Author's note: Here is the last chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it.
I don't won anything, please review.
For a moment after the shot had rang out, John stood still, the sudden silence ringing in his ears. Then he ran like he'd never run before, cursing his own stupidity. What were the chances that someone decided to break into Herder's house at the exact day Sherlock and John found out about his connection with the rifle that had killed Ronald Adair? Someone like Moran must have his informants, even at Scotland Yard, and he had guessed where they would go after being exonerated. He had broken into the house and waited for them. And when Sherlock entered it, alone, unarmed, he'd taken his chance...
How he wished owned another gun. But his gun was still lying in the evidence locker at Scotland Yard – Sherlock had run out of the building before he could retrieve it...
John burst through the door. No one was in the corridor. He ran to the door he supposed led to the living room.
He was right.
Sherlock was half-lying, half-sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, clutching his left shoulder. Blood was oozing forth between his fingers, and John hoped that it had been a through-and-through, though he couldn't be sure. But at least Sherlock was alive.
His relief was short lived, because he realized at this moment that Sebastian Moran was standing in the middle of the room, his gun trained at Sherlock.
"John" he said, his voice flat, his hand steady.
"Sebastian" John replied, slowly walking into the room. His heart was pounding in his chest and his mouth was dry. If Sebastian should decide to pull the trigger... He looked at Sherlock, who wore a clam expression on his face, as he had expected, but he could read the well-hidden fear in the eyes of the consulting detective. Somehow, the realization that he wasn't scared for himself, but for the doctor made John even more nervous.
"I expected you would find out where I got the gun from in time" the ex-sniper said, "so as soon as I heard you weren't under suspicion of murder anymore – well done, by the way – I came here to wait".
"Herder" Sherlock hissed, putting more pressure on his wound.
"He's upstairs" Moran replied, "although I don't think he'll hear you".
John had known that the manufacturer was dead as soon as he'd realized Moran was in the house; furthermore, right now, he couldn't care less about Herder's fate. He had to concentrate on getting Sherlock out of this house alive, just like it had been at the pool. Sebastian seemed to remember the last time they had been together at the same place too, if they vicious look he bestowed on John was anything to go by.
Even though he knew it was hopeless, John tried to calm Sebastian. "This is between you and me, Moran. It has nothing to do with Sherlock. Let him go. I'll stay and we can talk about it..."
Moran laughed a short, bitter laugh. "Talk about it? Talking is not what I plan on doing right now, Johnny".
The use of the nickname Moriarty had given him made John wince. Moran smiled – but John noticed that it was an unhappy, cruel smile, the smile of a person who had nothing left to lose and was prepared to do anything.
Moran looked from him to Sherlock and asked, "So, where would you like me to put my next bullet? I'd start with the joints. Make him suffer and bleed before I end it in front of you".
"John" Sherlock hissed, and the doctor could read his thoughts in his eyes. His heart clenched.
Moran smiled again, apparently thinking that Sherlock was asking for help. Only he wasn't.
He was asking John to leave. Moran's gaze was strained on him; the doctor could be out of the house in under a minute. Wait for Lestrade's men (and most likely Mycroft's) in safety.
Sherlock was asking him to give up his best friend to save himself.
No, he told him by shooting him a determined look. Sherlock understood and, even now, his lips curled up in his half-smirk. It was almost soothing under the circumstances, or at least he would have been, if Sherlock hadn't been –
"Stop that" Moran interrupted their silent conversation. "Do you really think I'll let you two make a plan right under my nose?"
"Sebastian" John decided to try again, "I texted DI Lestrade and Sherlock's brother knows where we are. If you don't let us go now, there is no chance you'll survive this".
Of course he could still shoot both of them and leave before any help arrived, but John decided not to give him any ideas.
Moran shook his head, as if amazed by John's stupidity, and looked at the doctor. "What makes you think I want to survive this?"
There was a strange glint in his eyes, and he seemed to become more excited by the minute. Clearly, ever since the loss of Moriarty, he had slowly sunk deeper and deeper into a downward spiral, and he was close to finally taking the plunge and losing his mind. This was not good. John had seen it happen to men in Afghanistan, and a crazy man with a gun was always more dangerous than a sane one. Not that Moran had been sane before Moriarty's death; no one who followed a psychopath around like he had done could be. But he had at least been functioning. Now all he seemed to live for was revenge.
His suspicion was confirmed when Moran resumed talking. "I just want you to watch him die. Watch him suffer and bleed and beg for his death. Make you feel what it's like to – " he swallowed and hesitated before finishing the sentence. "To lose the most important person in your life right in front of your yes, powerless to do anything" he finally spat.
The most important person in your life. He had finally said it out loud, John realized – what Moriarty had meant to him. Of course he wouldn't hesitate to admit that Sherlock was the most important person in his life, that he loved him, but in another way than Moran had...
