It took Sherlock and Greg twenty minutes to reach the block of flats in Putney. Mycroft had opted to remain at Baker Street, where he could inform Mrs. Hudson of what had happened when she returned from her visit to her sister, and then either stay with the landlady or arrange for someone to wait there instead, just in case.
Greg had barely stopped the car before Sherlock had leapt out and raced towards the flat he knew John used to live in. Throwing open the front door, he cast a quick eye around the area, and then he was racing up the stairs and banging fervently against the door to John's dingy flat. He rattled the handle furiously, but it wouldn't give, and when he pounded upon the door to gain attention, no one answered.
"John! Are you in there? John!" he shouted, pressing his ear close to the wood to try and hear something, anything, but no sound was made.
Lestrade appeared moments later, and looked at Sherlock worriedly. "Do you think he's in there?" he asked.
"Of course he is." Sherlock snapped. "Why would the door be locked otherwise?"
"Well, if someone lives here–"
"No, no one lives here; there's too much dust about the place. And besides, Moran was here before, so why else would he lock the door unless he wanted to keep John there?" Having finished speaking, he once again pounded against the wood, hoping that it might possibly break the structure, but nothing gave.
Greg joined in soon after, banging his fists and shouting for John's attention. They both fell silent and pressed their ears to the door, eager to catch the faintest sound.
Then there was a muffled cough.
"Help me break it down!" Sherlock commanded as he took a step back and directed a foot at the door. Greg helped immediately, also using all his power to break the strong wood. It took them a few tries, but eventually, the structure snapped almost in half.
Sherlock leapt over the door effortlessly and ran straight to John, who was lying, barely conscious, beneath the far window. At the last minute, Sherlock remembered Moran had been here, and he quickly stepped over the doctor to scan the streets outside the flat, but there was no sign of the sniper.
Not wanting to waste time, the detective spun and dropped down to his knees next to John. His eyes fell upon the doctor's left wrist, which was bleeding profusely, and he swore quietly.
"Jesus Christ..." He heard Greg mutter, and he looked up as he unwound his scarf to see the DI crouching opposite Nick, who the detective had only just realised was here. The soldier was incredibly pale, and Sherlock knew with a sinking feeling that he would probably not make it out of this room alive, if he wasn't already dead.
"Lestrade, call an ambulance." he directed whilst he quickly tied his scarf tightly around John's left wrist, ensuring the deep slash was covered.
"On it." Greg said. "I'll – er – do you want me to wait here? Or go downstairs to wait for the ambulance?"
"Go downstairs, I'll be fine up here with John." he replied, his eyes never leaving the doctor as he wrapped his arms around the small figure, supporting his head.
"Okay." With one last regretful glance at Nick, Greg made his way downstairs, closing the door behind him to give the detective some privacy.
"John, John can you hear me?" he asked, lightly tapping him on the cheek.
"Come on, don't do this. Wake up, John, come on."
John coughed suddenly, and groaned slightly, twisting his head into Sherlock's chest.
"Hey," Sherlock encouraged. "Open your eyes, John, please."
Slowly, the doctor's eyes cracked open, and those pain-filled hazel orbs gazed up at him, a faint frown on his face.
"Alright?" Sherlock asked with a weak smile, relief coursing through him, even though he knew it was a stupid question given the situation.
"Yeah," John coughed again. "M'fine."
"Good..." Sherlock smiled, trying not to wince as the one cough soon turned into a number of coughs, each one rattling the doctor's body.
"Sherlock..." John whispered, his eyes struggling to remain open. "Have to tell you..."
"Shh, it's alright, the ambulance is coming."
"N-no, have to tell you... M-Moran..."
"I know, John, I know."
"N-no, he's... he's..."
"Don't speak, it's okay." Sherlock hushed him, keeping one hand against the doctor's cheek as the other arm cradled his head.
John sighed, but didn't say anything. His eyes continued to droop, and Sherlock's thumb rubbed his cheekbone soothingly.
"Eyes on me, John, come on."
"Sh-Sherlock..." he whispered again.
"I'm here, John, I've got you. Stay awake, please."
"Need to... to say..." His eyelids fluttered.
"John? What is it? C'mon, tell me." Sherlock said desperately, trying to keep John talking.
"I'm... I'm sorry..." he murmured, his right hand fisting into Sherlock's coat in an act to make the detective listen.
Sherlock shook his head, blinking furiously. "No, you don't need to say sorry, don't be sorry–"
"...You're my best friend..." John whispered, and once again his eyes fought to stay open. "...would never hurt... you."
The detective felt a lump in his throat, and he nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I know, and I've never doubted you. I should be apologising, not you."
