Where You Gonna Run To?

Chapter 11

Born To Die

John maintained a steady heart rate as he walked swiftly through the halls of St. Bart's. He kept his breathing normal, even though he wanted to throw logic out the window and run onto the roof guns blazing. He was certain that would ensure a bad ending for everyone. His left hand didn't shake as he made his way up the stairs. His gun felt secure at the waist of his trousers, hidden under his coat. Just as he was about go up the last set of stairs, a voice called his name. (Why must I always bring my gun?)

"John, it's Molly."

He stopped and turned. Molly was just a few steps below him, emerging from a doorway. She looked surprised and rather earnest, holding several files in her hands.

"Molly," he said slowly. "Hi—sorry—I have to—"

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm really sorry, John."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I can't tell you."

John walked toward her, pausing when he was a few feet away. He had heard references to what Sherlock had done to survive, but he refused to listen to the whole story. Truth be told, he didn't want to know how Sherlock had done it. It didn't matter how impressive or clever it was. For three years, it had ruined his life, so John had no desire to learn the details. (Will people find it impressive?)

"You helped him?" he asked quietly.

Molly's face transformed into a deep, confused frown. She had no idea John was aware Sherlock was back. John sighed and said, "Molly, don't apologize. You helped save his life."

"But—"

"Molly."

John strode forward, his voice urgent, holding her gently by her biceps.

"Something is about to happen," he said quickly. "On the roof. I'm not sure what. I called Lestrade and Mycroft, but they're trying to do this quietly."

"John," she said, her voice shaking, "John, what—"

"Leave," he said earnestly. "It's late. You should be home. Get out of here."

"But—"

"I don't know what's going to happen, so just get away from here, all right?"

John dropped her and went back up the stairs, ignoring her confused calls of his name.

Lestrade told John he'd be nearby, waiting for the first sign that things were going wrong. John knew that Lestrade would never get to them in time. Mycroft said he'd assemble a team. John had no idea what sort of team that was, but he assumed that Mycroft had the entire military on speed dial, even if they didn't know it.

The roof of St. Bart's had its pros and cons. For Sherlock and John, it was the home field advantage. More for Sherlock than John, since he didn't know what he was walking into. He was going to Sebastian, possibly heading straight into a trap. Of course, he could always just shove him off the roof, but Sebastian could do the same. If anything terrible happened, it would take Lestrade time to get to them, and John feared that every second counted. As he opened the door and walked out into the roof, John focused his attention, hoping that he had learned something from Sherlock. Maybe he would see an advantage.

A combination of moonlight and city lights illuminated the roof somewhat. Shadows were thrown from the small structures that littered the area, but John had a clear view of what was before him. He walked to where Sherlock had called him from, and to where he stood now, staring at John impassively. His hair fluttered lightly in the breeze, and he looked strange to John, outside without his large coat. Sebastian stood next to him, a gun held steady in his hand, pointed straight at his head. (Why here?) (Why now?)

Sebastian was almost the same height as Sherlock, with a short haircut, and tattoos on his hand and wrist. A long scar ran down the side of his face, and he was finishing up a cigarette. When John looked at him, he thought "military." This may have been Sherlock finally rubbing off on him, or just a random guess. (Can I be as clever as Sherlock needs me to be?)

Richard sat on the edge of the roof, hugging himself and crying quietly. His cardigan was skewed, and John noticed a small cut on his temple. He assumed Sebastian had coerced Richard to coming here. He had no idea how much Richard remembered, if he had flickers or fully-fledged memories seeping back in. (What if his personality changes?) Either way, he was still unstable, a ticking time bomb, and anything could set him off. John knew that he was prone to serious mood swings and had tried to take his life once, just after he awoke from the coma. This incident, however it ended, would be many steps back for him. (Can anyone help him?)

"Evening," said Sebastian casually.

"What's happening here?" asked John.

