One chapter left after this! Thank you for reading. I'm not sure how to end... you may already know that endings are a definite weak spot that I have.
I hope you like this chapter :D

Sherlock yelled out in horror, whipping the gun out from behind his back and firing shot after shot into Sebastian Moran. The assassin clutched his chest, coughing out blood, and fell to his knees.

"J-Jim…" He stretched out his hand feebly, with a pleading look towards his master. Moriarty frowned down at him, unimpressed, and turned away.

"Sorry, Seb. But it's the end of the road, I'm afraid. I'll be seeing you in hell."

Sebastian gasped and fell flat on his face, his last breath rattling through his body.

Sherlock was crouching next to John, shaking the unmoving man gently, face paper white in shock, unable to tear his eyes from the blood seeping through the clothes. Stunned, he finally looked up at his nemesis, horrified, too surprised to be angry.

"I… you…" He stammered. Moriarty grinned widely.

"Sorry about that. Collateral damage."

At that callous remark, the detective snapped out of his dazed trance at last. He snatched his gun up and reloaded it with one swift movement, straightening and stepping forwards so that he was head to head with the criminal. The gun in his hand pressed into the area above Moriarty's heart.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Don't you worry, poor Sebby knew better than to kill your pet. He aimed slightly off." He seemed extremely calm given the circumstance.

Sherlock grabbed his collar menacingly.

"You've played this game for too long. People have suffered. People have died. And that… what you just did. You went too far."

With that, he squeezed the trigger – cherishing the look of surprise on Jim's face. And he would cherish the memory for a very long time.

His nemesis fell, dead instantly. He was lucky Sherlock hadn't tortured him first. But the man in question was crouching beside his friend, checking for signs of life. He got one – thank goodness – and quickly dialled Lestrade's number on his mobile.

"What do you want this late?" Came a mumbled voice.

"I need an ambulance at Baker Street for John. He's been shot. Badly."

Sherlock hung up at once, not wanting to answer any unwanted questions. He gently assessed the wound. The bullet had missed all the major organs, but John's chest was bleeding profoundly. Sherlock put one hand firmly over it, trying to stem the flow of red. He was no doctor, but it seemed like the best thing to do.

"John?" He whispered, actually pleading. "Can you hear me? Please, stay with me."

With an effort, John's eyes flickered. He gazed at his flatmate numbly. The sedative still hadn't worn off, which made the injury all the more worse. He frowned.

"W-Wha…?" He tried to sit up and gasped in pain, involuntary tears springing to his eyes. "N-ya…"

"Stay still." Sherlock ordered. John lay limply, his breathing shallow.

"Sher…"

"I'm here. An ambulance is coming. I'm trying to stop the blood flow by putting pressure on the wound. Am I doing the right thing?" Only Sherlock Holmes would dare ask such a practical question to a man who was so clearly in agony. His voice was relatively calm, but there was a slight tremor that John probably noticed.

"Um… Argh…! Y-Yes… I th-think… God… Oh Jesus Christ… Are you... using… your h-hands?"

"Yes."

"N-Not… the b-best…" John's voice faded away and he blinked hard, gasping. "D-Don't… worry…"

"I'm not. Of course I'm not." Sherlock replied too quickly, shaking. He pushed down a bit harder and the doctor winced, squirming slightly.

"Sh – Sher –"

With his free hand, Sherlock clasped John's.

"It's alright. Just focus. Keep your eyes fixed on –" No. Not that line again. "Just… Just keep on looking at me. Okay? You've got to stay with me."

John let out a cry of pain that nearly tore Sherlock's heart apart when he heard it.

"All… those t-things…" He whispered. "… That… I – I wanted to s-say…"

"No. John. Not now –"

"P-Please… Listen…"

"N-No. You can't. You're not. I – I won't let you..." Sherlock shook hard, holding back tears. This couldn't be goodbye. Not now.

"I – I d-didn't… hah, Oh G-God… hah… Sher – I didn't tell you…"

Sherlock shook his head blankly.

"Don't say anything. Please. I – I already know."

John frowned at him uncertainly, tears of affliction rolling down his cheeks.

"You're… c-cryi–" He began, startled.

"N-No. You'll be fine. I p-promise."

The wail of sirens hit their ears. Both of them stared at one another, not daring to look away. Lestrade ran into the room, followed by three paramedics.

How they ever got Sherlock away from the blonde haired man, neither of them would ever know. The next hour was a blur of flashing blue lights and orange shock blankets and calming words from Lestrade. And shock and pain and...

-.-

It was hours before a doctor approached Sherlock in the waiting room, having just been in surgery. The detective's hands and coat were still stained with John's blood. The medical man walked over cautiously.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock straightened, standing up, pale.

"Is he alright?"

"We've got him sedated. His injury was severe – and for a time life threatening – but we're hopeful he'll make a full recovery."

"I want to see him."

"He's asleep… And visiting hours are over, sir…"

"That's alright. My brother Mycroft Holmes will sort that out." Sherlock strode past him. He'd already deduced where John's rough location would be.

"Sir…" Sherlock turned around and dug in his pocket.

"Here." He passed over a card. "Can I see him now?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I didn't realise…"

Sherlock snatched the card and walked away. He loved pick pocketing Mycroft more than he cared to admit.

Walking swiftly, he asked a nurse for the ward number and soon arrived, opening the door. He virtually raced to his blogger's side and sat on a chair, waiting for him to wake up.

I nearly got you killed. Please forgive me.