~xXx~
Sebastian Moran sat crouched on the floor in a vacated flat just across the street from 221B Baker Street, the reverberations of his shot still trembling in his bones. All he could see in his scope was a plumbing of dust, but he was confident he'd hit his mark. He always hit his mark.
John Watson was dead. It was over.
Sebastian lowered his rifle, his blood heating with elation. He'd done it all so perfectly—just like James had instructed. The only thing that could've made the moment better was if he had been able to see Sherlock's eyes as John had fallen before him. They were probably the most exquisite shade of blue when they were brimmed with pain and tears. James had always loved Sherlock's eyes. 'He has the eyes of an angel," James had said once. 'I think I thought he was one the first time I met him. Until I saw the spot—the taint that ruined my only hope of true perfection. I want to remove that spot, Sebastian. I want to scrub it away. I'll gouge out his eye if I have to.'
It had all come together so perfectly; more perfectly than he could've ever hoped. But that was just part of James' genius, he supposed. James had always been able to accomplish things that Sebastian had never even dreamed possible. He was so much more than a man. He was something else, beyond the realm of humankind—floating high above the clouds and gazing down at the world with all-knowing eyes. Sebastian had seen it the very first moment they'd met—it was seared into his mind like a brand. His sole purpose in life had been to serve this exquisite being trapped in the confines of flesh and blood, and serve him he had. Twelve long years…and now there was nothing left.
In that moment, he wanted to think that James would be pleased with him. He wanted to think that, just once, a word of praise would fall over those thin lips. Sebastian would've cherished that word for the rest of his life. But there was nothing. The silence was stark, and definite.
The door to the room crashed in with a resounding bang. Two pairs of feet hurried into the room, followed shortly after by two calmer pairs. Steadily, Sebastian lifted his hands from his weapon and interlaced his fingers behind his head. "I didn't expect you lot to be so quick about it," Sebastian said.
"Stay where you are!" one of the policemen shouted. "Hands on your head!"
"They're already there," Sebastian said, grinning sardonically. Normal people really were idiots.
"I doubt you'll be smiling for very long. You're being charged for murder."
The sound of that voice grated at Sebastian's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. A slick sort of shiver ran across his skin as he turned his head to face the other man. "Inspector Lestrade."
Lestrade's lips pressed into a hard line. "Glad to know my reputation precedes me. Cuff him, boys, and do make sure they're good and tight."
Three policemen swarmed him, pulling his arms down and clamping handcuffs around his wrists. This…this wasn't right. Inspectors didn't travel around with patrolmen. Lestrade wouldn't be here unless…he had known. He had—
"You're wondering how we knew you would be here, aren't you?" Lestrade asked, pushing his hand into his pocket to retrieve his mobile. He began typing a message, the clicking of the buttons somehow cutting through the sound of Sebastian's breathing. "Well, I'm sure Sherlock would've been more than happy to inform you, but you've gone and pissed him off, I'm afraid. So don't expect the next few hours to be pleasant."
~xXx~
Sherlock inhaled sharply, dust filling his lungs and making the back of his throat burn. He was crouched on the floor, surrounded by a splay of glass and wood, cradling John's limp body in his hands. He was shaking. Why was he shaking?
"John," his voice came out in a hoarse trembling whisper. Sherlock drug in a couple more ragged breaths. Something was happening to him. He couldn't see straight. "John, come on. Wake up."
John didn't move.
Sherlock raised a hand to the doctor's cheek, knowing that it should've gone to feel for a pulse instead. "John," he choked out the word. What was happening? Why did his eyes hurt like a pressure was building just behind the line of his skull? His mind seemed to be malfunctioning. He could only see one thing, playing over and over and over again. John, strapped in a vest laced with—No! Stop. "Dammit, John, you're not shot. You're not…" This damn dust. It felt like he was suffocating. His entire chest hurt, a white hot pain radiating out from his sternum. He glanced around desperately as he curled his arms around John's torso.
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock hoisted John off the ground and began dragging him backwards out of the living room. Sherlock's room was just a few feet away, but he could feel the muscles in his arms beginning to cave. Slowly he lowered John back to the ground, propping him up against the wall. He needed something. What did he need?
His feet were moving before his mind had the chance to catch up. He raced into the kitchen, yanking open drawers and pulling open cabinets. Where was it? Where was it? His hands moved along vials and jars, still shaking violently. He knocked one out and it shattered on the floor in a violent spray of liquid and glass. It might've been an acid, in which case it would be in Sherlock's best interest to stop it from eating through the floor. But he didn't know. He didn't care. He pushed aside a few more jars before—there! Sherlock grabbed the bottle labeled 'ammonia' and hurried back to John's side.
His fingers worked at the lid, but they slipped across the metal like they were covered in oil, so he wrapped it in his shirt instead. Muscles straining, the lid finally came loose, and he threw it to the side before slipping the edge of the jar beneath John's nose.
There was a terrifying moment of silence.
John gasped, his eyes flying open and going wide. Sherlock discarded the ammonia and leaned in towards the doctor, his hands smoothing over John's face. "You're alright," Sherlock didn't know whether he was asking John or telling him.
"Sherlock," John breathed, his chest rising and falling much too quickly. "I—"
"You fainted," Sherlock said.
"For a second…I thought…"
Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, soaking in the heat of John's skin beneath his hands and telling himself over and over that all of this was real and now and here. "I did too."
"Sherlock." A wave of panic flickered over John's gaze. "Was that—was that a gunshot?"
Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his pocket. Heart quickening, Sherlock released his hold on John to pull it out. There was a text from Lestrade: We've got him. Was right where you said he'd be. Bringing him in for questioning now.
The detective powered down the screen and shoved the device back into his pocket. He glanced at John, feeling as if his skin was about to melt off his bones. "You're alright?" It really was a question this time.
John nodded, albeit unsurely. "I think so. What was the text?"
"It was from Lestrade. They've got the man who was trying to shoot you in custody."
"The man who was trying to—" John choked on the last words.
"I need to go in and question him," Sherlock said, trying his best to not think about the way that John was looking at him now. "Will you be alright here?"
John shook his head, color draining from his face. "No. No. I'm going with you."
"John, there's no point in—"
"I'm going with you."
Sherlock held his tongue, searching the creases in John's face. What he found there made him feel sick to his stomach. "You're afraid I won't come back."
Silence filled the space between them. John dropped his gaze to the floor, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth together.
"It's fine, John." Sherlock pushed himself up to his feet, extending his hand out to John. "It's all fine."
