A/N: T rated violence in this chapter
"A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman's love, however badly he may have treated her."
― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Musgrave Ritual
No. Nonononono…how? How had he got here so fast? Even Mycroft - no, focus, John, that's not important.
What's important is that he has Rosie. And a gun.
And if Sherlock could shoot Mary (yes, that was what had happened, not Vivian Norbury, he'd got it wrong, it had been Sherlock who'd shot Mary, surely that was what had happened at the aquarium?) then he wouldn't think twice about shooting his so-called 'best friend'.
Whilst holding the child of the woman he'd murdered. Probably smile while he did it, too, the cold-blooded bastard.
(There was something wrong with this scenario, what was it? Oh yes, Mary hadn't been murdered, only injured; there was no reason for his mind to conjure up the sight of her body lying sprawled across the cold cement floor of the London Aquarium, especially since Molly had been shot in their flat no wait not Molly, why was he now picturing Molly with blood pouring from a wound high on her chest? Sherlock, that's right, he'd asked for Molly when Molly wasn't even here, when Molly was somewhere in London, when the only other person in the house was Mary-)
Mary, who had led her attacker here, who had endangered them all - especially Rosie, the only light in his life these days.
Rage roared through John Watson's mind, drowning out his confused melange of thoughts, drowning out Sherlock's sardonic drawl, the sound of his own heartbeat, the throbbing pain in his head. It suffused his vision with red, tautened his muscles, reduced his speech to a low, spittle-filled growl as he spun on his heel - and raced back up the stairs.
The bastard had tracked them down, all because Mary couldn't just, for once in her God-damned life, TRUST him.
Sherlock could wait. But Mary? Oh Mary, as traitorous as Vivian Norbury, she wouldn't wait.
John wouldn't - couldn't - make her wait.
Mary had to pay for this betrayal.
Sherlock's shocked voice follows him as he pounds up the stairs. "John, no!"
("John, no!" echoes desperately through his mind, cutting briefly through the haze of rage, and his steps falter, as the image of a reaching hand shimmers into his vision - no, two hands, one large and masculine, outstretched as if to stop him; the other smaller, feminine, holding a gun pointing directly at him, and the two hands merge and a bullet is fired, the blue light and shadows of sharks replacing the red haze before fading back into darkness and John staggers, stumbles, but regains his footing as he reaches the small landing until his foot hits the next step and he prepares to run run run because Mary needs…Mary needs…)
Outside awareness returns with a burst of pain as his body collapses to sprawl across the landing, a heavy weight holding him down, arms wrapped around his midsection and a voice demanding that he stop-
Sherlock, he realizes dimly, has tackled him from behind. Which means Rosie is back in her carseat, so she's safe enough for the moment, which means…
He twists in Sherlock's grasp, kicking out with one leg at the same time that he turns them so that Sherlock is the one underneath, so that he has the high ground. Sherlock grunts with pain - it was a solid hit to the kneecap, too much to hope that he'd broken it but some damage has been done. John twists his body again, teeth bared in a grimace as he manages to get his hands around Sherlock's throat, tightening his grip, squeezing, squeezing…
A shout of anger escapes his own lips as Sherlock breaks that strangling grip, heaving John up and off him with a desperate surge (so easy to forget just how strong that skinny git actually is beneath his bespoke suits). John stumbles back, half-kneeling and teetering precariously at the edge of the stairs, then grabs Sherlock with one hand and hauls back the other fist but the bastard blocks the punch and sends them both off-balance, tumbling down the stairs in a flailing, kicking mess of entangled bodies.
Blood is flowing from John's nose, and Sherlock's as well. Rosie is screaming in her carseat, but John cannot hear her, can hear nothing but the rushing noise in his ears, can see nothing but Sherlock's throat beneath his hands as he thrashes his way atop the taller man, knees bracketing his thighs as his fingers tighten, tighten, tighten…
The sound of a gunshot echoes stunningly through the room, and John grunts, his fingers loosening their madman's grip - why? He looks down, sees the blood blossoming on his chest, then looks down at Sherlock. No, both his hands are gripped around John's wrists, his gun nowhere in sight, so who…
He stares up at the figure that seems to tower over him. He blinks away the sweat, his vision clearing, and he gapes at the sight of Mary with a gun in her hand - his gun, he realizes as he sways on his knees. Her expression is wild-eyed, not the cold stare he might have expected, and his sense of outraged betrayal fades beneath sudden understanding. He blinks, tries to speak, to tell her that it's only fair that she shoot him, since she'd died to save him.
"I love you," he finally croaks out, then John Watson topples to the floor. The last sounds he hears are his darling Rosie screaming in terror, poor mite, and Mary - his love, his wife, the one that matters most - crying out his name.
End note: Thus endeth another chapter. The end is nigh! Many thanks to asteraceablue for able betaing assistance, and as always thank you for your wonderful reviews, and for reading and favoriting!
