Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
AN: If you're as obsessive as I am (and you're here reading fan fiction, so I think it's a safe guess that you are) you know that this is now AU for series three. I'm still going to finish it off though, so enjoy!
Blown
Sherlock would've liked to say that there was a plan, that he was three moves ahead and had a stunning checkmate planned. That he had everything under control.
He would've liked to say that.
However, his plans had failed. His pieces refused to move. His bishop, rooks, pawns, even his knight had left him standing alone. His mind raced as he sought a way out.
"Ah," said Moran. Something out the window past Sherlock's shoulder had caught his eye. "So you haven't come alone after all."
Sherlock's brow furrowed. He turned, glancing into the street below.
John.
Of course he had come in the end. The doctor was there, standing in the street below their old flat, deciding whether or not to go up.
No. He could not be here now.
A hard blow to his head sent him to the ground, dazed. Moran strode past him and swiftly sighted his gun on the street below.
"In a way, I'm glad this happened," the gunman said. "I had orders to kill John Watson if you didn't kill yourself. Wouldn't want to shirk my duty."
Sherlock's brain was nearly frozen in fear. This could not be happening. The game was over. Moriarty was dead. After all this, he couldn't lose John.
With only that thought in mind, he blindly lunged toward Moran.