"S'not your fault, Sh-Sher..." the doctor coughed again, and he groaned, his forehead creased in pain.
"Shh, John, don't say anything. It's okay." He found he kept telling John it'd be okay, and a small voice in the back of his mind wondered whether he really was reassuring John, or actually himself.
"John? John, open your eyes." Sherlock shook the arm supporting John slightly, but the doctor merely burrowed his head further into the detective's chest.
"S'nice..." he breathed, eyes remaining closed.
"No, it's not, your head is uncomfortable. Remove it." he ordered, but John ignored him.
"You'll b-be fine... Sh-Sherlock..."
"Don't do this." Sherlock whispered, "You're going to be okay, the ambulance is on its way."
"...too late..." It was harder and harder to hear John, but Sherlock still managed to pick it up. He shook his head defiantly.
"No, please John, stay awake."
"... My best friend..." the doctor whispered, before his eyes drifted shut and he fell limp in Sherlock's arms, his head lolling backwards.
"No..." Sherlock muttered, his heart pounding frantically. "John, open your eyes. Stay with me, please." He pressed two fingers against John's carotid artery, and when he felt a rapidly declining pulse, he fought to keep back burning tears. One managed to escape, however, and it trickled down his face and continued its path until it dropped and landed on John's cheek.
Shaking fingers wiped it away slowly, and Sherlock let his hand linger there for a moment longer, his thumb running across John's cheekbone softly.
"John..." he whispered, praying that the stuttering rise and fall of the doctor's chest would not cease any time soon. Where was that bloody ambulance?
"Well, isn't this touching?" A snide voice remarked from the doorway, and Sherlock's head snapped up to see Colonel Sebastian Moran stood there, though what caused the detective's eyes to narrow was Greg Lestrade, who Moran had in an arm lock with a thin blade pressed against the DI's throat.
"I shouldn't have to warn you, but if you try anything clever, the Inspector here is gonna have a nice long slash decorating his throat, a bit like the decoration on your little pet's wrist, though obviously bigger."
Sherlock remained impassive, but at the mention of John, his grip on the doctor tightened, shifting him closer. He looked at Greg, who's normally firm eyes had softened at the sight of the emotionless detective clutching his lifeless friend to him, with a tear-stained track on his face. Of course, the emotionless part was entirely wrong. Greg met his gaze, and the DI tried to smile reassuringly, though he feared it wavered.
"Why John?" he jumped straight to the question, not wanting to waste time chatting when John's life was hanging in the balance.
"Two birds with one stone, you know? I get rid of the people who knew too much," He nodded at John and Nick, "and also destroy you in the process."
"You're not going to kill me?"
Moran laughed. "Of course I'm going to kill you. You didn't think you were getting out alive, did you? No, I wanted to tear your heart to shreds before I finish it."
"Why did you start it? The little organisation you had going on in Afghanistan?"
"You mean why did I have all those people killed? Because I was told to. Extra Brownie points if you can guess who."
"Moriarty." Sherlock murmured.
"Correct." Moran grinned. "He'd whisper a name in my ear, and I'd dispatch my little helpers to go and get rid of them. Johnny here had been all too happy to do as I said."
"But he didn't actually kill anyone." Sherlock confirmed.
"No, he didn't. I'll be honest; he's brighter than he looks. I had no reason to think that anything was amiss. I thought he was going to remain loyal to me until the end."
"But he didn't. He left when you gave him my name."
"Yeah. And before you ask, I don't know why Jim wanted you killed back then. He never gave any reasons."
"You just obeyed him like a little lapdog." Sherlock muttered.
Moran chuckled humourlessly. "Remind you of anyone?" he said, his gaze lingering on John. Sherlock held the doctor closer, causing Moran to laugh again. Greg shifted uncomfortably, the blade of the knife pressing down into his neck.
"You shot him, when he left, didn't you?"
"Yes, I knew I couldn't just let him go, he knew too much."
"But he survived." Sherlock said.
Moran nodded. "Obviously, and the two of you continued to live right under my nose. You can imagine my surprise when Jim had me kidnap your pet and take him to a swimming pool, only to have you arrive hours later."
"Why didn't you do anything then?" Sherlock asked, confused.
Moran shrugged. "Because I knew Jim had a vivid imagination, and I wanted to see what would happen when he set it on the two of you. And if all else failed, I would kill you both later on anyway, hence this scenario. It's very poetic, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Well, there's the irony of a similar situation happening almost exactly four years ago, only with reversed positions. The doctor commits suicide, and you're left to grieve."
"But John hasn't committed suicide." the detective argued.
