye. Goodbye Sherlock."
John Watson watches as his best friends life slips away.
He wears nothing but rose coloured clothes for a month.
/
Sherlock's funeral has a surprising turnout. Almost everyone he ever helped is there, along with the entire Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, and of course John. John. John is broken, but has glued himself together the best he can. Sherlock would want him to.
After the funeral, John doesn't know what to do. He can't move out of 221B. He can't bring himself to touch any of Sherlock's things. He needs a job. He needs money. He needs his detective. His Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he'll be a detective. He'll be the world's only consulting detective. Maybe he'll get himself a John. He smiles. He will. And he will find the person. The person who killed his best friend.
I'M SORRY I WROTE THIS! I'm turning into moffat :( Should I do a sequal?