The shot echoed the room and stunned everyone into silence. Moriarty remained holding onto Scarlett's arm, his eyes narrowed at Sherlock as he watched the consulting detective wince at the sound. Moriarty's henchmen remained stood where they were, glued to the spot, two were armed and one was not. They continued looking at Sherlock before John made his move. Quickly, he pulled out the gun from the back of his pocket which he always kept with him when being with Sherlock. He took aim and managed to shoot one of the cronies. Point blank in the head. Before the other one had time to react, John had made his move, shooting the last armed man.
Whilst John did this, Scarlett threw the gun which she had in her hands over to Sherlock whilst Moriarty just spun her around in his arms and heard Sherlock shoot the unarmed man down. Moriarty opened his mouth and then close it, just like a goldfish when he looked down into the girl's eyes which were twinkling and a smile was held on her face. As he dropped his gaze he saw her hand. It was clutching onto her stomach where a red substance was flowing out. Scarlett quickly dropped her hand to the side and balled it into a fist, and then, with all her might, she managed to fling a punch straight at Moriarty, hitting the shocked man on the side of the face.
"I told you," she hissed, "that I would never betray him."
"Scarlett," Sherlock gasped when he noted the blood on her and not on him. His pale features seemed to have paled even more than before as he saw the young woman drop to her knees, her hand on her blood covered stomach whilst John continued holding his gun, pointing it straight at Moriarty who held his to the side.
"Drop it." John ordered the man whose features were faltering him terribly. How had this happened? How had he-a criminal mastermind-managed to get into a position like he had done? Well he wasn't settling for it. Quickly, he raised his gun, but before he had a chance to shoot, Sherlock raised his at the man and shot him in the chest. Three times, to be precise. Moriarty stumbled backwards, his body crashing down onto the carpet, blood seeping out of him. Sherlock looked on for a moment before his eyes went back to the girl on the floor. She had one arm resting on the coffee table, supporting her weight whilst her other held onto her stomach tightly.
"Come here," Sherlock told her, dropping to his knees also, removing his coat as he did so and screwing it into a ball. Swiftly, he manoeuvred his body so that he had Scarlett resting against his lap, his arm going around her shoulders, holding her upright, pressing his coat onto her wound.
"John," Sherlock called his friend, "you're a doctor."
"Well observed," John couldn't hold his tongue as he phoned for an ambulance. "Just keep the coat on the wound...the more pressure than the better."
"Sherlock..." Scarlett began to croak out but the detective shook his head.
"You don't need to say anything...what you did..." he took a deep breath, "it was stupid Scarlett...so stupid...to shoot yourself...causing a distraction...what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking," she whispered, looking up into his eyes, "that the world can't lose its only consulting detective."
"So you risked your own life? It was terribly idiotic" Sherlock scolded her. "For me...ludicrous."
"I couldn't shoot you Sherlock," she whispered. "I just couldn't even bring myself to try and shoot you...this way...he's gone...he's stopped killing people...it's better."
"For who Scarlett?" Sherlock snapped at her, adjusting her in his arms as his eyes narrowed down at her, his hand increasing the pressure on his coat.
"Everyone Moriarty could have hurt," Scarlett spoke quietly. "Including you."
"This is by no way," Sherlock said, "better for anyone...especially not for me..."
"Sherlock," Scarlett whispered, "I...thank you...for everything you've done..."
"Shut up," he demanded her.
"Pardon?" she spoke back, wincing at sudden pain in her stomach whilst John observed the wound, muttering to himself about not hitting the nerve system and eighty percent chance of survival.
"You're doing that thing that people do," he informed her, "when they're in a life and death situation then they begin to start to say their goodbyes."
"Isn't that what normally happens?" her small voice asked, straining Sherlock's hearing as he felt the blood enter his hand.
"Yes," he agreed. "But you're not going to die so you can pack it in."
"It's cold Sherlock," she complained suddenly and Sherlock began to shrug out of his blazer jacket and he managed to drape it over her shoulders whilst John took to pressing on the wound, cursing the ambulance as he did so. Sherlock took both her bloody hands into his own and began to rub them together, getting her to warm up as he saw her eyes begin to close.
"Scarlett!" he roared loudly "don't you dare close your eyes!"
"But I'm tired," she yawned.
"I don't care," Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You can sleep later...sleeping is overrated anyway...how much of our life do we lose because of it?"
"I don't care," she grumbled like a little child.
"I do," Sherlock responded. "Now stay with me...understand?"
"Hmm," she managed to say. "That's the second time I've ruined your coat."
"It's getting to be a force of habit, isn't it?" Sherlock managed to drawl, looking up to the ceiling, his hand automatically going to his eyes as he wiped away a wet substance which had formed in the corner of it, near his nose. He looked back down onto Scarlett who was looking straight ahead, her eyes narrowed in concentration as Sherlock dropped his lips to her forehead;
"Don't worry," he whispered. "It's nothing a good dry clean won't fix."