*So I went ahead and upped the rating, there is a rather explicit word in this chapter, just a warning, but nothing else that needs the rating is going to happen
A single shot rang out as John and Sherlock closed the gap between themselves. Sherlock saw John's face turn ghostly pale as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his left arm. Sherlock froze in panic, but only for a moment. All the anger he had dammed up inside himself over Moriarty's attempts on his and John's happiness burst out, washing over him in a wave of red. Adrenaline flooded ever cell in his body as he snatched John's gun out of the back of his waste band, turned towards the stage where the shot had been fired from, and fired with military precision at the sniper who was sneakily concealed behind the large concert bass drum in the upstage left corner of the stage. In his adrenaline fueled state, he only needed one shot. Just one shot to make the bastard crumple lifelessly to the ground. He wanted to do so much more. He wanted to tear the sniper limb from limb. He wanted to kill the man tortuously slowly, possibly by tying him down and letting bamboo grow through him. He wanted to strike the fear of God- no, the fear of Sherlock Holmes (a wrath much deadlier by his standards)- into his heart. He wanted the man, just before he died, to look into his eyes, and know that. Nobody. Fucks. With. Sherlock. Holmes (and by extension, his John).
Sherlock took a calming breath, knowing that if he took time now to ensure that any of that could happen to the sniper, there was a good risk that John could... No, Sherlock couldn't even think that. He spun quickly to the huddled mass on the floor that was his flatmate, and immediately blanched. There was so much blood... Sherlock quickly stooped and pulled John into the safety of his arms. He examined the wound in the arm. Upper arm, not good. It may have nicked the artery, which would explain all the blood, although it doesn't seem enough. We may have gotten lucky and it missed, but if this bleeding doesn't stop...
Sherlock couldn't even bear to finish the thought. A few tears that had been pooling in his eyes rolled free and dripped down his nose into John's hair. He only just managed to contain the accompanying sobs. John started humming something that was hauntingly familiar. He racked his memories for the source, came up with the solution rather quickly. Les Miserables, the (only) musical(opera really) John had taken(forced) him to go see. The last song that Eponine sang, after she had taken the bullet for her love, Marius.
No no no No NO! John can not die! Not now, not ever, and most certainly not because of me! He felt John go limp in his lap, and immediately sprang into action. John was unconscious, most likely due to blood loss, and unless Sherlock could stabilize him, John would... die. Sherlock immediately grabbed the bottom of the t-shirt he wore under his silk robe and the bottom. He tore a long strip off, then bundled up and pressed it to the wound. The white almost immediately turned crimson red. Sherlock reached for the silk tie and ripped it from around his waist. He wrapped it just above the wound, and pulled tight. He looked desperately around for something he could use to complete the tourniquet, but to him dismay, found nothing. Maybe the barrel of that sniper rifle would work. If I put on the safety, or unload it, it should be okay. Sherlock figured. He tore another strip from his shirt, as the other was nearly all red now, and place the new clean piece against the wound, tied the bandana as tight as he could, then made a mad dash for the stage. Once there, he scrambled to the sniper. He quickly extracted the gun, and flicked the safety on. As he turned to go back to John, he just barely heard a wheezy chuckle. He spun back to the sniper, who was laying in a pool of his blood, almost, but not quite dead.
"You think-wheeze- that you can- wheeze- beat Moriarty? He's clever, clever than you. You're just a pitiful little pup-cough wheeze- trying to play with the big dogs." The sniper started laughing maniacally, well as maniacally as he could. Sherlock seethed at the derogatory remarks the dying man was making. He rounded the drum and straddled the man on the ground.
"Who are you then, to know so much?" Sherlock spat "No don't tell me, you are Moriarty's newest toy. You soak up every word he says because he makes tells you exactly what you want to hear. I have news for you, idiot. You've been played. You've been used. Moriarty doesn't care. About anyone. He just lies." The man started laughing again, which just made Sherlock angrier.
"You think you know so much don't you. Truth is, I've known Moriarty longer than anyone. We grew up together, I've always been there for him. Sure, I went away for bit, with the army. But I came back. I always come back. I know Moriarty doesn't care, but if there was one person he would make an exception for, it would be me, Colonel Sebastian Moran. So go ahead, believe what you want. But trust me when I say that Moriarty will burn the heart out of you, and I am the one who made it possible." The man, Moran, got quieter with each word, and a crazy glint showed in his eye as he finished the sentence. He started coughing uncontrollably, each cough sounding worse and worse. Finally, blood appeared at the edges of his mouth, he gave one last almighty cough, which spewed blood all over Sherlock's shirt, and even his face, before he shuddered, then died. When Sherlock saw the light exit his eyes, he snapped back to his senses, realizing that Moran had distracted him from his mission. He cursed loudly, then took off downstage, then up the aisle back to where John was laying. He skidded to a stop when he reached the top, as he noticed a new arrival.
"Moriarty." He said simply as he dropped the rifle he was holding.
"Sherlock" the other man said. He seemed calm and composed, but Sherlock could see through the carefully composed exterior and see the rage seething underneath. Sherlock smirked.
"It would seem that Moran was telling the truth. You really do feel something for him. I can see the twitching of your jaw muscle, the throbbing of your carotid artery, you are clearly angry. Seeing as John is currently unconscious on the floor, and you wanted him hurt, you wouldn't be angry about that. The only other significant event that took place was me shooting your sniper." Sherlock explained in a gloating fashion.
"You think you are so very clever Sherlock, but this game is not over yet," Moriarty snarled as he pulled a gun out of nowhere, "you see, you may have taken out my last rook, but I am perfectly poised to take out your queen." Moriarty leveled his gun at John's supine form. Sherlock could do nothing but stare straight ahead, and try to time his jump perfectly. If he could just block the shot from hitting John, perhaps he could save him. It might hurt John a bit if Sherlock landed on him, but at least he wouldn't be dead.
Sherlock and Moriarty each stood, eyes locked on each other, ready to act on a moments notice. Sherlock saw the resolve harden in Moriarty's eyes, and the involuntary twitch of his trigger finger as he started to pull the trigger. Sherlock, with an almighty bellow of "NOT JOHN, YOU LITTLE FU-" dove to cover John, just managing to miss landing on him, instead landing just barely in front of him. He felt his left knee jar against the ground rather painfully. The last of his shout was drowned out by a shot.