"He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand."
–From Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

September 2014

John stared down at the bolt nock protruding from his abdomen.

Abdominal wound. That's…a bit not good, he thought disjointedly. A sudden wave of dizziness passed over him, and an odd, unpleasant warmth bloomed in his middle. He swayed on his feet. More than a bit, actually.

A sudden, sharp blow across the front of John's legs made him think for a moment that Moran had had an accomplice after all, and that said accomplice had just struck him with a board. But no – blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his fogging vision, John realized he'd dropped to his knees on the planked floor. He felt himself falling as the strength flowed steadily out of his body like water from a pitcher.

That's going to hurt, he thought vaguely as he pitched forward.

Only it didn't – suddenly Sherlock was there, halting his descent. John had time to feel a profound relief that he wasn't going to land on his face for the second time that day before the pain hit, deep and excruciating, as though the bolt lodged in his stomach had been heated to a white-hot temperature. He was unable to keep back a sharp cry as Sherlock eased him down onto his back on the dusty floor.

"John! John! Oh, God–"

John blinked up at the cobwebby ceiling far above. He tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but the movement caused the bolt to shift slightly, sending a jolt of stabbing pain ripping through him. He tried but failed to bite back another cry of anguish.

Kneeling beside him, Sherlock's mobile was in his shaking hands, his fingers flying over the touch keypad as he dialed rapidly. He lifted the phone to his ear and John could hear him speaking, but could not make out what he was saying; it felt like his ears were filled with water.

Then, as though his head had broken through the surface of a pool, the sound returned in a cacophonous rush: his dulled senses became hyper-aware, and John could hear himself gasping for breath. He tried again to calm his breathing.

Sherlock dropped the phone and grabbed John's hand in both his own.

"John! John, tell me what to do!" There was real panic in the detective's voice.

Gently detaching his hand from Sherlock's, John raised his head and shakily probed the area around the bolt, grimacing and hissing in a breath as he touched the wound. Gasping with the effort, he leaned his head back again as he looked up at Sherlock.

The detective read the doctor's self-diagnosis in his eyes: prognosis negative.

Sherlock's brows lowered; he suddenly looked furious.

"Shut up!" he cried, his tone outraged. "Shut UP! This isn't how it ends, John do you hear me?! You don't get to die! Now tell me what to do!"

John couldn't help huffing out a laugh, counting the pain this caused as well worth it. A fierce affection for this mad friend of his surged through him, and he resolved to fight with all he had.

"Scarf," he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock blinked, then understanding rushed into his face and he hurriedly removed his blue scarf. Holding it above John's torso, he looked uncertainly into the doctor's face.

John swallowed. "Position it…around the bolt and…and press down. Don't…don't try to remove the thing, or touch it…just…just leave it."

"I'm not stupid, John!" The detective tried to cover his panic with a lofty tone.

John huffed another laugh. "Where do you get that idea?" he quipped, but then gasped and arched his back as Sherlock, following his instructions, arranged the scarf around the bolt and pressed down hard. Frightened, the detective started to let up on the pressure again but John quickly put his hand over one of Sherlock's, holding it in place.

"No, it's – it's all right," he gasped. "Keep the pressure on."

A moment passed in silence.

"John, open your eyes!" Sherlock said urgently.

John did. He hadn't realized he'd closed them.

Sherlock, his reddened hands still pressing his now sodden scarf into John's abdomen, was staring into his face. His usual cool mask had been stripped away; his face was white, his jaw trembled, and his eyes were red and watery. "John, please…don't, just…don't…"

He didn't seem to know how to finish, but there was no need – John understood, and in that moment he thought it was worth getting wounded – even fatally so – to get an uncensored glimpse of Sherlock's heart…a heart that, as it turned out, was as great as its owner's brain, after all.

Best friend, John thought sluggishly, his eyes slipping closed again despite his best efforts to keep them fixed on Sherlock's face. Best friend for real.

"John!"

At Sherlock's distraught cry, John struggled to open his eyes once more. Remembering how he had felt at the sight of Sherlock's bloody form on the pavement in front of the hospital, he felt overcome by remorse – not for the world would he wish such a thing on his friend.

John knew, though, that the outcome was out of his control. He suddenly understood what James Sholto had been trying to say while he had bled out beneath John's hands in front of 221 Baker Street. Taking Sherlock's hand in one of his own, John squeezed it gently and offered what poor comfort he could.

"S'OK," he whispered faintly as his dimming vision blurred the sight of Sherlock's stricken face. "S'OK. It's…a good death."

It was, too. To die protecting someone else, holding the hand of the friend he had most loved – yes, that was a very good death, indeed.

