The Score
Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock.
This repeated over and over in John's head, one after another as if he thought it enough, he could make it true. Numbly, John moved to take Sherlock's pulse, when he heard the sound of a door opening behind him and footsteps. The smart reaction would have been to look, but John wasn't worried about that right now. His hand closed around Sherlock's wrist, but whether there was a pulse or not John never got to know, he was pulled to his feet and dragged out of the room by whoever had just entered the room, away from Sherlock's slack, lifeless body-
"No," he heard himself moan softly.
"Hush," a sharp, familiar voice said, and as the door shut John finally looked up to see who had taken him.
"Mycroft?"
"Yes, now hush," the man replied irritably.
"What about Sherlock?" John protested. "We have to go back and get him-"
"Don't worry about Sherlock, doctor," Mycroft replied, as they moved down the long, dark corridor. "I have people coming to take care of him, and there's nothing you can do for him for now. You staying here would be foolish, your kidnapper is sending reinforcements as we speak."
"I don't care how bloody stupid it is," John shot back, coming to an abrupt stop. "I'm not leaving. Not without Sherlock."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I am only looking out for your own safety, just as my brother would want-"
"I don't think you heard me correctly," John interrupted. "I'm. Not. Leaving."
"If those reinforcements arrive whilst you are there attempting to save Sherlock's life, they will kill both of you immediately," said Mycroft coolly. "If they arrive and find my brother alone, apparently dying, they will leave him. You staying behind will only ensure his death, so I suggest you reconsider."
John glowered up at Mycroft for a moment, weighing his options. Unfortunately, the man was right-the doctor's presence would only endanger Sherlock's life further.
"Fine," John said. "But I swear, if your people do not get to him in time-" he stepped forward, jabbing a finger at Mycroft's chest- "I will come after you."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," Mycroft replied calmly, and he turned and resumed walking down the corridor.
They walked on silently until they arrived at another door with a keypad. Mycroft studied the pad for just a moment, then entered in four digits. There was a sound of the door unlocking and it swung open.
The second they stepped in, John knew something was wrong-it was much too quiet and he did not believe that they were not being followed. Unconsciously, he reached into his coat for his gun, but of course, he did not have it. It was then he saw it-the glint of a gun from the corner.
"Get down!" John shouted, and dove forward, tackling Mycroft to the floor. The bullet whizzed over their heads as the two men crashed hard to the ground.
After shooting, the man emerged from his hiding spot, and John jumped to his feet, glancing back quickly to check on Mycroft, then back to the man.
John knew what the man was going to do before he did-the man barreled forward, meaning to try to take him down perhaps in the same manner as John had Mycroft, but the doctor was ready for it. He braced himself, and when the man collided with him John seized him by the wrist and twisted it behind his back. The man howled in pain and John shoved him to the ground, he heard running footsteps coming from his right and spun around to meet his next attacker.
John took care of him as easily as the first, but the man was followed by two, no, three more men-and even more men followed. John was quickly becoming overwhelmed, and Mycroft-who knew where Mycroft was? The man had disappeared, and John hoped that he had escaped and not been captured.
From the front, another charged him, and John, though weary, braced himself. The man never made it. A fresh bullet wound suddenly appeared in the man's shoulder almost as if by magic, jerking backwards and falling to the ground. John whirled around to see that his savior was Sherlock Holmes himself, holding a gun, white faced, weak, but alive.
John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him. "Vatican cameos," He shouted, and John ducked down just before the detective shot over his head, taking down the man who had previously been sneaking up behind them.
With Sherlock by his side, the two were able to easily fight off the rest of the reinforcements
"Good work, John," said Sherlock after the doctor had knocked the last one to the ground. He nodded at the fallen men around them, and his voice was alarmingly faint and weak, as if he might pass out at any moment.
"You should sit down," John said, concerned.
Sherlock shrugged this off, and when he opened his mouth to speak, he let out a pained gasp and the next moment he stumbled. John acted quickly, catching him by the arm.
"Sherlock-"
"Don't worry, I'm fine," The detective said in what he must have thought was a reassuring tone, but his voice was so quiet John didn't believe him. "Let's just get out of here, alright?" Sherlock said after noticing John's incredulous expression. He closed his eyes for a moment, then they opened again, looking over at John in an almost pleading way. "Will you, John?"
"Of course," John replied, understanding. "Come on, get your arm up around my neck, you look like you're going to faint."