And then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he could hold Moran's attention long enough for Lestrade's and (hopefully) Mycroft's men to arrive. And if this plan failed, it would probably make Moran angry enough to focus on him instead of Sherlock.
He shook his head and made sure that he sounded surprised when he asked, "So this is really all this is? Revenge for Moriarty's death?"
"What do you mean, all?" Moran looked at him, angrier than John had ever seen him, but before he could say anything else, the doctor had already added, "So it is. But, really, I don't understand why..."
"Why what?" the sniper spat, the gun he was still keeping on Sherlock beginning to shake ever so slightly. Most people would probably not have noticed it, but John had been a soldier, and he had had to look out for men who might panic any minute often enough. He knew the first signs of intense emotion.
"Why you would do something like this for someone who didn't care whether you lived or died".
"That's not – he would have done the same for me". He lowered the gun, just a bit, and suddenly, John realized what he had overlooked all this time of seeing Moriarty and Moran interact.
"So he slept with you once, then". It was a statement, and Moran knew it. And he didn't deny it.
"And then he treated you like the pet you were for him".
"Stop it!" Moran almost screamed, the gun beginning to shake more and more.
John cleared his throat. "Answer me a question: If you had been arrested for murder – would Moriarty have freed you? Run away with you?"
The consulting criminal wouldn't have, and they all knew it. Moriarty wouldn't have told Moran to run, like Sherlock tried to tell John, either. He would have happily accepted Moran's death.
The gun was shaking more and more, and, despite the fact he was sure Moran would shoot him any minute, he decided to deliver the final blow. Maybe Sherlock could hide or even attack Moran from behind while he was busy killing him.
"Although I suppose it would have been rather... inconvenient for him to find a new favourite little sniper who was so willing to do anything he asked."
At this moment, several things happened at once. Moran predictably spun around, ready to shoot John, when Sherlock jumped at him. John, immediately grasping what had happened, managed to kick the gun out of Moran's hand before the sniper grabbed his neck and John understood that this was it; Moran knew how to kill silently and efficiently and...
A shot rang out and Moran fell down right on top of John. At the next moment, Sherlock was frantically dragging the sniper off him with the hand he could use.
"John? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"
"No" John answered, rolling Moran off him and jumping up to inspect Sherlock's wound – it had only been a through-and-through after all, and the consulting detective had made it appear as if he was in more pain than he actually felt.
"Thank God" John breathed, and Sherlock answered, "I was going to say the same thing".
They looked at one another, then at Moran. The sniper was dead; Sherlock had shot him in the back of the head.
"Good shot" John commented, and Sherlock chuckled. "That's what Mycroft said when he saw Moriarty's body".
John looked at Sherlock and then pulled the consulting detective into a hug. At first he was surprised, then he hugged him back, using his right arm.
They let go when they heard the police cars arrive and Lestrade burst in the door.
"Sherlock? John? Is everything..." He looked at the body. "Colonel Moran, I presume?"
"Yes, Inspector, and the murderer of Ronald Adair. I'm sure you will find a trace of the gun when you look over Herder's records – he's lying upstairs."
Greg nodded, then saw the blood slowly trickling down Sherlock's left arm. "Sherlock..."
"It's alright, Greg, it's just a through-and-through, I'll take him to the hospital – I assume there's a limousine waiting?" John asked.
Greg nodded again, then shook his head and smiled. "You two will be the death of me. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Of you go".
They left, Sherlock already complaining that he had to go to the hospital, but complying when John told him that he wouldn't have to stay the night.
There wasn't much the hospital could do but dress the wound ("Really John, you could have done it much quicker") and describe him some painkillers before sending him home, and John told the driver to thank Mycroft while Sherlock huffed.
Mrs. Hudson made a fuss as expected – once again one of her boys was wounded, but she calmed down when John promised her it was nothing serious.
Later, they sat in the living room, both with steaming cups of tea before him, and Sherlock was trying to type on his laptop using only one arm.
"What are you writing anyway?" John asked after the third grumbled complaint. "You don't have a case at the moment".
"But I have to write down this one, John. Obviously."
John nodded, then an idea struck him. "Why don't you publish the notes on your homepage? They would make a good reading".
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't think my notes would be to the general public's taste. Why don't you try it?"
"Me?" John asked, thinking it over. "Not a bad idea. I still have that blog Ella forced me to write."
But Sherlock was already lost in his notes again, and John looked at him, fondness in his eyes. Writing down and publishing their cases in the internet could bring Sherlock even more cases. And John already knew the first line he was going to type.
I don't regret anything.
Because he never would. He had been a soldier, he had been a criminal, he had been a murderer, but it had led him exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he had always been supposed to be.
And nothing else mattered.
Author's note: I just realized I had never written a John/Sherlock hug. At least, not a proper one. FANGIRL FEELS!
Anyway, I hope you liked this story, and please tell me your final thoughts on this AU as a whole. I'm very interested.
I wish each and every one of you a wonderful day.