Thank you to all who reviewed last chapter :)

Just to let you know I'm going to write another chapter/finish off this section and then start Rocks of Salvation 2 - otherwise I am in reall danger of having this huge unmanagable story. Plus I think it might give me a bit of a jolt to start afresh again.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, especially as I've had it pretty much finished for about two months now!

John opened the door to the flat and stopped dead and the sight in front of him.

Sebastian Moran sat in his chair, angled directly opposite the door with a gun in his hand.

"He's like a magician," Moran said slowly, leaning back in the chair and his hand never moving. "I need only ask and he gives."

Dragging his eyes from the gun John swallowed and shut the door behind him, taking his time with the lock to steady himself. "You wanted me." He said to the door as he turned the key then twisted to face Moran again.

"Such a damned waste," Moran said with a shake of his head. "And now you're playing side kick to a useless genius. You're both so misdirected."

John swallowed back the instinctive snarl and, with more bravery than he felt, walked in to the kitchen, aware that the gun never strayed from its mark. "What do you want?" he asked putting his keys on the table slowly.

Moran laughed, "I always liked that about you John. Never one to over-react."

Pointedly glancing at the gun John raised an eyebrow, "I find it laughable that you claim to like anything about me right now." He needed to get to the bedroom.

There was a clatter as Moran tossed his Browning on the floor. "I wouldn't bother," he said calmly.

John gripped the edge of the table and took another deep breath.

"You can do whatever you like though, phone, text, write. Hang out the window and scream for help." Moran shrugged, "I told you, I always liked you. I'll grant any last requests."

Nothing he could send to Sherlock would make a difference, and there was no way that he could phrase it that wouldn't have Sherlock fly through the door in a murderous rage and into danger.

God did he wish he could go back in time to the morning and say something different. They were not the last words he had wanted Sherlock to hear from him.

"Why?" he asked, not even sure what he was asking for.

Moran sighed, "Moriarty finds it thrilling. This game he and Holmes are playing. I find it annoying. And it has become more annoying since you came back on the scene. They underestimate you. Even your genius. Holmes loves his little puzzles and beating his opponents but I know you Watson." Moran stood, "Sherlock Holmes shows off. You just get it done."

There was a very audible click.

Turning, John faced Moran square on. "He won't stop. Not if you do this."

"No, not if I do it right." And Moran's hand flickered into a slightly different position.

Then he fired.

Agony exploded in his side; fire and copper and sheer pain that threw him back into the wall. Stunned he looked down at his side and pressed a shaking palm to the wound that instantly was soaked with sticky red. Weak and strangely unable to quite work out what had happened, he slid down the wall.

"You'll bleed out," Moran seemed…resigned as he pulled up a kitchen chair. John gasped, struggling to breathe when every movement of his ribs and lungs shot searing hurt through him. Moran checked his watch. "I snuck past the security…" he tilted his head to the side, "Well, if you can call it that." He laid the gun upon the table and leaned forward as John banged his head back against the wall to try and keep himself focused. "Holmes's too busy chasing his tail around London," Moran stripped of his gloves, "I lied, see I told Moriarty I would just have a chat with you. He'd never have agreed to this. I mean the chances that Holmes will feel guilty that he wasn't here, that he didn't get back in time, that he let this happen in his own flat…He'll either just stop or self-destruct," Moran stood gathering his things, "Personally I hope it's the latter. Fucking waste doing this."

John gasped trying to reach for Sherlock's phone.

"I did give you the chance." Moran bent and took it away from him. "I knew you wouldn't. I told you, that saving lives thing of yours; it always made you hesitate to do what you knew needed to be done." He tossed it onto the chair in the living area, which could have been a hundred miles away for the chances John had of getting to it.

John glared and pressed his palm against the wound as hard as he could, gritting his teeth as he did so.

"If I could make it quicker I would." Moran stepped back and John glared up at him, his body spasming from the pain.

"Fuck you," John managed to gasp out.

The smallest hint of a smile crept onto Moran's face and he nodded.

"Goodbye John."

It was impossible to focus. Impossible to think, but those two words had snapped something in him.

"Goodbye John"

Sherlock's voice. All those years ago, the sad almost choked voice that had let John know what was about to happen. The heart wrenching horror that followed had felt almost as bad as the pain now.

He wasn't doing this, not to Sherlock, not to Ava.

His other hand crept over to the wound and he pushed as hard as possible to keep the pressure firm and steady.

It sent sparks crashing behind his eyes and made breathing just that little bit harder. Under him he watched as the floorboards became stained and wet.

"No," he whispered to himself. "Nononono."

There had to be something. Anything.

But there wasn't. Nothing was close enough and his best chance at the moment was keeping the pressure on until Sherlock returned.

"Please," he swallowed. "Please god..."

