A/N Vulnerable!Sherlock because yes. (Also, we surpassed 221 reviews with the last chapter, mwah)
Thanks to MapleleafCameo, DuShuZi, total-animal-lover, johnsarmylady, and Natalie Nallareet
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
LVII. Sacrifice
"John!"
He's never heard Sherlock's voice raised to such a desperate pitch, and when he turns around, he can see that the detective's wide, silvery eyes are shining—actually shining with what must be tears. Tears. It's such a ridiculous sight that he can't help but laugh, bitter and low in his throat, as he locks his gaze with Sherlock's one more time. Even though he surely knows that such an effort is useless, Sherlock is attempting to pull away from the thick-armed thugs that are holding him back, his feet scrabbling desperately on the damp warehouse floor and his teeth clenched with effort.
"Don't you—don't," Sherlock begs, his struggles weakening for a moment. A deep breath shudders through his pale throat, and his next words are spoken with more clarity. "Please don't do this."
"What, and let them kill you?" John scoffs back. "As if I'd ever do that. You really are stupid, aren't you?"
"I won't let you do this."
"You don't need to let me."
"No—no, please, you selfish—you—take me," he chokes, turning to one of the men restraining him, "please, I'm offering myself, I'm more valuable than him, you know I am…"
"And so it will be much more fun to see you so damaged. Already, the cool disposition that we've grown used to has been stripped away quite thoroughly, now, hasn't it?" The words, high and cold, come from the man standing beside John—the one with the gun. His hair is thin and greying and his body rather frail underneath its stiff black suit, but John knows at this point that he's utterly twisted inside. How long have they been hunting him down, now? Four weeks? Five?
And they've finally caught up, only to be hopelessly outnumbered, caught unprepared and told that one can escape, even turn the grey-haired man in to the police, so long as the other willingly dies…
It's absurd, of course it is—pathetic theatrics, but John's dealt with his share of madmen over his years with Sherlock, and he knows that they gain their pleasure from watching pain, not committing clean murders. This particular killer and his team—they know that they're not going to last much longer, and they want to go out with a bang.
"This is ridiculous," Sherlock snarls—or it would be a snarl, if all the energy wasn't drained from his voice, leaving it more of a hoarse rasp. "You can't do this. We—we'll let you get away, if you just… just let him live…"
The hunched old man erupts into laughter, drawing a slim shotgun and lifting it to the back of John's head. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Holmes; we know that you won't let us continue on."
"I will, I swear—John, don't let them…"
I'm sorry, John mouths as the cold metal nuzzles the base of his neck, sending shivers down his spine and through his chest. He knows that he should be afraid, but he somehow can't find it in himself to feel any emotion other than apology. He's tearing Sherlock apart, and he knows that, he hates it, but he simply can't bear for things to be the other way around. These criminals, they have to be caught, and since they'll go willingly so long as he performs this one simple sacrifice…
"John!"
It's a scream, a high-pitched shriek, a last-ditch effort, but it's too late, because fire is exploding in the back of John's skull and light is blinding him, and then there's absolutely nothing at all.