Chapter Nine
History Repeating

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Some swearing in this chapter (I watch way too much Supernatural currently).. Please don't kill me for what I've written... Sherlock is kind of OOC too. This is how I imagine him to act, thanks to my warped imagination.

The sirens wail as police cars swiftly transport them back to 221B. Sherlock can only hope that Mrs Hudson is still alive. I made a foolish error… I shouldn't have left the flat… not without thinking first… Lestrade can clearly sense his distress because he speaks for pretty much the whole journey, attempting to reassure his friend.

"This maniac has nothing against Mrs Hudson. There's no way he's going to waste any bullets on her… I mean, he can't afford it. We've frozen all of his contacts; he's not getting any more ammunition. As far as we can tell, he only has four bullets left… Nah, he won't hurt her…" Sherlock wants to believe him and loosen the tight knot of worry in him. Except he can't. If anything has happened to his landlady, he will… he will… What would I do? He thinks, startled. How would I feel? How would I cope? Would I delete her too?

The police car skids to a controlled halt and they rush out: Sherlock, Lestrade and a dozen police officers, many wearing bulletproof vests and holding their guns up. The front door is wide open. Sherlock charges in first but it is too late. He has one foot in the corridor, when he hears a single gunshot. The sound chills him and for a second, he freezes, rooted to the spot. Then…

"NO!" He yells. "NO, NO, NO!" He races towards the sound and sees the assassin, standing over a body. "NO!" It is the only word he is capable of screaming out. Someone from the force has opened fire and the killer drops to the floor, groaning. And Sherlock is sinking to his knees, and his eyes never leave the only woman he will ever love who is… she is… No. "Mrs… Mrs Hudson…"

He sees the blood spilling from his landlady's chest, seeping through her floral dress. And Mrs Hudson's eyes are open and unseeing and she isn't moving or breathing or…

Sherlock staggers back up. The rest of the force are making their way over but he doesn't acknowledge their existence. His sole attention is now on the murderer at his feet, who is clutching his side in evident agony. The detective wastes no time. Savagely, he kicks and punches the man over and over again, screaming. Blood is everywhere, on his hands, clothes, as he rains down blows with as much force as he can muster.

"YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER! HOW COULD YOU KILL HER?! SHE MEANT SO MUCH! AND BEFORE! THEY WERE MY FRIENDS! AND JOHN WATSON WAS MY BEST FRIEND AND NOW I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHO HE WAS!" He smashes the man against the ground and there is a sob of pain. Sherlock sees nothing but red. He is still screaming as the police officers tear him away and restrain him. He pulls against them, wanting nothing more than to slit the assassin's throat. He bellows at the top of his lungs, unable to control himself, centring his anger more on what has been done to John Watson than Mrs Hudson. "HE MUST HAVE MEANT SO MUCH TO ME! AND YOU KILLED HIM! JUST YOU WAIT TILL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU! I'M GOING TO TORTURE YOU SO SLOWLY THAT YOU'D RATHER DIE, YOU BASTARD! YOU SON OF A BITCH –" The recipient of his outrage is being slowly handcuffed and dragged away, but Sherlock catches a glimpse of his face as he turns to go. He is smirking. IT'S NOT A JOKE! NO! NO! LET ME GO! I NEED TO – LET ME GO!" His struggles are futile, and his voice is hoarse. His legs buckle and he collapses into Lestrade, defeated. "No… No he c-can't… He just…"

And then he remembers that this is Mrs Hudson, brutally killed, her bruised and battered body the only thing left for him to see.

"Your only two friends in the world will die if you don't." That's what Moriarty had told him. At least, that's what he can recollect. Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson.

And Mrs Hudson is dead.