The door slammed closed.

Please.

John's lips managed to form the words.

Sherlock

Help

Please

But his voice wouldn't work. It caught in his throat with the copper taste and wracked his body as he tried.

"That was possibly the most ridiculous waste of an-" Sherlock's voice halted as he stepped onto the landing.

Sherlock

MOVE

Sherlock's profile could be seen against the window and through the blurred kitchen dividers. John couldn't quite seem to form the words anymore, his hands felt like they were barely attached anymore.

But he watched as Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"I need an ambulance." He said sounding utterly devoid of emotion. "221b Bakers Street."

"Shot, he's been…" Sherlock's voice wavered slightly and he started to turn. "You need to come now."

The phone clattered to the floor and Sherlock stepped into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John managed. And then Sherlock was next to him, pressing down on the wound and John let his hands go limp, finally. He coughed at the sudden flare of torment that coursed through him.

"How long?" Sherlock asked frantically. "How long?"

"Don't…" John gasped, trying to find the will power to keep talking. "Don't know. Can't-"

One hand cupped his chin, making it easier to keep his head up because it was so heavy. "Who?"

"Moran. He went against…don't…" John couldn't even follow his own train of thought, but it seemed very important, "Don't do anything stupid."

There were lips against his forehead and a murmured chant that John almost relaxed into. Then Sherlock's hands pressed even firmer and the jolt was enough.

Don't go, don't go, don't go.

"Not going anywhere," John managed. "Just tired."

The chant changed.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

"Love-"

"No," Sherlock suddenly was cupping his face, one hand soaked in blood, the other clean, "Don't you dare." He snarled, before dropping his hand to John's wound again. "Don't you dare."

It was hard to tell if he was too hot or too cold. "Not your fault,"

"SHUT UP" Sherlock suddenly roared at him, "Just…don't do this. Please, don't-"

There was a voice behind them and a sudden horrified scream. And then green and yellow was swirling around him and Sherlock's face dipped and spun and everything became hard to see until it was all sucked up into darkness.

Sherlock stepped back as the paramedics pulled him out of the way and John's eyes fluttered shut. Mrs Hudson stood at the door, eyes wide and tears streaming down her face as her hands shakily cupped her mouth in horror.

John's gun lay on the floor on the rug, in front of the moved chair and his phone lay haphazardly on the cushion. There was the smallest stain of blood on it.

Sherlock turned to see the keys in John's usual spot on the table and then to the doors where the dust had been disturbed by the key they never used being turned.

"No pulse," a paramedic barked at the other, "Blood pressure's too low-"

They were attaching the pads to John's chest. Everything felt strangely silent and disconnected.

"Clear-"

Without knowing why he did it, he shook his head, stepping back against the table. John's body jerked as they shocked him. White gloves pressed against his throat.

There was blood under his feet. His shoes had been soaked in it.

He'd probably have to get rid of them.

And his shirt. And suit. And John's clothes would certainly have to be thrown out.

"Oh Sherlock-" Mrs Hudson sobbed, leaning against the wall. "Come here," she held out a trembling hand.

"You met the daughter," he said distantly, noting her clothes, the jewellery and the coffee stain on her right sleeve. "The one that contacted you in November."

Mrs Hudson stared at him in utter confusion, "Sherlock…" she started to say.

"I wouldn't see her again. She's looking for a man that never existed. You'll have to tell her that eventually."

Mrs Hudson kept staring at him and then down at the paramedics. "I've tried calling your brother," she said in a voice saturated with tears.

"He'll probably just tell you the same thing," Sherlock observed calmly as John's body was fussed over. "He'll probably just…" His mind seemed to be slowing down. It was as if someone was slicing razors through his head, fogging it up with-

With blood soaking through the wooden floor-

-Clouds or cotton swabs.

"He'll-" he couldn't find his train of thought and sank down suddenly onto the floor. At this angle he could see John's face, cheek smeared from where Sherlock's bloody hand had grabbed at him. He was pale and features slack.

Sherlock shook his head again and ducked his face into his hands, struggling for clarity. His fingers scrabbled for purchase and he dug them painfully into his hair, desperate to anchor himself and hold onto something.

"What the bloody hell is going-" Lestrade's voice dropped off, "Jesus," he whispered.

"I can't get hold of Mycroft," Mrs Hudson sobbed, "They've managed-"

Sherlock banged his head against the table, looking for something to focus him, to stop the cloying numbness that was soaking into every pore of his being.

Dimly he was aware they were taking John downstairs.

The blood was still there though, pooling and coagulating; pints of blood just stretching out and taking everything in its path.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was in front of him now. "Sherlock? You need to get up. Come on, they'll let you ride with him."

"Why on earth would I do that?" he asked meeting Lestrade's eyes.

