Chapter 7: O'Death

The sound of gunfire alerted every sense in Sherlock's body. Running faster now, he climbed the staircase up to the roof. John was up there. He was already too late. Heart pounding with such incredible force, Sherlock nearly tripped on the last step. Please, please, let that be from John's gun and not the snipers, he thought desperately. He could not afford to lose John. Not now. Not when everything finally made sense.

They were always supposed to be together. He saw that now, clearer than any deduction he ever made. John was his. Always been his. He just had been too blind by his own ignorance to see it!

Sherlock never loved a single person in his life yet somehow the Doctor snuck inside his closed heart and gave him a new purpose. Life. A life with him. And a brilliant good life, Sherlock was sure of it. If it was half of what they had from before all this, it would be enough.

Now, someone was threatening his newfound love and Sherlock couldn't have that. Not when he just discovered it damnit! He burst through the door to the roof, uncaring if he was crashing his way into a scene of a deadly game. John might be in jeopardy, he had no time for waiting.

Expecting to see him and the shooter, Sherlock glanced about quickly. He was greeted with an empty rooftop. No one around except…

His heart stilled. His eyes narrowed to the spot of blood by his shoes and the trail that followed towards… a crumpled form of a man by the edge of the roof. His eyes assessed every tiny detail with obsessive scrutiny. He recognized the back of the coat. The black leather patches on the shoulders, the used, worn-out look of it—it was John. Sherlock felt his stomach lurch. John wasn't moving.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed. Rain and wind tore at his face as he plunged headlong into the storm.

He saw the largely growing pool of blood forming beneath John's body. Droplets of rain beginning to flood it.

In that instant—his whole world shattered. The pain was sudden. The despair gutting through his heart like a dull blade. Everything felt out of his control. Nothing made sense. John was dead…? No, no, no… this was wrong!

He stopped inches from the body and heard himself let out a soft groan of despair. Falling to his knees, Sherlock slowly turned his body over into his arms. His mind instantly rebelled at what he saw. John's face was ashen. Pale, unmoving, and utterly expressionless. Gingerly cradling John's head, Sherlock's hand slid into something moist and warm matted in his hair. He withdrew his fingers, and was greeted with the horrific sight of blood. A fierce tightening took hold around his throat, nearly choking him.

"John…" Sherlock whispered hoarsely, pulling him close, pressing his face into his chest. "John… don't you dare die. You can't… Please…!"

John wasn't dead. He couldn't be. If he died…

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, his emotions suddenly brimming to the surface like a dam on the verge of breaking. But it was too late, it was already shattered. He had nothing left but this man and if he was gone… so was he.

"You selfish idiot…" He mumbled, tears already swelling. "Go and get yourself shot after…" he choked. He clenched John's shoulders tighter, willing him with every fiber in his being to bring him back. "I need you too much, John." His voice cracked. "I should've told you everything… I shouldn't have been such a fool!"

His fingers traced his neck and felt for a pulse and then found a small prick of a hole from a needle. It was swollen as though after being forcefully stabbed by it. The shattered pieces of Sherlock's heart revived. Eyes widening in realization, Sherlock noticed the way John was laying. Different somehow—different from the way a dead man lied. And the needle mark…

A flutter of a pulse greeted his fingers once more and Sherlock let out a strangled gasp of relief. He clutched John closer, knowing everything in an instant. If his deduction was correct, than John was alive and his shooter was still on the roof.

Sherlock pressed his cheek against his, feeling the rain and blood touch against his flesh. "That's right… fight it, John." He whispered huskily. "I know he's still here. I'll stop him and fix whatever he's done to you."

He wrapped his fingers through John's stiff hand, holding him. "Fight it…! Do it for me, John."

John lived. Now it was up to him to keep him alive. Sherlock pulled off his coat and slipped it beneath the side of John's bleeding skull, then tucked the remainder of the coat over his face to protect him from the rain. Slowly and gently he pulled away.

He stood. Arms outstretched, rain pelting him with renewed vigor. The storm clouds brimmed and the air crackled with electricity. Rain matted his black long sleeved suit shirt, soaking him through. He didn't care. Nothing mattered but confronting the man who did this to John.

"Come out shooter! I know you're still here!" He shouted into the wind. "Show yourself."

Seconds later a man dressed in military grab emerged from the shadows, gun in hand. Cold rain fell on them. The storm raged above, ready to break into a frantic show of lightening any minute now.

"You're a fast climber, Mr. Holmes. I didn't expect you so soon." Spoke the man with the gun.

"Sorry to disappoint you, normally I'm late on every other occasion, today must be the exception."

The lethal man before him smirked darkly. Sherlock assessed him quickly. His deduction process seemed faster, more urgent than ever before. He knew why. John. Somehow he was dying. Whatever this man injected him with it was lethal. And Sherlock didn't have time for games, not even his favorite kind- the deadly kind.

He realized one blaringly true deduction—this man wanted to kill him.

"What did you inject him with?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"My own cocktail. Something special."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I can tell. Its paralytic effect on John is quite remarkable."

The man smiled, his gun aimed directly at Sherlock's chest.

"Yes, it is. I made it for him. I wanted him to hear you die. I wanted him to suffer."