"And neither did you." Moran countered in a calm tone. "But the other irony is that Johnny will die like he arranged each of his victims to; a cut to the left wrist and the influence of a sedative."
"Sedative?" Sherlock said sharply.
"Mmm, yes. A sedative for the others, that is. The one that your pet has been given is more like poison."
Sherlock's face paled and his eyes widened. He risked a glance down at John, and he noted the pale complexity, the shallow breathing, not just because of blood loss.
"Where's the antidote?" he asked, trying to contain his panic and anger.
"You really think I'm going to tell you?" Moran replied, eyebrows raised as he adjusted the grip on his knife.
"I can make you tell me." Sherlock growled, his fingers slowly sliding to check John's pulse. Too slow. Far, far too slow.
The Colonel smiled. "Another similarity you've created, Sherlock." he said. At the detective's questioning look, he elaborated. "Jim killed himself to trap you, and I could just as easily kill myself too. Oh yes, this really is poetic." He grinned maliciously.
"You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I? I think you underestimate me, Sherly." he mocked.
"I thought you wanted to kill me?"
"Plans change." Moran answered. "Maybe it would be better if you burned, instead."
Sherlock fought to keep his temper under control, and he glanced across at Lestrade, who was trying to crane his neck away from the knife which had already drawn a line of blood. This had to end now.
Moran was still mulling over the situation. "You played your part wonderfully, Sherlock, I have to say." he murmured. "The oblivious friend, trying to work out what was happening but remaining left out, much like Johnny was all those years ago. Everyone stayed in character; even your big brother had a few monologues to give again. At the risk of sounding cliché, history really does rewrite itself."
"No," a weak voice said, "Nobody was cast as a soldier last time."
There was a loud gunshot, and Moran gasped. The knife fell to the floor, and Greg wrenched himself away, turning and watching as the sniper fell to the ground. He was dead before he hit the floor, and a round bullet hole decorated his forehead.
Lestrade and Sherlock looked across to the kitchen, where Nicholas Harper was leaning heavily against the dining room table, a smoking gun in his hand. The gun was dropped as his legs gave out moments later, and Greg rushed forward, catching the soldier and lowering him gently to the ground.
"We thought you were dead." Greg muttered, pressing his hands against Nick's chest.
Nick laughed weakly. "Not long now." he muttered, his eyes closing briefly.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you, Nick. I think you saved our lives." he said.
The soldier rolled his head to look across at Sherlock. "S'okay." he answered. His gaze fell upon John, and he watched him sadly. His eyes suddenly widened, and he hastened to sit up, a coughing fit falling upon him as he moved. Greg placed a hand on his shoulder, but he batted it away.
"The antidote." he said urgently, between coughs. "S'in my pocket..."
Shocked, Lestrade rummaged through the soldier's trouser pockets until he pulled out a small vial, filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. Greg threw it to Sherlock, who caught it easily.
Nick slumped against the DI, who once again laid him down. "Moran mentioned the poison... I picked up the antidote... just in case."
Greg smiled. "You're a hero, Nick. You might just have given John a chance."
Nick shook his head solemnly. "No, I'm no hero." he whispered. "You should... consider John, though..."
"We already do." Sherlock muttered as he unscrewed the small lid and held the vial to John's lips.
"Drink this, John, it's okay." the detective murmured, gently pouring the liquid into John's mouth. He placed a hand over John's lips and held his nose as the older man began to cough, and he could do nothing but will the doctor to swallow the antidote.
"John, come on, swallow it." Eventually, Sherlock saw his Adam's apple bob, and he smiled in relief.
"Good man." he said, resting the doctor's head against his chest. He could finally hear sirens in the distance, and he rubbed John's arm subconsciously.
Nick looked up at Lestrade, and beckoned for him to come closer. The DI bent his head and Nick whispered in his ear. Sherlock looked up briefly to see Lestrade pale, but he knew whatever it was the soldier was saying, Lestrade would tell him later. Instead, he looked back down at John, unable to prevent himself from placing a hand over the doctor's chest, feeling his weak heartbeat and also the rise and fall of his lungs. Nothing had improved, but then again nothing had worsened.
Nick finished speaking, and turned to watch Sherlock through half-lidded eyes, smiling softly. "Take care... of him." he whispered, nodding at John. "Can see... he needs you."
Sherlock nodded slightly, though his gaze never left John. With one final breath, Nick closed his eyes fully and his head turned limply to the side, the smile remaining on his face. Lestrade pressed two fingers against Nick's neck, and bowed his head.
"He's gone, now." he muttered, and Sherlock nodded again, just as paramedics trampled up the stairs and burst into the room, oblivious to the solemn scene that had occurred seconds ago.