A one-shot that I decided to write because I wanted to torture myself with emotional pain. And now I'm sharing it with you all because I want you to suffer. To quote a famous consulting criminal:
"I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."
(Yes, the plot is a bit rushed, but then again, it is a one-shot.)
Sherlock pulled his collar up to shield his ears from the wind of the mountain top, made worse by the helicopter landed not too far away from him; a donation graciously made by his brother.
With a set look of determination and fixed intent on his face, he proceeded to welcome himself into the cabin, listening as the helicopter behind him took off.
The door of the cabin was thrown back by the intense wind of the storm as soon as it was opened, and Sherlock was quick to close it, though it took some effort.
As soon as the wind outside was muted, Sherlock scanned the dark sitting room.
"Alright, Jim," he growled. "Enough of this game of hide-and-seek. Come out."
For a moment, there was no response.
"Sherl-ock!" a voice suddenly sang through the room.
A light came on and Jim Moriarty, crazy-eyed, came out into full view, holding a sword to a bound John Watson's neck.
"Like my new toy?" Moriarty grinned. "It's vintage!"
"Let him go," Sherlock hissed. "And let's finish this like men."
"Like men, or like the animals we are?"
"However you feel necessary." He looked to John. "Are you alright?"
John swallowed and nodded.
"It's cute how he lies to make you feel better. Johnny and I have had quite a lot of fun in your absence," Moriarty said.
"This is a new low; even for you, Jim," Sherlock sneered. "Holding a sword to a man's throat? How barbaric; how primitive."
"Sherlock, don't provoke him," John warned. "For the love of God."
"I'd listen to him, dear," Jim said. "He often knows what he's talking about."
Sherlock frowned.
"I doubt you'll come peacefully."
"But see, I just might. I mean, a helicopter! How posh! How luxurious! I couldn't ask for a better way to go."
"You won't go."
Moriarty laughed.
"Caught me. I suppose I just can't resist a few fun and games. What can I say? I'm a child at heart."
He threw John to the side and held out his sword.
"Your pet's on a leash, I've got a sword, and you've got enough anger bottled up inside of you that you might pop like a little balloon if poked just the right way. Interesting, yes?"
Sherlock pulled out a gun.
"I'd say so."
"Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock," Moriarty warned. "What is that saying? 'Don't bring a knife to a gunfight'?"
"I've got the gun, Jim," Sherlock scowled.
"Yes, but would you really rather spring for quick and easy? I mean, sure stabbing someone is a bit messy and laborious, but it's so much fun!"
Sherlock glanced at John who was looking equal parts tired and scared. But even through such emotion, he could see that John was telling him to not do what he was thinking about doing.
"What do you say, Sherly? One last showdown?" Jim coaxed.
The detective reluctantly unloaded his gun and tossed it to the floor, not missing the sound of his flatmate's breath hitching.
"I assume you have a weapon prepared for me?"
Moriarty grinned.
"Of course, my dear."
Sherlock caught another sword that Jim threw at him by the handle, prepping his wrist and stance.
"Standard rules?" he asked.
Moriarty chuckled.
"Oh please; rules are boring. I don't enjoy feeling restrained."
"Then may the better man win," Sherlock nodded.
He thrust the sword forward, intercepted by a strategic block on Moriarty's part; John sat up on the floor, trying his best to free himself of his bonds.
Moriarty swung, then Sherlock, then Moriarty, then both simultaneously; they were obviously anticipating one another's next move with the most intense precision.
The swords clashed against each other as the two intellectuals moved through the room, Sherlock needed to duck backwards a few times to avoid losing an eye. Moriarty swung at him again, throwing him off balance and sending him to the floor; the psychopath took his chance to gain a head-start and ran for the back door, swinging it open and running into the blizzard.
Sherlock got to his feet, ignoring the cries of his friend to stop, and ran after his nemesis.
It was practically impossible to see through the sheet of snow barrelling down with the wind, causing Sherlock's goal to seem unattainable.
He heard crunching snow beside him and ducked out of the way, narrowly missing the blade of Moriarty's sword.
"Good move, darling!" the criminal laughed.
"This is getting rather tedious, Jim!" Sherlock roared over the wind.
"Then end the game!"
"I fully intend to!"
"You won't if you don't catch meeeee!"
He heard and saw Moriarty running past him, towards what seemed to be the mountain ledge, and quickly followed him.
"Sherlock!" he heard John scream behind him.
"Come and get me, Sherlock Holmes!" Moriarty sang.
Sherlock stumbled through the snow, eyes blinded by snow, nearly falling over when he reached the edge of the mountain. Quickly, he turned around, met with the end of a sword nicking his wrist. Involuntary, he loosened his grip on the sword, dropping it in a mound of snow beside him.
Through the sheet of white in front of him, he could still see clearly the face of his great enemy smiling wickedly at him as he held the point of the sword up to his chin.
"Beat you once again!" the psychopath cheered. "A disappointing and yet validating victory."
"Aren't you proud?" Sherlock growled.
"Of course. Because now, after years of holding back, I finally get to kill you. No more games, no more hide-and-seek; just the end of the line." Jim cackled. "It's glorious, isn't it? So finite, so official! A bit sad, too, though."
Sherlock seethed.
"Oh, darling, don't be sad!" Moriarty pouted. "We've had lots of fun, you and I; your death isn't completely meaningless. And when you're gone, you'll at least have people who miss you." He smiled. "Like John. Such a loyal thing, isn't he? Your death will probably devastate him the most. He'll be lost without you; a cripple without a crutch to lean on."
