A moment after the gun fired, John was still sitting in the dark, lonely room of an old flat, wondering what had caused the gunfire. Was it Moriarty? Or was it something else? It couldn't have been Sherlock. No. It couldn't, right? He never brought a gun and only gave it to his friend when he did.
Then the door opened to the tall and lean figure of Sherrinford, who silently approached the hostage with a pocketknife as the doctor's eyes never left him. He knelt beside the chair to cut his bondings and forced the hostage to his feet.
John was ready to strike, until a gun was brought under his chin. "Don't," the Holmes brother warned, then took the lead, making the doctor fallow. The two walked in silence as John's senses were sharpened, ready for anything. He was ready to attack and ready to defend himself. He was ready to even run if he had to.
The brother lead him to another flat's door and just stood in front of it, glaring at him with emotionless green eyes.
The doctor just looked at him, waiting for him to speak, but instead he just opened the door, walked in first, and stepped inside, waiting for the doctor.
Suspicion rising, John walked into the empty flat, narrowing his brown at the brother, then looked ahead of him and froze in horror as the sight before him. "No," he whispered, fear and pain lurching at his gut.
The door closed behind him, but didn't pay attention.
He just gaped at the dead body of Sherlock Holmes with a bullet to the head. "You killed him!" He cried, whipping his head to the brother, who was just standing by the closed door, keeping his head low. "You killed him! Your own brother and you shot him." Never has he seen such treachery. Even Mycroft knew that the middle brother was bad news. So did Sherlock, but he trusted him more. He trusted him and it got him killed!
"I had to," Sherrinford replied darkly. He turned his green eyes to him and they were soulless.
John looked back at his best friend, wanting to place a hand over his pulse, but he knew. He knew that he was dead. The bullet went straight through the frontal lobe, tearing through that brilliant brain of his. He turned his head away, closing his eyes as he tried not to cry. He lost Sherlock, his best friend, twice and now Mary. He opened his eyes at the murderer with rage and disgust. "You killed your own little brother," he growled venomously, "and you don't even care. He trusted you! He trusted you when no one else did!" Even knew Sherrinford killed his wife. He knew it and Sherlock wanted that one glimmer of hope that his brother was not a murderer.
Sherrinford rolled his eyes.
Anger slowly began to rise as he began to see red.
Mary was dead.
Sherlock was dead.
Now there was no one to hold him back, but he knew. Oh, he knew that he had to survive for his daughter, but the chances were horrible.
Sherrinford had a gun as he did not.
"So," the broken man began with a voice empty and grim, staring into the green eyes of the murderer, "you're going to kill me? You killed my wife, my best friend… Why? Why me?" He shouted as pain was pulling at his heart, tearing threatening to come. "Why my wife and why your brother?"
The traitor just looked at him as if he was bored. "She had your heart. Sherlock would've died for you." He bitterly smirk. "My little brother was always an idiot."
John clenched his fists tight, wishing to punch the bastard dead in the face, but knew that he would have a bullet shot at him before he got the chance. Emily was the only one he had and there was no way he was going to risk it, even though, he had a very slim chance of getting out alive.
The thought of her being alone tore his heart out.
No parents or Godfather and a drunk for an aunt.
What kind of life was that to start out with?
Sherrinford's expression dropped, unamused. "You really look like you want to murder me."
"Of course I do!" He shouted with rage as his eyes began to burn with tears. "You murdered my family!"
"Oh, relax," a baritone voice spoke, making his eyes snap open. "He did no such thing."
John spun around so fast that the room was a blur and stared at his dead friend, who was getting up. "What the hell? You were shot! In the head!" The tears began to back away as his mind was racing with questions.
"Nope," Sherlock said with a small smile as he straightened his coat and dabbed a bare finger at the drying crimson liquid on his forehead. "Pretended." He sniffed the liquid and looked at his brother with wonder. "Paint?"
The older brother shrugged and looked at him. "Couldn't think of anything else."
John looked at the both of them, completely confused and lost. "Paint? It was paint?"
"Really?" His friend began, looking at him as if he was slightly taken aback. "You didn't notice?"
"I was too busy thinking that my best friend was dead! Again!" He shouted at him, looked at the bother, then back to his friend. "You were in on this?"
"No, actually." The detective looked at his brother, waiting for an explanation as John joined him.
Sherrinford began to laugh as he crossed his arms. "You should've seen the look on your face, little brother. The look of pure horror!"
"I thought you were going to kill me."
"That's why I did it. I needed you to be surprised." He stood up straight with a smile. "Revenge for shooting me."
John looked at the detective. "You shot him?"
"Had to make it look real," he simply answered, still looking at his brother.
"As I had to make your death seem real to Moriarty." The brother frowned. "Speaking of which, did he come by?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet."
John looked at his friend with utter disbelief. "Why were you still faking it when I was here?" He loudly asked, not wanting his question to go unignored. He lost too many people already and one of them was Sherlock faking his suicide!
He looked at him with apologetic eyes that had life returned to them. "Sorry about that."
"I thought you were dead! I wanted to kill your brother!" Anger was rushing over him as he wanted to punch both of the Holmes brothers. Why is it when Sherlock fakes his death, he was left out of the loop? Mycroft, Molly Hooper, and his own parents knew that he faked his suicide, but did John? No! Now the two brothers were the only ones who knew and he was ready to kill the second brother if he could.
"I know." The detective then looked up at his forehead and asked, "Does anyone have a cloth?"
Sherrinford approached him, taking out a white cloth from under his jacket. "Here. I knew you needed it." There was a hint of humor in his voice.
Sherlock took the cloth and began to whip the paint away, looking at his brother with wonder. "Real gun, but fake bullets?"
"Bullet," he corrected. "Only had to make one."
John glared at the older brother. "You could've told me," he growled.
"Wanted to see what would happen," he replied as he smirked at the two of them with humor in his eyes.
Sherlock turned to his brother. "You called me an idiot."
"Thought that was going to get your attention."
"I thought there was a plan." He tossed the stained cloth to his brother, who looked at it with unamused disgust and gingerly tossed it aside.
"There is and that's getting out alive," he replied, looking at the two companions.
Annoyance surged through John as he announced, "Can I ask why my wife's death is unanswered?"
"Morarty killed her and framed Sherrinford," Sherlock answered, staring into his brother's eyes. "What is Moriarty planning?"
"Obviously it's to kill you and him," he answered, gesturing to the annoyed doctor with his head.
"Anything else?" The detective demanded.
"Taking over England?" He answered with uncertainty as if he didn't know himself.
"Where is he?"
"Thought he would've came by after the gunshot."
"Could he be on his way?"
Sherrinford paused. "I'll check." Then hurried out the door.
John glared at his friend with crossed arms.
Sherlock looked at him. "What?"
"Stop dying," he ordered.