"He called me, Mr. Holmes. From an anonymous number...but it was definitely him." Jackson lip quivered in manic.
"You can't be sure of that."
"I AM SURE OF IT!" He roared.
"Explain to me how he could have killed himself, right in front of me, and manage to ring you several months later. Think it through, man, you're in hysterics. Clearly you've been paranoid of his existence and you've finally snapped!" Sherlock was realizing there was no reasoning with the man.
"You've met him. You know him. There is...no one else like him. No one who could possibly impersonate him...he is, purely, a madman. I know that you know that. And I know that it was him who called me." He sputtered. Sherlock shook his head...this wasn't possible. He saw Jim do it, he saw the blood.
I faked my death too...right in front of John...
No. This was different...it had to be. He couldn't be back, he couldn't be alive...
The thought struck fear in the very core of his soul. He feared nothing more than that man. He quickly pushed the thoughts back to deal with later, and considered the more pressing issue.
"I-I fine, let's say he is alive, Mr. Jackson, alright? I'll play along here. What is it you want from me now? I don't know where he is." Sherlock found himself eyeing his friend, his neck was stretched back towards the assailant.
"What did he say that makes you fear his return so much?" He continued.
Jackson stared at Sherlock, his mouth turned in an angry grimace.
"I made mistakes in his employment, Sherlock. I thought I could get away with some things...before it all really went down, before he...made a real effort on my, penalty...that's when the game with you came to a head. He disappeared...I did think he was dead. I prayed he was dead, Mr. Holmes, but he's not dead. He's coming for me."
"Let's work together, Jackson, you clearly-"
"NO!" He interrupted. "If he ever, ever got a whiff that I was working with you..." He gave a nervous laugh. "Well, you'd wish you never offered it."
Sherlock stood, his mind attempting to come up with reasonable scenarios of the night's outcome. What was his game? What was he still doing here?
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." Started Jackson, as if answering his unspoken question. "But he hates and loves you more than anything else in the world. He's after me...he's watching my every move. So I'm gonna cover my ass, and do what Moriarty wanted to do but never did."
They all moved at once. Sherlock leapt forward, Jackson dug his knife in, one of the goons lost his balance and fell forward, and John jerked his head and arms back. The knife missed it's intended mark, but caught the side of John's jaw in the sudden motion. Being a moment behind his flatmate, Sherlock noticed the action and decked Jackson right temple, sending him across the room. John scrambled up and fell clumsily towards the bookshelf. He ripped the books off the 4th shelf and fished out his .45. As he clicked the safety off and turned around, Jackson tackled him. The gun fell.
As John's back collided with the floor, he saw Sherlock battling with the other two men. He didn't have time to observe, because Jackson was striking at him with a fury. He tried to push him off, but he was pinned. He reached his arm out, hoping to finger the gun, but all he caught was carpet. Abandoning the search, he swung his fist at Jackson's neck and took him off guard. They rolled until John had the upper hand and swung at him again, hard. Taking advantage of his shocked state, John hurdled away from Jackson and hooked his hand under the gun. He whipped around to help Sherlock. He fired a warning shot.
"GE' OFF!" He yelled. The men stuck their hands in the air. Sherlock had been holding his own, but the two men would have eventually overcome him. John's breathing was labored with adrenaline, his jaw bleeding down his neck.
"Get down on the ground. Both of you, down, hands in front of you." He demanded. They obliged. One of them, however, was slower in doing so.
"Come on then, hurry up. If you think I won't fire this gun, then I dare you test me." He whispered harshly. Sherlock stood up and patted his lip, now split and bruised.
"What is that?" John said alarmed. Sherlock whipped his head towards the men at the tone of his voice, but the moment John's doubt was heard, the slower man whipped out a gun from his holster wickedly quick and aimed at John. He shot as Sherlock jumped on him, and the bullet narrowly missed.
"Get him, Jackson!" He yelled. John pivoted as Jackson threw him up against the wall, his head banging against it. He swung his body around and rammed him into the window, the glass shattering and digging into skin. John cried out as Sherlock wrestled the gun away from the goon and shot at Jackson. He grazed his shoulder, but the man barely noticed, a passion in his eyes. The two goons clambered out the door, yelling for Jackson to follow. For a strange moment, Sherlock thought he would. He threw John down on the floor and ran out to his mates, but nicked the .45 away from John's falling body. As he turned in the doorway, about to dash out away from the clustered mess, he aimed it at the injured man half standing and half kneeing on the bloody carpet by the broken window.
He shot. He ran.
Sherlock could see the jolt in John's eyes as the bullet struck his torso. They were wide and frightening. Sherlock registered yelling John's name as he saw him grip his abdomen and catch his fall with his free hand. Blood was covering his arm and body. Sherlock fell on his knees next to him, catching him before he flattened.
"No no no no no no" He muttered to himself as he turned John on his back. His eyes were strained shut, his face in a horrifying twist of pain. He was breathing short, shallow breaths and trying not to cry out.
"Jo-John tell me what to do, what do I do?" His fingers fluttered over John's body, at a loss of what action to take next. He could tell it was difficult for John to speak, but he did so through gritted teeth.
"Call an ambulance. I need-agh!" His veins were popping, his head thrown back against the carpet. Sherlock reached for his phone in his back pocket and told them to hurry.
"They're on their way, John, hang on, alright?" Sherlock couldn't remember the original color of John's jumper.
Any previous thought of Moriarty's return had completely vanished from Sherlock's mind. The overwhelming fear and panic he felt was not for his old nemeses.
What was the color of his jumper? What color was it?
That impending question filled Sherlock's mind, torturing him as he tried to staunch the wound.
What color was it?