"He'll be safe," Sherlock said. "And that's all that matters."
Moriarty gasped dramatically.
"Did someone say character development? My oh my, how time does change us. Look at how sentimental you've become!"
Sherlock looked sadly down at the ground.
"Just like the worthless scum I kill on a whim!" He laughed again. "It makes killing you so much more satisfying."
"If you're so keen on doing it, then do it!" Sherlock snapped.
"With pleasure." Moriarty reared back. "It's been an absolute honour hating you, Sherlock Holmes."
As he thrust the sword forward, Sherlock braced himself for impact, shutting his eyes tightly and waiting for the blow to come; but it never did. Instead of what should have been his own pained grunt came that of another man.
He opened one eye and saw the figure of John in front of him, the surprised and pleased face of Moriarty leering at him.
Looking down, the detective saw the blade of Moriarty's sword run clean through his best friend who was simply standing stock still in the snow, as if unsure of whether to fall to the ground or stay strong. As Moriarty pulled out the sword, it seemed that the former option was the one John went with, as he collapsed on his knees, and then on his torso to the ground.
Sherlock was mute; all thoughts and words left him. He wanted to scream, to cry; to do anything. But he couldn't. All he could do was stare in shock at the bleeding body of his closest companion laying in the cold snow.
"Oh dear," Moriarty clucked. "How disgustingly and satisfyingly selfless."
Sherlock's look of awe morphed into one of pure rage and hatred. In a flash, he grabbed his sword from the ground and swung at Moriarty again, this time catching the man on the hand. The criminal subsequently dropped his own weapon, and Sherlock took his opportunity to go for the kill; he swung at Moriarty's neck, lodging the sword right in the side with a satisfying slice of the jugular and carotid artery.
The consulting criminal looked morbidly pleased with this turn of events before bringing his hands up to his bleeding neck once his opponent had removed the blade of the sword; and, with great force, he was grabbed by the collar and swung over the ledge of the mountain, doomed to a fate on the rocky cliffs below.
Sherlock, having effectively eliminated the bane of his existence, turned back around to John; the doctor was sprawling on the ground, having worked himself onto his back.
"Sher"-" he coughed.
The detective was by his side instantly, placing firm hands on his wound and pressing down.
"Quiet, John," he hushed the wounded doctor. He obviously tried to mask his panic with his usual cold and calculative method of approaching any typical situation, but failed miserably, the quaver in his voice extremely detectable and heartbreaking to hear.
"S'okay..."
"Let me text Mycroft; he can send medics," Sherlock reassured his flatmate.
John hiccuped.
"It's bad, Sherl. It's really bad."
Sherlock bit his lip, still trying to hold back all emotion.
"Shut up, you idiot," he hissed. "You'll be fine." He pulled out his phone and went to text Mycroft, but was stopped by John's bloodied hand shakily grabbing hold of his wrist.
"Sherl... s'not worth it..." John swallowed hard.
"John-"
"M'sorry," John spluttered. "Should've... thought..."
Sherlock lifted John into his arms and pulled him into his lap.
"Just be quiet," Sherlock told him. "For God's sake."
John felt himself striving for air, the massive hole that had been ripped through his chest causing blood to spill into his lung. And, despite his earlier efforts to stop him, he noticed that Sherlock was texting Mycroft to meet him out back after returning with medical professionals.
"Shl..." he muttered.
"Stop it," Sherlock commanded. "Stop trying to speak." He placed his hand not being used to support John's torso over the doctor's wound and continued applying pressure, disconcerted when he didn't even earn a flinch from the man. "Actually, ignore me; answer me: why in the hell did you do that?!"
John smiled and coughed, blood dribbling down his chin.
"Worth it..."
"'Worth it'?! You're all I have, you dolt! If you die now, what am I to do? Find another flatmate? That's out of the question! You're all I want, John! You! My blogger who wears jumpers round the flat, brews an unhealthy amount of tea, enjoys watching crap telly, and relentlessly chastises me for my childish and irresponsible behaviour. I want you, John. I need you." The detective felt a hot tear roll down his cheek. "I can't lose you."
John frowned, feeling himself begin to cry.
"You or me," he choked. "S'always you."
Sherlock shook his head adamantly.
"No! That isn't how it works!" He tightened his fist in John's shirt. "You stupid, selfless imbecile!"
John nodded weakly.
"Hey," he wheezed. He coughed painfully again before grabbing his friend's hand positioned on his chest and squeezed it tightly, looking into the lost and sad eyes of the man, the impossibly beautiful array of colours reflecting off of the snow that had begun to fall a bit more gently now. "I love you, alright?"
Sherlock tightened his lips, desperately trying to hold himself together with rapid breaths, and nodded.
"Quite right too."
John laughed, quickly following it up by gasping.
Sherlock placed his forehead on John's and closed his eyes.
"And I suppose, if it's my last chance to say it: John Watson, I love you."
John smirked, his eyes drooping.
"Never thought you liked that show."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes even more tightly.
"Not when you were looking."
"You always liked... keeping secrets... from me..." John trailed off. "...git..."
Sherlock felt as John's ragged breathing ceased, his tense muscles relaxed, and his head fell back.
He also felt himself break down into silent tears as he clutched the lifeless corpse of his friend to his chest, praying to whatever deities he'd ignored in the past to bring him back, hoping that that would somehow prove effective.
But the doctor remained dead, the snow stained with his blood.
And Sherlock's world was torn apart.
Moriarty had won.