Sorry this chapter took so long. I had a lot of work to do and I simply needed some time to put down what was in my head. As promise there will be at least another chapter and an alternate ending. There is another idea for a story twist in my head but I am not sure I will put that down... let's see ;-)

I have an announcement to make: Since three weeks I am an eager twitterer, oh yeah slightly addicted I fear. But: I would like you to follow me (you will always know when I publish something new) and to encourage you there will be a special treat. If I reach at least 50 followers I will write a crossover story. I am really tempted to do so, but I think I need a bit encouragement for that: A Harry Potter-Sherlock-Crossover. And no: No Hogwarts. But have you ever wondered what might happen, if Sherlock and Snape will have to solve a murder together? Oh those deductions Sherlock could make about Sn... Avada... ohoh...Do you think John will fall for this beautiful witch called Fleur Weasley? Remember Hagrid's umbrella? He might not be the only one caring around a wand like that... hehehe. So if you like to read any of that you can tempt me on twitter Hol_Jessica

Reviews for „The burned man" are appreciated, by the way. Enjoy:

Chapter 10

John had always wondered how dying might be like, what someone would feel. Nothingness? The glowing light of eternity? John had always loved life, even the day he had witnessed Sherlock's suicide he could not have parted with what he beheld so dear. Life. Breathing. The sun, the air on his face. Children's laughter. It was part of his soul, he had become a doctor because of that, for Christ's sake. He loved life so much he tried to rescue as many as possible. But not himself. Never himself.

John remembered the first day he had ever thought living was a harder thing to do than simply giving up. When he was shot the first time in Afghanistan the pain had been too much. He had cried out in the heat and after hours of pain and no help in reach he had begged his comrade to put a bullet into his head. He had thanked god so many times afterwards that the man had simply refused what the doctor had ordered him to do. Life. Life.

Giving up never came to his mind this time. Perhaps because he had something to come back to, perhaps out of fear. Without John Sherlock was lost, without John he would search death. John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John.

Dying was strange this time. The pain had subsided. It was no soft slipping into darkness, but a rapid decline. One moment he blinked then everything went black. Nothing afterwards. Nothing he would remember later. For a long time. Eternity.

It was a piercing pain in his heart that brought him back to life. And soft lips on his.

"I breathe for you as long as it takes, John, please come back, come back…"

He wanted to answer but no sound came over his lips. Another kiss, air filled his lungs. The earth shattered beneath him, dark vibrations as if hell had finally decided to spit him out onto earth again.

"Has he got a pulse?" Another voice.

"Yes… breathe… please John." Kisses again.

John's eyelids fluttered.

"John?" Sherlock's lips at his ear.

He groaned.

Was it raining? Drip. Drop. Another one on his cheek.

"John", Sherlock's voice betrayed his tears.

John slowly opened his eyes and saw the most beautiful clouds he had ever seen, storm clouds, rain clouds: Sherlock' eyes. Sherlock.

xxxx

The British Government had never left his office to go on a mission – never until today. As Mycroft climbed out of the helicopter, umbrella in hand – whatever he wanted to do with that in the desert – the soldiers saluted.

Mycroft Holmes was not good when it came to emotions. Caring was not an advantage, his little brother had proved that time after time. Today again. But what he saw there, in the middle of nowhere, even made his cold heart ache.

Sherlock sat in the dust, his face nearly black from ash and fire, cleaned only at his cheeks, where tears had streamed down, over his cheekbones to the chin. His lips were trembling and he pressed a body to his chest. John.

For two seconds Mycroft thought John was dead, two seconds that mad his heart stumble. But then he saw the slow rise an fall of John's chest. And the smile on John's face, the light shining from Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft Holmes had never believed in love, but seeing his brother like that, suddenly planted doubt in his heart. Maybe, possibly he had found true love at last.

To be continued