Sherlock gave a weak chuckle, but obliged, wrapping an arm around John's neck, and together they slowly made their way out, through the next door. Sherlock murmured quiet instructions, which way to turn and when to stop-John didn't ask him how he knew, just obeyed. The detective seemed to be becoming weaker as time passed, and eventually John was half carrying him instead of just supporting his weight. He was beginning to feel his own injuries, but he ignored them and focused on getting his friend out, he didn't know how much longer the detective would be able to hold on.
"Door to your right," Sherlock murmured, and John glanced to the door indicated. It opened easily and together they stepped inside, a dark, large room just like the first.
"I can...I can walk now," Sherlock said softly.
John scoffed.
"No, really, I can. Please."
John looked into his friend's white, determined face. "Fine. Go on then," he said after a moment. "But if you fall on your face it'll be your own fault."
Sherlock smiled a little at John's attempt at humor, and reluctantly the doctor released the detective. Sherlock staggered a bit, but then stood up straight, rolling his shoulders.
"Good?"
"Yes." Sherlock said. Suddenly, someone was slamming on the door, probably throwing their weight against it. There was also the sound of angry voices, how many, John couldn't tell.
Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. John pointed to the corner. "Go lean up against that wall," he commanded. "Go," he said again when Sherlock didn't move. "Don't worry, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound comforting despite the pounding and shouting behind the door.
"I'm not worried, John," Sherlock said, then after a moment, he added-"I'm with you."
Unexpectedly, he reached out and put a hand on John's shoulder, and the doctor was about to respond when he felt a painful prick in his shoulder. Surprised, he yelped at the pain, and almost immediately he felt sluggish, slow.
"What...what did you do...?" He slurred, his limbs suddenly feeling heavy and useless.
Sherlock didn't answer, but led John over to the same dark corner the doctor had just originally commanded Sherlock to hide in. Gently, Sherlock helped John sit.
"What was that..." John said, literally having to force out the words.
"It's alright," Sherlock said, his voice barely audible above the pounding and shouting from behind the door. "Just keep still...trust me."
"Sher..."
Sherlock ignored him and moved into the light just as the door burst open, and three men rushed into the room.
"There he is," the man closest to Sherlock said. "We've been looking for you."
Sherlock straightened up, pointing his gun at the men. "Why? I passed your boss' test."
"Yeah," said the man, "but the boss never said that he wasn't going to try to stop you on the way out." He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Sherlock's heart. "It's just you that he wants, but he said if you don't cooperate we should shoot your friend there." He jerked his head in John's direction.
Sherlock's shoulders sagged the smallest fraction.
Don't, John wanted to say, but his body refused to obey.
Sherlock's arm dropped, and he tossed the gun onto the floor.
No! John tried, but again, no sound came out.
"Good," said the man, and suddenly a smooth, familiar voice sounded from behind the men. "Get out of my way." The next moment, Mycroft Holmes himself pushed his way through the throng.
If John had been able to gasp or make any sort of noise, he would have, but whatever Sherlock had drugged him with had almost completely paralyzed his bodily functions. Why were the men not moving, not trying to attack Mycroft? Why-
Mycroft's expression hardened at the sight of his brother, and out of his suit jacket he pulled out a handgun, and he waved a dismissing hand at the man aiming a gun at Sherlock. Strangely enough, the man obeyed and lowered his gun.
"He's unarmed," one of the men said, a shorter, bearded man to Mycroft's left.
Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off his brother. "Hello, brother dear," he said, his voice unusually cold.
John could not see Sherlock's expression, but he saw the way the detective's shoulders tensed. "Mycroft..." he said, his voice painfully soft, and John realized Sherlock was actually pleading. "Mycroft, please..." The sound of it was like a knife in John's chest, and cold, awful realization was clenching around his heart like a fist.
Mycroft's expression didn't change, but he held up the gun, aiming it at Sherlock, and John's heart began to pound frantically. He wouldn't, it was just a ruse, he wasn't going to-
NO!
Mycroft fired, and John could do nothing but watch helplessly as time seemed to slow down, his scream of horror blocked in his throat, as the bullet caught Sherlock in the chest, the sheer force of it throwing the detective's body backwards, sending him crashing hard onto the floor.
Sherlock! SHERLOCK!
John tried as hard as he could to move, to do anything, but his body remained motionless, useless, and the harder he tried, the more exhausted he became. Darkness hovered in the corners of his vision, then suddenly it swallowed him up, and the last things he saw was Mycroft shouting instructions at the men, and finally the crumpled, limp body of Sherlock Holmes.
