Warning for this chapter: major character death

Scenario 1

Stunned, Sherlock stared at Moriarty's dead body, a large puddle of blood forming around his head. What had gone wrong? A few moments ago he thought he had the situation under control and now it had gotten completely out of hand! How had he not foreseen Moriarty's plan?

The plan … once again the words echoed in his mind.

Your only three friends in the world will die, unless …

Sherlock gasped as he felt his heartbeat in his throat. Slowly he staggered up to the edge of the roof, looking down carefully. There was no chance he could survive the fall. The concussive force of landing would shatter bones and rupture internal organs. If the massive physical damage did not kill him outright, blood loss would send him into hypovolemic shock—he would go into tachycardia, tachypnea, his blood pressure would plummet, he would grow colder and colder and slip away into a coma before dying—

Blood whooshed in his hears and it felt as if his heart would jump out of his chest any moment. Agitated, he buried his hands in his hair, desperately trying to find a way out. There must be a way out! He groaned in frustration as his brain didn't provide a satisfactory solution.

He spun around hysterically. Somewhere in a building near him was one of the assassins, waiting for the next act in this play: to either see him jump or become part of the action himself and pull the trigger. Sherlock felt sick at the mere thought of it. Again he stared down into the yawning distance before him. Little but violent gusts of wind pulled at his coat. A surge of adrenalin shot through his veins as he had to spread his arms a moment to not lose his balance. Desperately he closed his eyes.

He wasn't prepared to die, prepared by no means at all.

When he saw the cab pulling up the street the sickness brought tears to his eyes. How long would the assassin wait until he pulled the trigger? He saw John taking his mobile out of his pocket and a few seconds later his own mobile rang in his jacket. Carefully he pulled it out of his coat pocket.

"John ..."

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?"

"Look up, I am on the rooftop."

He saw John lifting his head. "Sherlock, what … what are you doing?"

"Moriarty trapped me." He kept his voice low; it helped cover the tremble in it.

John was confused. "What trap? I'll come up to you."

"No! Stay exactly where you are!"

"But Sherlock—"

"Make no rapid movements. Your life's in danger."

"W-what are you talking about?"

Sherlock swallowed and took a deep breath. "Somewhere—anywhere—Moriarty's assassin is hiding and has a gun trained on you."

"What?!" John gasped, looking around.

"He'll pull that trigger if you don't—"

Sherlock was interrupted by the sound of a muffled impact and a startled gasp through the earpiece of the phone, then he saw John collapse and lie motionless on the ground.

"John!" Sherlock gasped. "No. No! NO!"

He rushed up to the stairway and ran down the stairs. This mustn't have happened! This mustn't have happened, for god's sake!

After what seemed an endless journey he finally reached the ground floor and stumbled out onto the street. A knot of people had already surrounded John and Sherlock pushed them aside vigorously.

"Let me through!" he shouted.

An icy claw caught hold of Sherlock's heart to squash it, as he caught a glimpse of the pool of blood John was lying in. Sherlock fell onto his knees right next to him and heard John's strained breathing.

"John", Sherlock gasped and bent over him.

How was it possible that he looked so pale already? Carefully Sherlock opened John's jacket. The sight choked him. The bullet had hit John in his chest and had soaked his jumper with blood within seconds.

"No, John!" Sherlock pressed his hand onto the wound, but the blood gushed through his fingers with every heartbeat. It was at an alarming low rate already.

With effort, John groaned. "Sherlock …"

The last syllable of the name was mumbled so low that it couldn't be heard. John clutched at Sherlock's coat with one blood covered hand and tried to say something.

"Don't speak, you'll make it, okay. Help's on the way," Sherlock whispered bravely, although he already knew that any help would come too late.

The aorta has been perforated and pumped a large amount of blood out of John's body every second. Soon there wouldn't be enough blood for John's heart to pump through his body. It was only a matter of seconds until the blood circulation would collapse. The hypovolemic shock Sherlock had imagined might be his fate would be John's. Sherlock knew all that, but he wasn't in any way ready to accept that.

Slowly John's fist pulled him further down while John's head sank back. There wasn't enough strength left to hold his head up any further. Sherlock was bent low over his friend, forced to look him in the eyes. John's breathing was intermittent and he seemed to be very far away. Sherlock could feel the grip holding onto his coat decreasing constantly, could feel the body next to him relaxing more and more. Has the time come already? This went too fast, way too fast!

Sherlock stared at his friend with horror. "No, John, please", he whispered again and again. His hand, that he had kept pressed on John's chest all the time, was immersed in blood now.

Slowly John's hand fell from Sherlock's coat silently to the ground and Sherlock's heart shattered into a million pieces.