This was maybe my second fic I've ever written, so sorry if it's not as good. But it feels right to post it anyway.
Enjoy!
Sherlock ran away. He ran as fast as he could go. He had over-heard something that man was saying, and knew he had to tell Mycroft.
Mycroft always got to go on "missions" the government sent him on, and Sherlock was left at home with Red Beard. He liked going on his own adventures with Red Beard, but you could only do so much with imagination. Sherlock had thought it wasn't fair that Mycroft always got to go on adventures and solve things just because he was older. So Sherlock went looking for his own case. He found (thoroughly looking for something was the same as finding, wasn't it?) a case that Mycroft had been given. It was about this man - Moriarty - and Sherlock thought it was just what he wanted. He could finally prove to his pompous older brother that he was the smart one!
Only, it hadn't worked out as Sherlock had planned.
He'd found where Moriarty was, and had managed to get there all by himself. Then he had heard Moriarty speaking to someone. It was about some sort of terrorist attack. That was when he realised he had to tell Mycroft, even though he wanted to solve the case by himself. But he had to; Sherlock didn't know a thing about bombs. But someone saw him. That man called Moriarty had found him, and Sherlock had to run away.
Now that Moriarty man was after him.
Sherlock ran through the woods. He hated the woods at night. The trees seemed so tall above him, and so dark. They looked like they were going to snatch him away with their big, wooden claws. And the sky looked so dark, even with the stars and moon shining above him. They didn't do much to light the sky up. Sherlock didn't like the dark. He would never, ever admit it, but the woods at night always scared him. If only Red Beard was with him. Red Beard would protect him.
Sherlock heard footsteps behind him, catching up with him. Then the blast of a gun going off. "Where are yooooouuuuu?!" Moriarty called in his demented voice. He was catching up with Sherlock, and as much as he would try, Sherlock simply couldn't go any faster. Were all grown-ups that fast? He was begining to get stitches in his sides, and his feet ached, but he refused to stop. Sherlock knew Moriarty would catch up with him if he stopped.
Another gunshot.
Sherlock was scared now. Was Moriarty going to kill him if he caught Sherlock? He didn't want to die. He was so far away from home. He wanted Red Beard. He wanted Mummy. For goodness sake! He even wanted Mycroft! Anyone...
Finally, up ahead of him, there was a clearing in the forest. He ran into it, he was almost on the other side, back into the woods -
"Stay where you are!"
This gunshot was the loudest. Sherlock could practically feel the bullet rush just past the side of his head. He stood still, and slowly turned around.
Moriarty was standing a few feet away from him, with a gun held in his hand. He had dark, short hair and eyes that were even darker. They glistened maniacally, and a horridly mischevious grin was stretched on Moriarty's face. He looked like a madman. He was a madman. He looked tall as well, which made him appear even more scary.
"Hands up, then!" He shouted madly at Sherlock, waving the gun as though he were orchestrating.
Reluctantly, Sherlock held his hands above his head. It felt humilating as well as terrifying, being ordered about by an insane criminal with a gun. Moriarty laughed at him, and Sherlock clamped his eyes shut, hoping that something would happen. That Mycroft would come and rescue him. That his big brother would show up with several helicopters full of snipers aiming at Moriarty, telling him to put his hands up -
"Silly brat." Moriarty laughed.
Sherlock heard a gunshot.
Then he felt it.
It knocked the air out of him. His eyes snapped open, but he didn't dare look down. Sherlock could feel a warm liquid begining to stain his shirt, and spread on his skin underneath. He looked at Moriarty. Their eyes met, and Sherlock could see amusement spread across that spine-chillingly calm face. "Have fun bleeding out." he said, before turning and walking away.
Sherlock placed his hand just above his stomach, where his ribs ended. He felt something warm and sticky dripping from his fingers. He looked at his hand, and it was covered in his blood. A choked sob was all that came from Sherlock before his knees gave way, and he fell to the cold, wet ground beneath him.
John Watson had been hired by Mycroft to find his brother. That was what he'd been told. There were other soilders out looking for him too, but in other locations. John had no idea why someone like Mycroft Holmes would trust him with a job like this, but he decided to not question it.
He knew that there was a child somewhere in these woods, and that he had to be found. And that was what John was going to do. He knew the boy's name was Sherlock (rare name), but that was about it.
Suddenly, he heard a gunshot far off. He sent a message that he'd heard one (though already assumed the others had heard it), and ran to find it. Part of him was already begining to dread the fact that this kid might be dead. He had been warned that Moriarty was a dangerous criminal, and John wasn't going to take any chances.
Another gunshot.