Lestrade's eyes were wide and his skin chalky with fear. He was missing his wedding ring, looked tired and guilty.

"You had sex last night," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade pulled back and scrubbed at his mouth with his hand, "Christ, you need to go to the hospital Sherlock."

"I wasn't shot and left to bleed to death," Sherlock replied.

"You're in shock!" Lestrade grabbed at him and tried to haul him up. Sherlock let him, vaguely aware that he needed to be standing anyway. Lestrade glanced towards the window, "I'll drive you to the hospital."

Sherlock stared at the gun on the floor again. John had been lying there, John had seen the phone, had it taken away from him, been tormented by the sight of the objects that could save his life being so close and yet so far away.

Moran.

And suddenly everything was just slow and precise, every breath could be counted and anticipated, every permeation of the spread of blood could be predicted.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was calling. "Sherlock, listen to me-"

"No." He'd taken his coat off, when had he taken his coat off? At the bottom of the stairs, folded over the banister, left to deliberately annoy Mrs Hudson so he could check what she's been up to, without the tiresome necessity of finding her.

He turned on his heel and walked out the door, picking up the coat as he went and dimly aware of Lestrade following behind and then exchanging quick words with Mrs Hudson.

Outside Lestrade called after him, "Get in the car,"

Sherlock ignored him and kept walking, feeling utterly numb.

Six hours later he walked into the warehouse.

"He did warn me that you'd come for me." Moran leaned against the wall looking fully unconcerned. "And I told him you'd self-destruct." A sharp smile pierced his features. "I didn't think you'd give me the chance to get rid of you both in one day."

Sherlock felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no fear, no guilt.

Nothing.

Moran's eyes trailed over him, and he drew his gun. "I'm not Moriarty, Holmes. I don't want you here, fucking my work up."

Nothing.

"I heard he made it to the hospital. Did you know he made it through surgery?"

Nothing. No curiosity or jolt that John was still alive…trick or truth there was no response coming from his thumping heart.

Moran put the glass down. "I hope you take it as well as he did. He was a brave man."

"Yes." Sherlock said.

Moran frowned and then sighed, "I don't care if you aren't engaging in this. You're a problem and you need to be stopped. You should never have tried to take us on. You were never going to win." He said, screwing up the bottle.

"No." Sherlock said and fired the gun he'd kept in the small of his back, hidden from Moran's view.

Moran's body jolted in shock and he fired wildly, aimlessly at Sherlock..

"But you were never going to win either." Sherlock said as the sound of the gun shot faded away and the bullet holes riddled the wall behind him. Moran crashed to his knees heavily.

"You bastard," Moran gasped and tried to aim again.

Sherlock moved, grabbing the weapon from him easily and holding his wrist as Moran sank towards the ground, never taking his eyes away. Blood started to soak through his jacket as the wound, identical to John's, started to drench his clothes.

"It will be slow." Sherlock said calmly. "Very slow." He lowered Moran to the floor then let go of his wrist and took a seat in the now empty chair.

"I'll wait," he said, opening the bottle. "I've watched one man die today. What's another?"

"Didn't think you had it in you," Moran wheezed out, "Watson had a good effect on you after all."

Sherlock nodded, pouring the whiskey.

"I wasn't lying," Moran hissed, clenching through the pain. "He made it through the surgery."

"Well, we'll just see how long you'll survive then. The ultimate game of karma."

Moran was dead within the hour.

There was still nothing. Nothing when he phoned the hospital to confirm Moran's words out of nothing more than a vague curiosity. Nothing when he took the glass with him, wiped all traces of his presence and left Moran where he had fallen.

Nothing.

Nothing when, bored of the nothingness, he tracked down an old contact and cornered him, exchanging Moran's money for cocaine.

He walked back into the flat in the early hours of the morning, not really sure why he was bothering.

"He's still alive," Mrs Hudson said in the softest voice he'd ever heard as he walked up the stairs.

He didn't stop.

He paused at the blood, then turned into the sitting room. Mycroft had gotten rid of the gun, or maybe Lestrade.

More likely it was Mycroft.

Slowly Sherlock laid out his purchases on the table with exacting precision. John would kill him.

John was as good as dead.

What was wrong with him? There was just an empty cavern of nothingness. No remorse, no horror, no sadness or pain. Just an aching yawn of numbness that made him want to feel anything, something.

John Watson was dying.

It should be said or thought with emotion, not the empty hollow statement of fact.

They'd spent hours laughing in the very room that Sherlock was sitting in, laughing, fighting, debating. He'd kissed John for the first time in that chair, held him in comfort on the sofa, teased him to screaming orgasm in the other chair and gotten carpet burns from the rug. They'd yelled themselves hoarse at each other over the kitchen table, thrown things from the fridge at each other and had once crashed into the doorway by mistake while frantically grabbing at each other to move into the bedroom.