The man's hand steadied and Sherlock knew he had less than a second before that gun was fired. He had to stall him, figure out a plan—analyze the situation.

"You're old war buddies then?" Sherlock asked, knowing he was right. The gun wavered. He saw his window of opportunity and took it. "You know John. This kill is personal for you. I can tell by just looking at you that you're a man who takes himself far too seriously."

The man's nostrils flared contemptuously.

"You are physically fit," Sherlock continued breathlessly. "But overly so, almost as if your compensating for something."

Another flare of contempt. Sherlock was correct, his reactions were clear and easy to read. "Maybe it's not—maybe it was the lack of discipline your whole life—maybe that's why you chose to go into the military. There, you met John. But unlike John, you came out of the war damaged."

"John's damaged," Snapped the man. His anger shining through his cold eyes. "I read his therapy transcripts. You should read them sometime, Mr. Holmes. They're enlightening."

"I'm sure, but your damage is not of the mind, sir. No yours is much more severe. Far greater even… Something of the heart? You lost someone didn't you?"

"How could you possibly know?"
"Love is the deadliest motivator of all," Sherlock cut in. "It can make anyone capable of anything. Including murder. For you, the push wasn't all that hard, was it?"

"Fair enough, Mr. Holmes. I heard about your deducing skills. Interesting but not helpful. John's dead."

"He's alive." Sherlock returned harshly.

"Just enough to keep his senses tingling for a bit." He glanced at his digital watch. "He's got less than forty minutes. After that, he's worm food."

The man stepped forward boldly, the threat of his gun forcing Sherlock to step backwards towards John.

"Get closer for me, will ya? I want John to hear you gurgle on your blood once I shoot you."

The sudden dawning of realization struck Sherlock. This man's madness was clear. Sherlock stopped moving, refusing to succumb to the terror this man was forcing him to endure.

"What did he do to you?" He asked curiously. "Obviously something important, or else we wouldn't be here."

"It's none of your concern."

"Oh, I think it is. Considering I'm about to die for it. So what's the point of keeping it a secret from the man you are about to kill?"

The man narrowed his eyes dangerously than glanced over to where John lied.

"You're man there, he's death."

Sherlock felt a shiver course up his spine. "He couldn't save someone—someone you loved."

The man's eyes shown with a reckless fury. He rushed forward to Sherlock, gun pointed directly to his temple. "What do you know of love? You're nothin' but an empty shell."

"I may not know love. But I'm certainly not incapable of it." He countered.

"Oh the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes can love? Who knew?" the gunman mocked.

"John did." Sherlock said daringly. With a rush of movement, he flew forward, propelled by a sudden burst of energy and rage.

The man fired off a shot, missing Sherlock by mere inches. He viciously knocked the gun out of the man's hand, breaking a few fingers in the process. He grunted painfully. Sherlock grappled with the solider then, wanting to take him down. Twisting his body to the side, he rammed his elbow into his gut. The gunman let out a cry of pain. Sherlock didn't have time to battle. Time was running out.

He maneuvered out of the man's reach, slipping behind him to land a hard front kick to his back. The gunman stumbled forward, falling steps away from the ledge. Sherlock, panting, didn't hesitate. This man threaten John's life. He brought destruction and fear in the form of a gun. He deserved death.

And today, Sherlock would be death. A cold, ruthless death.

The gunman turned to face him, getting to his knees. He may have been defenseless, but Sherlock saw the fury seething in those dark eyes. He wanted to kill. Sherlock wouldn't give him that opportunity—ever.

Rain pelted the side of Sherlock's cheek. He heard the roar of thunder above him. "It's over. You've lost." He said to the man.

He shook his head. "I've won. John's soul will be mine- doesn't matter if you take me in and lock me up now, Mr. Holmes. John's mine."

Sherlock arched a dangerous eyebrow. "Who said I was taking you in?"

The gunman looked up at him, realization dawning in those animalistic eyes.

"I don't believe in God or the Devil, sir. But I do believe in death. The world's only true equalizer."

"You're not gonna kill me," the gunman breathed out. "You can't…"

Sherlock felt his rage surge through him as he knelt before the man and yanked him to his feet. "You see, that's the thing about love. It makes us all temporarily insane. And unfortunate for you, you went after the man I love. And I won't be satisfied until I have your soul!"

Sherlock pushed, and then released his grip. The gunman's feet slipped off the wet ledge and fell. Sherlock stepped to the edge to watch. The gunman's body landed with a horrific crash on top of Bradbury's van. Agent Bradbury stumbled out of the back, holding his cell phone, stupendously shocked as he stared at the dead man on his van.

"Agent Bradbury!" Sherlock called down. Lightning flashed in the sky above him and harsh wind danced around him with a crackling intensity. He felt the thunder pound in his heart.

Bradbury glanced upwards, mouth agape.

"Call my brother back." He shouted. "Tell him I've been shot and need medical attention. Quick—I'm dying!"

Bradbury, still dazed, glanced at the phone in his hand and numbly dialed the number for Mycroft. In a matter of minutes the whole of the British government would be barreling down the street to save him. He glanced over his shoulder to John. John would live. He must.