He looked like a ghost, not changing since the last time he had been seen. His hair was neatly trimmed into a bundle of curls. He wore his coat and scarf as though they were going out of style. Standing before the four of them was Sherlock Holmes.
"But you're-" Anderson gasped.
"Shut up Anderson." Sherlock walked directly to his older brother. "Am I too late?" His voice held a sense of worry.
"About a year too late." Lestrade put his hand on Sherlocks shoulder and spun him around. Hegrowled with anger, he was still uncertain if what he was seeing was real or not.
"Lay of the liquor." He ordered and began to pick at the flat door.
"It'll do no good brother mine." Mycroft sighed. "It's too late."
"It's never too late." Sherlock ran through the possible set ups inside the flat and settled on one, working hard to maneuver the objects he wasn't even certain were there.
"He shot himself!" Mrs. Hudson spoke at last.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock gave a slight wave, he hadn't noticed her before.
"Did you hear me?" She repeated weakly.
"No he didn't." Sherlock spoke half to her and half to himself. "He didn't shoot anything."
"Actually-." Mycroft spoke while Sherlock continued to dig. "He shot something."
"You said it yourself it wasn't himself." Lestrade added trying to calm Sherlocks nerves.
"I said I wasnt sure, but now we have heard nothing from inside and-"
"We heard nothing before-"
"Shut up I'm working." On the outside Sherlock was as collected as ever, but inside he was falling apart. John was inside, possibly dead. While Sherlock had been away, solving his own problems, John had been acquiring problems of his own. He would've been back two months ago had it not been for a slight get away to warmer weather, and even then he would've been back only two days from now.
He noticed his idea of the furnature inside was wrong when he grabbed a table where the chair should've been. His mind began rearranging a new floor map. "John!" He shouted into the flat. "John!" He got tired of working on ideas and ordered for the other men to join him in prying the door off the hinges.
Behind the door the furniture was layed out as a plan he had trashed due to utter simplicity. Without further hesitation he climbed over the furnature and raced upstairs while the others began making a path.
Upstairs the flat seemed empty, exactly as it had been the day Sherlock had left. He did a quick scan and proceeded to Johns room above. The door was locked. "John!" Sherlock was holding back a flood of tears.
A quiet groaning came from within.
"John!" He shouted again. "He's still alive!" He screamed down the stairs. He waited for what seemed like hours for the men to make it up and help him remove this door as well. It was barely unhinged when Sherlock crawled inside.
John was positioned unnaturally on the floor against the bed. The majority of his body looked already dead and limp. A .22 pistal lay just out of reach. Sherlock knelt beside his friend.
"Come to take me?" John forced a smile.
"I'm here John."
"I'm glad my first sight in death is you."
"No John, I'm really here." The tears could no longer conceel themselves.
"Sherlock it hurts." John spoke softly, still believing that he was speaking to an angel.
"What hurts? John tell me."
Lestrade and Mycroft watched from the doorway, not wanting to inturupt. Mrs Hudson remained downstairs, with Anderson, suffering from shock.
Johns eyes drifted down to his lower torso. Sherlock noticed the blood stained floor and johns hand that was now soaked crimson red. The shot was not an instant kill, and had John knew that.
"Why?"
"I needed you." John cried.
"Why so painful? John why such a painfull way?" Sherlock grabbed his blood soaked hand between his.
"I needed to know." He cringed.
"To know what?" Sherlocks voice shook.
John stared at him for a moment. "Why are you so sad?"
"You're dying."
He smiled up at the man who was now holding his head along with his hand. "But now I have you Sherlock."
"I'm not dead John. I'm here." He could no longer hold it in. Even his breathing shook as he layed his chin on the top of Johns head.
"How?" John held a puzzled look on his face.
"Don't speak." Sherlock settled John head into his elbow and squeezed his hand tight.
"I-I"
"Shhh."
"I love you Sherlock."
From the doorway they watched John slowly slip into death in Sherlocks arms. Sherlock remained, cross-legged on the floor with John held tight within his grasp.
"I love you John." He whispered and kissed the dead mans forehead. "I love you. I love you. I love you." Between every word was a drawn out sob.
"Is he-?" Lestrade began to step forward but was stopped by Mycroft's arm.
"Let's leave him alone." He turned and directed Greg and himself down to the other two.
Blood had begun to soak onto Sherlocks clothes but he refused to notice. Gently he closed johns eyes with his fingers and kissed his forehead. He continued to hold him in his lap however, not wanting to, or not being able to move. Johns body was completely limp. He was dead from loss of blood and shock most likely, that was technical anyway. Sherlock knew the truth. John was dead because he wanted him, and he was too late.
He let out another sob and began to sing gently.
Somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true
Someday I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far
Behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me
Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh, why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow why, oh, why can't I?
And with that he melted into a fit of silent tears that seems to last forever.