Here's chapter 34! I hope you like this chapter - important side note, this was written some time in July or August. This isn't inspired by the third series of Sherlock in any way. I'm not sure what I'm describing in realistic or could really work like that; this is just my imagination, so no hate please - it might defy logic but right here I'm sorry, I don't care.

Enjoy!

The bell of the church chimes eight times, but Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't care what time it is or who might see him. Well, who of the ordinary, boring people might see him rushing gracelessly towards the warehouse just round the corner of the street he's in. Because they don't know, they'll never know, and even though they might be curious about what he's doing, they won't learn anything new so they will forget it eventually. Just like the media forgot him. Nearly forgot him. His fake suicide is now one and a half years ago, and with Kiara's help he managed to nearly destroy Moriarty's web. Sherlock still doesn't really understand why Kiara helped him because she was Moriarty's daughter and loved the consulting criminal with all her heart while Sherlock was one of the reasons the man killed himself, but again, he doesn't care about that. What he cares about, is Kiara. And John, mind, but John thinks he's dead. So in the moment she had to do. In the last nine months he had learned to trust her. She wanted the same as him, though for different reasons. She was witty and intelligent, and didn't annoy him too much.

Sherlock smiles when he remembers how Kiara was so annoyed with him and his brother Mycroft when his brother had finally cleared Sherlock's name. She had insisted on telling his brother right from the start, and after she had threatened to leave the deal he had agreed. And then the media had gone up again and told everyone that they had believed in him all the time. Sherlock didn't go out for a month, scared that someone might recognise him from all the pictures, and then because of the cocaine overdose. Kiara had hated it.

And she is the reason he is rushing to the warehouse now. She had called him, telling him to come quickly, she had found another piece of the web and she was in trouble. And nearly like with John, his mind becomes emotional when she is in trouble. It isn't that he has any romantic feelings for her, she is just a very good friend.

Sherlock reaches the door of the warehouse and takes out his gun. It is one of Mycroft's, and even though he hates to admit it, it is good. When he pushes the door, it swings open slowly. In front of him is a small room. It is rather thin and long, and he somehow knows that Kiara is behind the wall. The door to the next room is closed, but not locked.

The detective pushes his open and notices several things instantly. This warehouse is clean. There's nothing in it, and the dust is pretty thick. There are no signs of anyone but Kiara's footsteps, small clean dots in all the dust. And thirdly, Kiara is standing ten metres away from him, pointing with the little handgun she stole from Sherlock at Sherlock. At his stomach, to be correct.

"Kiara, what...?" Sherlock starts asking, but he can't end the sentence. Kiara pulls the trigger and he gasps when he feels the searing pain. It his hot, red-white-orange-painful, and the detective's legs give out. He falls to his knees, then to his side.

And even though his mind is clouded by pain, he deduces several things. Kiara usually has a very good aim, but she didn't even hit the major organs – probably – and no big arteries, as far as he can tell. Didn't she just ask him yesterday about them? If she had wanted to, she must have planned for him to die a very painful death. Does that mean she wants to draw it out even more or didn't want to kill him at all?

And then the reality hits him. Kiara. His Kiara, his second-best friend who had once nearly died for him, had shot him. Nobody except her and him knows where he is, not even Mycroft. Nobody will enter this warehouse for a long time, judging by the dust, so he will die here. There was nothing to stop that.

Fear curses through him, and anger and betrayal. John would never know that he had been, in fact, alive. He would not always waste away just like he did a few months ago, but he would never know. And why did Kiara do that? He had thought they were friends, at least companions. Sherlock doesn't know a lot about relationships of any kind, but even without John's help he knows that companions or friends would do this to each other.

"Well... The great Sherlock Holmes, at the ground at last." Kiara sneers, without her usual teasing tone, and Sherlock suddenly sees that she has come closer and closer, until she is now nearly standing next to him and looking down at him.

"Kiara, what...? Why?" Sherlock gasps, but Kiara just laughs.

"It was about time. Did you really think I have forgiven you for what you did to Father? No, I did not. You were very helpful in destroying Moran, but I think I can do the rest without you." She uses her foot to turn him from his side to his back. Sherlock only groans because of the pain.

"Great Sherlock Holmes does have feelings after all! Maybe not really feelings, more like the ability to bleed and die, but still, close enough. Anyway, Johnny-boy will be very sad when I tell him you were alive. But he won't be for long, don't worry..." Her words, her threats, give Sherlock energy again.

"No! Not... Not John, please..." He croaks, and he knows he is begging, but he doesn't care. Kiara mustn't hurt John, that was what the detective had jumped for, hadn't he? Kiara just laughs.

"I'll see you around, Sherlock Holmes... or not." She says and goes away, towards the door.

"Kiara... Please..." Sherlock whispers, but she is gone.

He can't believe this happened. But it did, and the puddle of the blood he's lying in, his own blood, is getting bigger. The detective can't be bothered to put pressure on the wound. It won't help because no one's there to help him any further, and it will only increase the pain. If he dies, he wants to die as quick as possible. The puddle is growing.

I'm sorry, John.