Here, have another chapter. For once, I actually had trouble making the limit, so, yeah.
Not the last chapter, not quite yet, but we're nearly there.
Enjoy (or become sobbing wrecks, I don't mind either way!)
...
Sherlock knows, before the bullet hits its mark, before the last guttural spluttering gasp of John Watson echoes through the dirty, bloodstained alleyway, that there is nothing he can physically do to stop the small metal slug's deadly trajectory. He knows, because he observes it soar, because he can name the exact millimetre length of the barrel and the bullet, and the factory where it was made and the velocity and speed at which it travels. He knows, because he can list the arteries that are ripped to shreds in John's heart, just from the angle and position of impact, and he knows from the way the former army doctor goes limp upon the floor that his best friend will never move again.
Sherlock has failed, a lifetime's work of observation undone in seconds. At the one moment it had mattered, he had seen, but he hadn't observed; he should have made sure Moran had been properly incapacitated (or killed him when he had the chance), should have noticed John was injured straight away (the signs had been so obvious, how could he be so stupid?), should have called in an ambulance and back-up when the man had first collapsed.
But the great Sherlock Holmes had done none of that.
Sherlock knows that John is-
He knows, but he doesn't believe.
