A/N: I am so sorry for the delay! Been working a lot to try to make ends meet, but things aren't getting any better for me financially, so I'm moving back home. I just realized I left you all hanging with such a cliffhanger for almost a month! That's terrible! Here you go!

Sherlock and John learned really quick that they were stuck between a rock and a hard place. One move could send another bullet, and Sherlock was not about to watch John get hurt by his recklessness. He needed to think, but he was distracted by that maniacal smile and the shimmering knife coming towards him so slowly. Sherlock would prefer he just stab him and get it over with, but this was Jim Moriarty. He liked to savor every moment.

John grunted on the floor. He was so weak right now, and all because of his damned shoulder. Fear told him to stand down, but that was something John Watson could never do, especially when someone else's life was on the line. He tried to slow his breathing down. Holding his shoulder, he winced as he tried to find the bullet. He had to get that nasty metal out of him to prevent infection.

"Listen, Sherlock." Jim put a hand to his ear as if to advance his hearing. "Isn't that something? Remember your pain? Remember how you felt? And little Johnny Boy was there to play Doctor, but now the roles have been switched, and guess what?"

Sherlock did not answer.

"You don't get to be the hero. You get to sit and watch. It's sad, really. John drops everything to help you, but you can't do anything for him. What have you to offer him?"

John's moans echoed in Sherlock's ears. Jim was right. John was always there for him, but what had he done for John? Jeopardize his life time and time again. As soon as John came back from Afghanistan, he drug him back into another war, one the army doctor could not fight like he was trained to do.

And it was all his fault. His friend…punished because of him.

"Nothing." Jim whispered. He held Sherlock's shoulder with his free hand as the knife cut his coat, missing the skin. Sherlock could not help but hold his breath.

"Knock it off, you bastard!" John had managed to get up, metal scraps on the floor. Sherlock deduced that most of the shavings from the bullet were out of his wound, which was good.

Sherlock hissed in pain as the knife went into his shoulder. Jim was not careful, so it was a messy cut.

"Oh, John, look what you made me do." He stepped to the side so John can see Sherlock's bleeding shoulder. "Now he will no how it feels to be you. Eh, Sherlock? I guess you can feel. Pain, at least."

Blood was oozing around the knife down Sherlock's coat. He let a scream out as Jim twisted the knife in a slow circle.

"My dear, your coat is filthy." He jerked the knife out, Sherlock gasping. "Let's get this off, shall we?" Jim walked around behind Sherlock then slammed both hands on his shoulders. Squeezing, he pressed down as hard as he could then slid the rough fabric of the coat into the skin before sliding it down and off of Sherlock. "Much better. I can see everything now."

Sherlock's scarf was loosely wrapped around his neck, and Jim thought how beautiful it would be to hang him by it, but thought it would be too easy, too quick. So he just grabbed one end and jerked it, discarding it on the ground.

"Aren't you a pretty sight?" Jim stepped back, tilting his head as if admiring a work of art. A whole in his thin black jacket was ripped to show more of his white button-up which was stained a gorgeous crimson that was expanding, making Jim smile. He always did have a gift in the arts, him mummy used to always tell him. And this was his best work yet, even though he was not anywhere near done.

"Go to hell." Sherlock managed to spit out. He was politely acknowledged with a slice to the knee.

"You are being so rude today, Sherlock." Jim tutted. "I'm surprised John hasn't rubbed off on you any. I thought you had a heart…"

"I already told you, I've been informed I don't have one."

"Keep telling yourself that." Jim went over to John. "Don't think I've forgotten about you. I am sure Sebby is truly sorry for hurting you. That was supposed to have only happened that one time before, but you know what they say! Old habits die hard!"

John's jaw dropped. "What do you-"

"I thought you were smarter than this!" Jim threw his arms out for dramatics. Hearing Sherlock shift in his chair behind him, Jim knew that Sherlock knew what he was talking about. "Leave it to the world's only consulting detective to spell it out for you." Again, Jim threw his arm around John's shoulder, fingering the hole in his shoulder. John felt dizzy, but Jim held him steady. "Go on, then."

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking at the men in front of him. A red light was held on John's temple, daring Sherlock to not answer the question. "Sebastian Moran was a sniper in Afghanistan on the opposing side of her Majesty's service. You had hired him prior to his trip overseas…"

"Yes!" Jim hugged John tighter. "But you can't figure out why I had him shoot this little guy right HERE!" John grimaced as Jim's hand hit his shoulder.

"No."

"I hate doctors. Hate them. Do you know why? Because they think they can make the world a better place by helping people. It makes me sick." He shoved John away from him. John had found his bearings so he did not react much to it. His shoulder was numb with a dull, throbbing pain. He was pissed so the pain was almost forgotten.

"Doctors never help people. They only make things worse." Without warning, Jim threw a punch to John. He did not give John the chance to process what just happened, oh no, he just kept kicking him in the gut, the leg, the head.

Sherlock could hear a couple of ribs crack. He could hear the cries of hatred from Jim. He did not bother trying to deduce Jim's past encounters with doctors and how many family members he had lost. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that he had to save John. If he could get out of the chair in time, maybe he could shove John out of the way of the bullet. He knew where Sebastian Moran was positioned. And besides, Moran would not shoot while Jim was in the firing zone.