John ran faster, gripping the gun at his side. Mycroft hadn't exactly said what to do if they found the boy dead. John supposed that he hadn't wanted to accept the possibilty that his little brother might not make it. John could understand that. If he had a younger sibling in the same situation, he wouldn't dare think what might happen to them. Sherlock had ran away, apparently. John couldn't think why, and it wasn't really his business. But he knew that Mycroft was a genius; how could he have just not noticed that his little brother had slipped off? Maybe his brother was a genius like Mycroft. That wouldn't surprise John.
One more gunshot.
A lot closer this time.
3 gunshots? What could be happening? John was worried now. Really worried. He ran and saw a clearing ahead of him. What he saw next was likely to haunt him.
A child was laying on the ground, with his right hand covering his stomach. The other arm was splayed out on his side, and a pool of blood surrounded him. His hair was dark and curly, and he was white as a sheet. His entire front, from his shoulders to his waist, was soaked in red.
John ran over to him as quickly as possible.
"Mr. Holmes? Can you hear me?" John said loudly and clearly.
Sherlock's eyes drifted to meet the eyes of the man in front of him. The man had a kind looking face, with soft, dark blue eyes and sandstone blond hair.
"Hello." Sherlock whispered. His voice had grown so small that even he could only just hear it.
John looked at Sherlock. He had learned in training that once a pool of blood got to a certain size, it was too late. He wanted to move Sherlock's arm to see the wound, but he knew it was pointless. The boy couldn't be saved, and sadness forced John to have to swallow back the lump forming in his throat.
"I'm dying, aren't I?" Sherlock asked. It was heart-breaking how calm he sounded. He only looked about 10. John wanted to say it was going to be okay, that Sherlock would make it, but he couldn't bring himself to lie. He looked into Sherlock's slate blue eyes, which were big and glistening with frightened tears.
"Don't be frightened." John said calmly, stroking Sherlock's soft hair. He made himself smile reasuringly at the child. John saw Sherlock smile with his eyes, as a tear gently trickled down from his left eye.
Why did this child have to die? It wasn't fair. Moriarty was a heartless barstard. How could he do this?!
Pushing those thoughts aside, John realised that Sherlock didn't have long at all left. A minute, at the very best, though any breath could be his last.
With a strange calmness he didn't really feel, John began to hum a lullaby to Sherlock as he patted his hair gently. It came naturally to him to do so for some reason he couldn't fathom. It was a lullaby his mother had always sung to him when he was frightened as a child. He couldn't for the life of him remember the words, but the melody was clear as day. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock, who was looking back at him with comfort and sleepy relief. John continued to hum the lullaby to Sherlock, as Sherlock began to drift away from this world.
That was when the light left Sherlock, and his eyes closed. He breathed one last breath, almost as though it were a sigh.
And then, Sherlock was still.
John allowed a sob to come from him. He looked down at the body of the boy in front of him, and felt a tear flow down his cheek, splashing on his knee. He continued to pat Sherlock's hair, and while he was silent, inside he was screaming at the injustice of it. A young boy, that's all Sherlock was! A young child who had gotten mixed up in something horrible!
John regualted his breathing, and called the others in his group. Then he called Mycroft.
"Yes?" The voice on the other end asked.
"This is Watson. We've found Sherlock."
"Ah, yes. How is he?"
John swallowed. "He's dead, sir."
There was silence.
The silence lasted for a while.
"Where are you?" Mycroft asked in a monotone voice, all arrogance gone.
John told him where he was located, and the others in his group arrived.
Mycroft put down the phone. He sat in his chair, looking directly in front of him and seeing nothing.
Sherlock was dead.
He took a deep breath, and turned away when Red Beard went over to him to lick his hand. He got out of his chair, and headed for the living room, Sherlock's dog trailing behind him as if he knew.
He had gone to their parent's house once he had heard that Sherlock had ran away, and had sat in his old bedroom since he had arrived.
Red Beard whimpered as Mycroft walked into the living room, where Mummy and Father were sat together.
"Mycroft", his mother stood up as he walked in, hope glinting in her eyes, "have they found him, then?"
He looked straight at her, then at Father, then back to her.
"Sherlock won't be coming back home, Mummy."
She looked at him with confusion for a second. He watched as it dawned on her. He could practically see her heart break as she realised. She went over and enveloped her son in a hug, and broke down and cried. Mycroft looked at his father, who was staring at them, slower to realise (or perhaps slower to accept) that Sherlock was gone.
Concealing all emotion, Mycroft put a hand around his mother.
His little brother was dead.
Dead.
That was when he decided.
Moriarty was going to die.
The End