When a frantic Mrs. Hudson called to tell him that Sherlock had gone haring off after Moran (like an idiot; so of course John had gone haring off after Sherlock, also like an idiot), Lestrade promised himself that he would knock their bloody heads together once he got hold of them.

Twenty years as a cop does a lot to desensitize a man, but Lestrade still had to fight down a rush of panic as he leapt to his feet and charged out of his office, mobile clutched tight in one hand, alternating between grilling Martha for as much information as possible while at the same time barking orders to his people.

Donovan was the only one not galvanized into action by Lestrade's sharp commands. Secretly he was pleased that she was the only person on his squad whom he couldn't scare the hell out of, but right now it was damned inconvenient.

"What?!" he snapped (meaning why the hell aren't you moving?).

She stood her ground. "It's him, isn't it?" Her attractive but ungiving face was set in lines of disapproval.

Lestrade didn't have time for this. "It is, and he's cornered our 'Crossbow Assassin' at the Mill," he told her curtly. "Get moving, you're driving…and we're going armed on this one."

Her eyes went wide at she hastened away.

Lestrade gritted his teeth and swallowed hard in an attempt to send his hammering heart back to its proper place. He leapt out of the passenger seat almost before Donovan had brought the vehicle screeching to a halt. Around them, numerous other sirens sounded as additional police cars, including an armed unit, converged near the front entrance of the Mill.

"Clear the area! Clear the area now!" Lestrade shouted as he made a beeline for the taped-off entrance. "Cordon off the outside perimeter and cover the exit of the building on the left!" He realized that Donovan was hard on his heels. Good woman.

In front of the entrance, near a motorcycle tipped onto its side, a frantic Bill Wiggins jumped from one foot to the other; it was as though his feet wanted to take off but their owner was desperately trying to make them stay in place. A motorcycle helmet dangled by its strap from his left hand; the young man's hair was mussed and his face was white as paper.

"I were about to break in," he gasped as Lestrade ran up to him. "Doc told me to wait here, but there was a shot, a gunshot–"

Greg shoved him aside roughly. "Get out of the way and stay back or I'll thump your bloody skull for you!" he cried harshly. He glanced back at Donovan, who was holding a large torch in both hands. "Keep up!"

Drawing his pistol, Greg tore through the police tape barricade and kicked the rotting doors in with one blow. Weapon drawn, he charged ahead, all the while knowing this was not one of his smarter moves. Sherlock would blame it on "sentiment," he thought crazily.

Lestrade burst onto the landing above the threshing room, pausing as Donovan swept the open space before them with her torch. They both froze as it landed on the three people whom they were seeking.

This place had been the scene of one of the most terrifying moments of Greg Lestrade's life, but the way his heart had dropped then did not compare with what he felt now as he took in the devastating sight of a very desperate-looking Sherlock Holmes kneeling above a frighteningly still John Watson, lying flat in a slowly widening pool of his own blood. Sherlock appeared to be trying to hold the blood in his friend's body with his scarf while he pleaded with him in a broken voice to open his eyes.

Not far off, the body of their assassin lay lifelessly on its back, a crossbow clutched in its hands.

Just under half an hour later, Mycroft Holmes stood beside his black town car, leaning on his ubiquitous umbrella as he observed the post-crisis cleanup taking place in and around the Mill. The Yarders swarming over the scene were purposeful in their movements but not frantic, talking quietly amongst themselves. It was fully dark by this time, but flashing lights, both from the police cars and the large yellow ambulance into which paramedics in orange vests were currently loading a stretcher holding an inert, gravely wounded patient, illuminated the scene.

A grim-faced, Lestrade, hands deep in his pockets, approached the Mill's main entrance from the direction of the ambulance. As he was about to step into the path of a slow-moving police car it whooped its siren briefly; he jerked his head at it to pass before continuing on. At the top of the steps leading into the main entrance of the Mill waited Philip Anderson, dressed in blue coveralls and white shoe coverings, with Latex gloves covering his hands. As Lestrade stepped up to meet him, the forensic technician moved in close to speak with the DI; Mycroft could not make out his low murmur but thought it sounded like a question. Lestrade offered a muted reply, and both men looked gravely back at the ambulance before disappearing into the Mill. Anthea passed them on the steps as she exited the building.

As cool and impeccably put together as usual, Anthea clicked calmly on high heels over to Mycroft. "It really is over now, sir."

Mycroft knew she was talking about Moran, but he did not look at her. Instead, he watched as his brother attempted in vain to board the ambulance with the unconscious John Watson while not less than four of Mycroft's people held him back. Mycroft could just make out Sherlock's broken, desperate voice: "Let me through! Let me through! He's my friend! He's my friend!"

"Yes," Mycroft said with a sigh. "It's over. And it's all come full circle, I'm afraid."

Many thanks to englishtutor for her editing skills.