Chapter 8

Sherlock squinted at the stained glass windows. "Shall we split up, then?"

"I supposed we'd better," John said, looking up at Sherlock. "We'll cover more ground that way."

Sherlock was already heading to a discreet room to the right.

John sighed and picked a room in the back, a pretty far way along from where Sherlock was. It took him several minutes to get there, because the church was so huge. The room was very dusty, and John sneezed a couple of times, disturbing some mice in the corner.

"Not very well-kept…" He muttered.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was scouting the rooms near the front, looking for any other evidence that might have indicated to the killer walking about. He rested his eyes on a suspicious-looking stain on the floor, and rushed over to it, but it was only water.

This, however, did give Sherlock a clue. "Someone's been here recently," He murmured. "It would have evaporated by now if not so."

He patted his gun in his pocket, to reassure that it was still there. He had a very good idea of what happened with the dead man in his home- someone (he still didn't have a clue) killed the man to very effectively keep him quiet about the whole thing. So Sherlock started to rule out the possibility of another crew member doing it, and begun to think about an outside party.

Moriarity, a voice whispered inside his head. Sherlock frowned. It might've been Moriarity, but why did the man kill all of these people? Or ordered someone to kill them for him? Was it the money? His "boredom"?

John was still in the other room, his back to the door, when he heard a man popped into the room. "Oh, good, Sherlock, come over-"

He stopped abruptly when he turned around and the man at the door wasn't Sherlock.

Furthermore, he had a gun in his hand.

John's eyes flashed and he thrust his hands to his sides, only to remember he had left his gun at home. "What the hell do you want?"

The stranger said nothing, just smiled silkily and kept the gun pointed at John.

John got out his phone and started to text Sherlock, very rapidly.

"Stop that, you don't want a bullet through your head, do you?" The stranger licked his lips. "I want nothing tangible- I want you to stop working with Mister Holmes."

It might've been stupid, but John cleched his fists and yelled, "SHERLOCK!"

"Oh no, none of that. I brought this gun, but you aren't that stupid, are you? I only need to use it on you if you don't stop yelling-"

"Funny how so many people tell me that," John muttered. The two men had a silent standoff, then John yelled once more, "SHERLOCK!"

"I told you once, I'm not going to tell you again."

There was still no sign of Sherlock.

John pulled out his phone, ran to the side, and pushed beside the stranger to get to the door. To his surprise, the man cloaked in black did nothing.

At least, until John got halfway to Sherlock, keeping his eyes on the man the whole time.

Then a gunshot rang about the building.

Sherlock looked up from where he was, startled by the sudden noise and suddenly panicking. That was a gunshot, wasn't it?

Sherlock sprinted out the door and came across John, in the middle of a puddle of thick red stuff that looked like-

Oh god, Sherlock realized what that dark red stuff was. His heart pounding, he cried out, "JOHN!"

Three frantic heartbeats later, John coughed and Sherlock kneeled next him, a look of mingled fury and panic in his eyes. "What do I do? You're the doctor, TELL ME!" His voice was fueled with adrenaline and refusal that John was not dying, John had not been shot-

"Keep… pressure," John wheezed. "Call 999… Sherlock… keep me awake,"

With trembling fingers, Sherlock pulled out the phone and dialed 999, then threw it aside (he knew they would come). He grabbed John's hand and pushed it to the bullet wound in his side.

Blood. So much blood.

"No, John, don't, no, John," Sherlock's voice broke.

"I'll… be fine,"

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest. John's body slumped against Sherlock's.

"John! JOHN!" He slapped his face, shook his body, unable to accept the fact that…

John was here. John was dying. Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell John how he felt about him, about… everything.

The world tilted sideways for Sherlock, and the police showed up to find Sherlock staring at John, their hands still firmly held together.