Here's chapter 39! Mycroft is still angry at Kiara, I'm sorry - and he will be for a bit... I hope you get why I think he'd be, I mean, even though he is so logical, there were two female persons in his life and both of them "betrayed" him - I dunno.

Enjoy!

Mycroft continues to glare at me every time I speak to him. It is unnerving to see him this free with his emotions, even if it's just the one, I'm somehow used to it connected with Anthea. But now his anger and mistrust and hate is directed against me and I shy away from him. I don't talk to him unless absolutely necessary, I don't come close to him, I don't even look at him.

Sherlock isn't angry. After I went to the hospital and apologized he forgave me within a day. I hate how suddenly Mycroft is the emotional one. It used to be the other way round, it used to be Sherlock. Sherlock who was hurting because of his friend, Sherlock who was laughing with me, Sherlock who snorted with laughter when we were annoying Mycroft.

But now, after Anthea, it changed. I cannot fully hate her for it, as it made me grow closer to Mycroft, but now looking back, it tastes bittersweet. Mycroft shouldn't be haunted by emotions, or rather fear, shame, anger and hate, but be able to keep calm. He was getting a lot better before I shot Sherlock, but what if this has thrown him back? He does have more nightmares.

I hear him every night, once, twice, thrice. I wake up every night and want to go to his room, but I only dare to sit next to his door. Sleeping is impossible anyway, and like to imagine that it's helping him.

As much as I want to be angry at him about it, especially at night, I can't. He is right, after all, even though Sherlock told me, after the first night, in his awkward, offending way not to worry about it.

Without the tense atmosphere, one might almost mistake it to how it was before Smith and Stone. I'm in my room a lot, or in Sherlock's when we are researching together, and Mycroft in his study.

My hands are shaking. I can hear Sherlock, he just opened the first door; he will be in here any second. Then the second door opens and he comes in, looking around, scanning the room for attackers, and the confusion is clear on his face as he realises that it's just me. Just me, who is pointing a gun at him.

"Kiara, what is going on?" He asks, his voice concerned, slightly out of breath.

"Sherlock..." My voice breaks, "I -"

The gun goes off. It isn't entirely unintentional, but to do it in that moment was. Sherlock just looks at me. Shock is clearly written on his face.

"Kiara?" His voice is barely audible, as I stare at the bloodstain on his shirt, right in the centre. With my free hand I touch my stomach, in the same place the bloodstain is now. I can feel my blood, pulsing strongly, quickly through my body. My pulse is getting higher and higher, why do I feel so calm though? Or am I just numb?

I look up to Sherlock again, first to his shirt, where the stain is spreading rapidly, then to his eyes. They are wide with shock. Then Sherlock moves. As if in slow-motion, I can see him falling backwards. Slowly, gracefully, inaudible.

My hands are shaking. Still shaking. And in that moment I realise what happened. My hands were shaking, so the gun went off. My hands were shaking, so I wasn't pointing exactly where I meant to. My hands were shaking. Are shaking.

My body moves without my direct consent. It's not that I don't want to do what I'm doing, it's just that I never ordered my body to do it. First is the gun. It lands in the far end corner of the room. Second is the scarf I'm wearing. I wrap it together and rush towards Sherlock. He isn't moving very much. His eyes are closed, his breathing isn't steady.

I press my scarf on the wound, trying to stop the blood. Within seconds my scarf is soaked and I take Sherlock's. From far away I can hear screaming. It takes a while to realise that it is actually me, screaming Sherlock's name, again and again, begging it to be a nightmare, begging him to open his eyes, begging him to tell me all will be fine, begging him to call me a sentimental fool.

Sherlock opens his eyes slightly. He is clearly confused, why should I help him after I just shot him? What he doesn't realise that I missed the target, that I hit the wrong target. Suspect must stay alive. De-synchronisation. Without warning these words float into my brain, I remember playing Assassin's Creed not long ago, and somehow I wish this was the same situation. But it isn't because this is real life and this is Sherlock who is dying under my hands, because of my hands, my shaking hands, not some stupid video-game.

"Kiara, please... Don't – John – you mustn't..." He must have deduced that I was still working for Father. For Moran. For Scottson.

"Kiara, please..." His deep baritone is rough, barely a whisper.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean – I never thought-" I stop. What can I say? He won't believe me. Why should he? I shot him, after all.

"Scottson, he had Irene" Again, my body, my mouth does what it wants. Not that I mind. My body is clever. Certainly more clever than my brain right now.

"A bargain – Your hands are shaking. Were shaking? I – John – Irene? Who – Kiara? Kiara?" He understands what happened. What I meant. Joy tries to fill my heart, but it is quelled by all the other emotions.

"Sherlock, I'm here... It'll be fine, I promise. I'll look after – after John," It's the first time I call Dr Watson by his first name, but I know Sherlock needs it right now. And I also know that nothing will be fine. Because Sherlock is breathing his last breaths. The blood is everywhere, soaking his clothes, my clothes, my fingers are red, Sherlock's dark locks are even darker and wet with all the blood, blood is everywhere.

And I know that, even if Mycroft and his paramedics came right this second, it would be too late. So I act calm over the numbness, tell him that all will be fine. Because for him, it might be. And dear god, if I meet him in hell when I die, god will be wondering what happened.

"Tell him – I'm sorry," he whispers, and I can see strength and fear in his eyes.

"I will, Sherlock, I will."

And then, the bleeding stops, and his breathing stops, and his heart stops, and there is only silence. I am left alone, holding him, crying, not even caring that this is not helping Irene because I killed Sherlock, something even Father had not succeeded in. My tears mix with his blood, and when Mycroft comes, mere minutes later, they have to pull me off Sherlock's body. It is taken away by the paramedics, but Mycroft and I just sit there, not being able to move.

And the blood turns from red to brown.