"Shhhhh."
"I am being quiet."
"You are breathing rather loudly." Sherlock agreed with John – Lestrade was breathing rather noisily. And he was the police officer. Then again John was used to these kinds of tactics from Afghanistan and as for Sherlock... as Sherlock said, breathing's boring.
And as if Lestrade was reading John's mind, he said, "And unfortunately for you Sherlock, breathing is necessary."
The three of them were hunting an insane mass murderer who had been disguising himself as a taxi driver.
It seemed all types of people read John's blog.
The murderer had been cornered at the end of the alleyway and stopped before drawing a gun.
There was the sound of a gunshot and a long moment of silence. Lestrade and John looked at each other, assessing the other, to check they were alright.
The bullet had missed.
Only it hadn't.
In the confined alleyway, it had hit the one person that they had thought it never would.
Sherlock fell to the ground heavily.
Blood pooled all over the floor.
Sherlock's eyes were vacant.
He was dead.
But he couldn't be – the world was incomplete without its best detective. The world would fall due to a wanna-be criminal mastermind.
And so in a darkened alleyway with a doctor and a police officer, the world ended with a bang.