He attempted to maintain his calm façade, but it was slowly eroding. He locked eyes with Sherlock, whose face was in his natural repose. However, his eyes said something else. They bored a hole into him, and John felt as if Sherlock were seeing every thought in his head.

"I had orders," said Sebastian. "I had to see Sherlock jump, or I killed you. Yet here he is."

"Why now? You must've known for some time he was alive. I wasn't hiding."

"I thought maybe if Jim got better he would develop a new plan, an even more clever way to kill Sherlock. But I don't think Jim is coming back."

"Please," said Richard, tugging at his hair, "please, please stop calling me by that name."

He looked up at John, his lip trembling. John walked slowly toward him, keeping an eye on Sebastian as he did so. He held out his hand to Richard, who took it, crying into his palm softly.

"How sweet," muttered Sebastian sarcastically.

"He's terrified," said John harshly. "What do you expect?"

"I'd expect you to go running for your detective," said Sebastian scathingly, "but maybe you don't want him anymore."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," snarled John.

"Don't I?"

Sebastian pointed the gun at John, his hands steady. Sherlock moved one foot back to step away, but Sebastian turned to look at him. John backed away from Jim to his original position with his hands raised.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said softly, dangerously. "Jim?"

Richard looked up at him, still quivering, but his tears had stopped. He slowly stood, a gun held in his shaky hands. He pointed it at Sherlock as Sebastian walked toward John pressing the gun to his forehead. The cool steel hit him right between the eyes, and John raised his hands. Sebastian moved around him and kicked him behind the knees. John grunted as he landed at his feet. (Where is my advantage? )

Richard could barely hold the gun. Sherlock had his hands in the air, but his eyes roamed all over Richard. John knew that his mind was moving as fast as it could to get them out of this. If anything, he figured the gun would accidentally fire in Richard's trembling hands. Sebastian pressed the gun to the back of his head, and John looked to Sherlock.

"I don't want to do this," cried Richard, his voice shaking from fear.

"Then don't," replied Sherlock simply.

"Jim," said Sebastian, a warning tone to his voice.

"I can't do this," whimpered Richard.

"Don't," said Sherlock, softly yet earnestly.

"Talk again, Sherlock," said Sebastian, "and the doctor's brains land all over the roof."

"I don't want this."

Richard pointed the gun at Sebastian now, but the way he held it, John was certain a bullet would hit either of them. Sebastian bristled behind him, but kept the gun steady.

"This is what you wanted, Jim."

"I'M NOT MORIARTY!" he screamed.

John jumped at his outburst and looked at Sherlock. His face revealed nothing, but their eyes met. John had no idea how this would end, so he tried to show Sherlock how sorry he was, how much he loved him. If it registered with him, Sherlock didn't reveal it in his face. He looked at Richard closely, but John could not tell what was happening behind his eyes.

"End this," said Richard, his lip trembling again. "This is done. Over."

"If you're not Jim," replied Sebastian, "then you don't have the ability to call this off."

"You want me to be him."

"I'm just following orders."

"Why? Why follow an order that no one cares about?"

"It was my last order," said Sebastian quietly, "and I'm a loyal soldier."

"Step away from him," said Richard angrily. "Now."

Sebastian walked to John's right, pointing the gun at the ground. He was diagonal from Sherlock, who eyed him as if he were some curious specimen. Richard followed Sebastian with the gun, tears leaking from his eyes again. John slowly stood and pulled his gun, keeping it fixed on Sebastian.

"This is ending," said Richard firmly. "On your knees. Now."

"Jim," whispered Sebastian, looking up at him with a mixture of betrayal and anger in his eyes, "Jim, you were all I had."

"I know."

Richard slowly backed away from Jim and put the gun to his temple.

"NO, RICHARD!"

John shouted so quickly that Richard started and stared at him. John put his other hand up in hopes that he would lower the gun. He kept his own weapon pointed on Sebastian, who looked ready to spring up at any second. Richard's lower lip quivered again as John took a few steps toward him. (Can I fix this?)