Why couldn't he feel anything?

He'd never wake up with John again. Never get to complain about the snoring, the cold feet. Never delight in the frankly weird way that John would never fully wake up unless an alarm went off or someone called for him to wake up. Never map out his scars…never trace this newest wound until it became his.

Nothing.

He'd never tell John that he loved him. Never say the words in the proper order and in the proper way. Because there was a proper way of doing it and Sherlock had never done it. He'd never told John why he'd never done it and now he'd never have the chance to tell John that for the first time in his life he'd realised that he didn't need to explain or define. How talking through the ridiculous idea with Mycroft had just made him utterly and completely certain of one thing.

He loved John. Never in his life had he been willing to give up something that he wanted, never had he given up or walked away when it was important; he was a creature of selfish, demanding habits, not of self-sacrifice.

But he'd done it – five years ago without a thought. Without hesitation. And he had considered it again without force or cajoling but simple concern for John's safety.

Because John had looked tired recently.

How long had he loved John? How long had he run from that thought, terrified at the implications.

It didn't matter now did it? Now he'd have to stand at a church or a graveyard or a crematorium and let them permanently take John's body away. Let some idiot say worthless, meaningless words and then let John fade away to dust or dirt.

John had managed it. John had laid his hand upon Sherlock's headstone and talked, cried, begged. John was strong and sturdy and human and real and loving and tangible and more than just a body lying on a slab somewhere.

Nothing.

There was a creak on the stair. A small creak for a small person.

Ava.

"Out," he said, staring down at the cocaine.

There was a long silence behind him, she wasn't moving. She was just as damned stubborn as her bloody father.

"I said Get Out."

"Where's Daddy?" A tiny, wobbling voice asked, sounding caught between a whisper and a sob.

She needed to leave. His hands trembled as they gripped the edge of the coffee table and he was barely aware that he was muttering something under his breath.

"Where's_"

Enough.

"Dying." The word exploded from him, the truth that no-one would say to him because he was too fragile or was going to feel guilty because he should feel guilty. Should feel like he was about to drown from it all because everything that had happened was Sherlock's fault.

Something begun churning inside of him. He knew how John tasted, how he looked when he was shy or fiercely stubborn. He knew every laugh, every look and inflection from a pointed clearing of the throat. He could say a thousand words to John with a look and John could say a thousand back with a gesture.

And John had ruined it, had got himself shot and killed because…because…

"Stupid man. Stupid idiotic man took that damned bullet because he couldn't wait..." Why hadn't he texted? Why hadn't he asked for help? Why had he left work? Why hadn't he just gone to Sherlock and yelled at him as had clearly been his first intention?

"The bloody minded fool-"

Footsteps thumped down the stairs and Sherlock collapsed to the floor, shaking as he felt the tidal wave threaten to overtake.

And then the door slammed open and banged against the wall.

No.

Terror cut through everything.

Ava had run out of the house. Ava was possibly the only thing left of John-

No, Ava was the most precious thing in the world to John and he had trusted Sherlock-

No. Ava was outside, in the cold and she was scared-

His mind stopped chasing the reason why he suddenly couldn't breathe through the idea of her being outside on her own, even as he flew through the door after her. She was like a ghost, feet slapping on the pavement as she fled up the street, her white nightie visible from the street light.

He pulled her up and into his arms before he was even conscious of moving after her. She flailed and fought his grip, frantically squirming to escape.

"I didn't mean it," he whispered, trying to get her to stop fighting him, "I didn't mean it."

"He's not dying," she fought him tooth and nail with everything she had. And she sounded so fiercely adamant that just for a second he believed her.

"No, no he's not," he agreed, trying to see her face.

Her blue eyes, lighter, clearer than John's, stared at him with John's stubbornly furious expression as tears streamed down her face, her button nose red from the cold and already shivering in his arms.

John was going to kill him for this.

And just like that the world closed in and he collapsed to his knees, unable to breath. He clutched her to him.

John wouldn't leave. John wouldn't be so stupid as to leave Ava with Sherlock. He was the most stubborn man in the world, the bravest and strongest, the most unmovable force despite Sherlock's blustering.

He wouldn't leave them when he knew Sherlock couldn't manage without him.

Traitorous hope sparked within him and he wasn't sure if it was better or worse than that aching, never ending numbness. What if he was wrong? What if there was a call, a message waiting for them right now…

"It won't happen," he breathed, "Because we won't let him will we? And if we won't let him die then he won't." He swallowed deeply. "Will he?"

Ava stared up at him, "He always does what you say,"

That was true. And he'd told John that he wasn't allowed to die.

And John had said "Ok."

AN - I know nothing about medical stuff. I'm sure that's obvious but there you go!

Hope you all enjoyed :)