"I…will…make…you…pay!" Jim got up for a moment, leaving John curled in on himself. He turned to Sherlock. He fixed his tie and slicked his gelled hair back. He was tired, his shoulders moving up and down a little quicker than normal. His eyes were wild with fury. "That was worth it."

Yes, it was worth sweating in his suit, it was worth breaking appearance for a few moments. He wanted to hurt Sherlock, to wound him, and from the look on his enemy's face, it was more than worth all of the bank robberies he could muster from his phone.

"How do you like him now, Sherlock?" He looked behind his shoulder down at John, who was breathing deep, eyes closed, fighting the pain. "Such a shame there is nothing you can do to stop me."

"You've had your fun with him, now let him go, or I swear it will be the last thing you do standing on your own feet." Sherlock threatened.

Jim laughed. "Oh, you care so much for him! Now, most people would just break down and cry and beg and say they love them more than anything in this world, but for you, it's a good start. I guess you're right. I have had my fun with dear Johnny boy." He turned around and gave John a wink. John just glared at him.

"John." Sherlock choked.

"Oh, wait! I may have had my fun, but I haven't let him go, yet…"

Jim snapped his fingers, and the world went into a blur. Sherlock caught on, but it was too late. He was not fast enough to stop the bullet, but he was fast enough to throw Jim to the ground, the psychopath laughing like the mad man he was. Punch after punch was thrown, Jim ignoring the fact he was the one being hit. He was enjoying this too much. Sherlock had had his fit, then ran to John.

John lay flat on his back, another wound bleeding out from his chest. He was shot in the heart.

"John!" Sherlock fell on his knees.

John was moving his hands frantically, eyes glassy and staring at the ceiling. Sherlock found his hands doing the same thing. He maneuvered around John's and applied pressure on the wound. He got a good look at John and tried to avert his gaze from the bruises and cuts on his face. As he pressed down on the wound, John cried, and Sherlock winced because he could feel the cracked ribs move, and it scared him, so he immediately withdrew his hands. He did not want to puncture John's lungs.

"J-John…" Tears were welling up.

"D-don't li-listen…to h-him." John was tired. He was so tired and just wanted to sleep. Then the pain could go away. "You are the best man I-I have ever met."

"John, I-I put you in danger constantly. I am more of a threat to you than…"

"Shut-up." John's breaths were shorter and more desperate. "You listen…to…me, now." John reached for Sherlock's hands, which he grabbed as if he was the one with his life on the line. "You were the…best thing that has ever happened to me…"

"John…"

"Thank-you…"

"John."

"Don't ever forget-" John closed his eyes.

"John…John?" Sherlock panicked. He tried everything…CPR, the whole drill.

Nothing.

John was finally asleep. And was never going to wake up.

"John!" Sherlock sobbed. He forgot Jim was behind him laughing.

"This is precious!" Jim held his stomach from laughing so much. "You…you really did care! HA!" He disappeared into the darkness, his laughs echoing down the hall.

Sherlock blocked him out. He did care. He always cared.

"John. I am so sorry…I'm so sorry…"

The world got much darker than Sherlock could ever recall. There was nothing for him now. The man who had saved his life in more ways than one was gone. And it was all his fault. He did nothing while he just let Jim Moriarty kill him...

He killed John.

And Jim Moriarty helped him succeed.

"What have I done to you?" The tears fogged his vision. He wiped them away furiously so he could look at John one last time. He was not peaceful. His whole body was a mess. His life was a constant battle, and it could have ended after Afghanistan, but damn him for wanting John was a flatmate! Damn him for those cases he drug John along in. How could he have been so stupid? He tried to warn him, didn't he?

"Could be dangerous."

He could have tried harder. But he was selfish. He wanted a companion...a friend...someone whom he could truly trust. John was that person. And he killed him.

"John...I'm not asking for forgiveness. We all know I don't deserve such things as that. I just...you were the best thing that has ever happened to me. There is no one in this world who..." He couldn't say it, but damn he would anyway. "There is no one who loves you the most in all this world, John...you were the bravest and the kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. I promised you a lifetime...and I broke that promise to you...you deserved so much more than me. I'm so sorry I let you down. John..."

Sherlock could not take it anymore. He could not go on, not alone. Especially after this. He was done fighting. Jim Moriarty had finally won.

"I can't promise you protection or...love...anymore..." He tried to compose himself. "But I swear to you this, John, that no one will have to be in harm's way because of me...ever again."

Maybe it was better this way. With him out of the picture, no one would ever get hurt again by his hand.

"Goodbye, John." He bent over and kissed John, savoring every moment. Time stood still, tears splashing on John's lifeless face.

The kiss was broke as a sound made Sherlock jump. Looking around, he tried to figure out what it was, but there was nothing...for only a moment.

His mind was racing. It was not a helicopter, not something he had ever heard of before. The air around him started blowing furiously, dust clouding his eyes. The dirt entering his wound was ignored as a light was shone before him.

What in the world was happening?

A/N: Dun Dun DUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN! I hated killing John...I really did. What is Sherlock going to do now?