"No!" yelled Richard. "Don't come any closer!"

"Okay," said John slowly. "Okay, it's fine, Richard. It's all fine."

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock as he slowly set the gun down. Richard glanced at it, and John kicked it a few feet away from him. It slid across the roof, coming to a stop when it hit the short barrier. He put his hands in the air and glanced at Sherlock, who did the same. Sebastian's eyes roamed over Richard as he laced his fingers together at the back of his head. A cloud passed over the moon, making the roof seem much darker with the light obscured.

"No one wants to get hurt," said John gently, "and none of us want you to get hurt. See? Even Sebastian isn't going for a weapon right now."

Richard shook his head as more tears spilled from his eyes.

"I don't want my old life," he said, his voice shaking terribly, strangled by fear and emotion. "I don't want that. I remember...just a little, images, flashes of things. And I hate it. I don't want to remember."

"It's okay. You don't have to go back to that."

"What choice do I have? I don't want you to die. You're the only friend I've ever known, John, and I don't know how to stop him killing you."

"And what good will killing yourself do?"

"You don't even want me as a friend. You just wanted to tell me the truth and get out before it got too complicated."

"And we became friends anyway, didn't we?" said John somewhat hopefully.

"What good did it do?" said Richard, pushing the tip of the gun into his temple. "All we learned is that you love Sherlock, and you don't really want me, John. You just wanted to make Sherlock feel as betrayed as you did. No one cares about me."

"Sebastian does," countered John.

"I don't think we can agree well enough to make anything work," said Richard firmly. "None of you are going to die."

The next few things that happened occurred very quickly. Richard stood up straight suddenly, his chin held high. Sebastian lunged forward and tackled Richard to the ground. The gun fell from his hands and skidded across the ground, bumping into the other one. Sherlock ran and grabbed it, just as Sebastian jumped up. Sebastian's hands wrapped around Sherlock's throat. He shoved them into the barrier, and they were dangerously close to falling off. Sherlock was leaning over the edge, struggling to pull Sebastian's tight fingers from his neck. John immediately sprang to help him, but Richard tackled him. His head slammed into the roof, and stars burst behind his eyes.

Suddenly, everything was moving very slowly. Richard moved off of him instantly and threw himself to the other gun lying just a few feet from them. Sherlock's hand rose to press the gun to Sebastian's head, but his face was blue from losing oxygen. The gun slipped from his fingers, and John sat up. He reached out and tried to crawl forward. As the gun skidded toward him, he looked up at Sherlock.

Their eyes met, and that last second seemed to last an eternity. John saw everything in his eyes. He saw that Sherlock was sorry, that he loved him, that he wished he had done better by him. John felt the gun enter his hands and began to stand. The sound of a gunshot pulled his attention away.

His eyes tore from Sherlock to his right, where Richard was sitting against the barrier, his eyes wide and unseeing. The gun was limp in his hands, and John could see that the back of his skull was gone. Where Moriarty had failed, Richard had succeeded. A strangled cry brought John's attention back to where Sherlock and Sebastian were.

Or where they had been. He saw nothing. The gun fell from John's hands, and his heart stopped. For a second, the world stopped turning. John felt himself reliving Sherlock's death all over again, as he shouted his name and saw his once and future lover plummet to the earth. The light went out in John's world as he stared at the spot, seeing nothing, except for the void where his heart used to be.

"John!"

It was Sherlock's voice, a panicked cry for help, yet John didn't see him. Had he begun to hallucinate him coming back to life already? The wishful thought entered his mind, and then John squinted. As the cloud passed completely over the moon, more light shone on the roof. John saw Sherlock's hand at the edge of the roof, knuckles white as he held on for dear life.

Author's note: It's been a while, hasn't it? Unfortunately, my beta and I have lives, school, and I'm moving soon, so we're both quite busy. But we're almost done! Thanks to everyone for all the reviews and alerts! The chapter title is a song by Lana Del Rey.