Chapter Twenty‒Two

Poisonous Confessions

His scream rebounded and rang out into the night, echoing and bouncing off the trees right back at him. The lack of a friend there was too much to bear, as John evidently followed Sherlock in his footsteps wherever he went without taking much notice. There was something there, staring him in the face about the younger boy that blew his mind, yet that something hadn't been discovered yet; that something made Holmes have hope in the most strenuous cases, but now it had been swept from him in disturbance as the scarcity of his less than five foot tall friend had been kidnapped.

Three words. One message. Two of those clumps condensed into just one letter apiece, exposing a warning far worse than the one he'd received at the beginning of the school year. The detective hadn't even given much thought to the matter as the apple grew in age and sprouted mold among the slimy, yellow interior and around the circumference of the broken stem. He'd disposed of the fruit days later, only to find the smell foul as it reeked in the Ravenclaw first year boy's dormitory.

However, he'd written those three vowels on a spare sheet of parchment and shoved it in the bottom of his clothes drawer, debating now and then what their nameless theme might mean. And what the brunette didn't understand was why, why he never had the heart to tell the curious blond. To be honest, John hadn't even brought it up on the train after he'd nearly broken out in a fight with the future Slytherin.

That was the first time John stuck his neck up and fought to defend his friends.

I.O.U.That was then. This was now. Dependent on the future. Three yellow words. A total of six different letters of the alphabet. A new message, just teasing the detective that Watson was gone and the only way he'd be saved was if the brunette came to rescue him himself. U…R…Next…

"JOHN!" Sherlock's second attempt to scream out the boy's name was more expedient and fearful than his first tryout, and the compact space the trees caused made warm air compress and pressurize his body entirely. Again, nothing responded to his cry as his own voice was cut off in the thickening atmosphere. The moon was just barely able to peek over the treetops, casting its shadow along the bumpy ground and providing the panicking student with a bonus supply of light.

The air smelt horrifically and overpoweringly of spray paint and the chemicals filled Sherlock's nostrils as he advanced on the trees. The Michigan yellow words popped out against the trunks like the sun compared to a dark alley, and there were traces of the liquid writing dripping down the cracks and lumps in the bark.

His long, skeletal fingers ran over the bottom arch of the 'U', and the wet substance bled through, leaving his fingerprint lines visible on the padded skin reflected and opposite from where his nails were. Still fresh, he noted, doing his best to wipe off the soggy paint on a faded, red symmetrical leaf not too far away.

He braced himself against a wide oak tree, which branched over his head like an umbrella of twigs and needles to block out the night sky above. Tiny twinkles from the balls of gas high up would break through the opening in the towering plants, and the Ravenclaw would occasionally catch a glimpse of the stars trying to lead him to his destination. He let his spine bend with the shape of the tree trunk, just relaxing yet tensing with every breath when he thought about John.

The smaller boy was struggling with a person who was much stronger than himself, but each time he squirmed the grip would only get firmer and suffocate his chest. From what he felt with his touch, a left arm was partially around his neck, making it harder for him to inhale as the bone contracted on his throat.

Whoever it was that was dragging him along was not able to physically lift him off from the ground, and alas John's snug feet in his sneakers brushed over dead leaves and bulky tree roots as he tried to kick off the dirt underneath his legs. He tried anything to get some loose contact from the stranger, but his height and weight didn't serve as helpful factors.

"Let go of me!" John yelled, miraculously finding a method to step on the person's toe. The result was Watson being hoisted up to a more comfortable position for the kidnapper, and John found the other criminal's hand enclosing around his open mouth.

"Sherlock!" He tried to cry for help behind muscular fingers, but his voice was muffled from the palm barricading the sound. John chomped down on his teeth a few times, hoping to bite the kidnapper's finger and manage to escape, but they were too far from his lips to have harm done to them.

He tried to lick the stranger's hand, knowing it was disgusting and wrong on many levels, but nevertheless attempted anything he could to break free from the stiffening grasp. He could feel the oozing blood running down his open hip, sinking into the fabric of his upper pants and staining his Gryffindor uniform. He no longer paid any attention to the pain with every step the villain took, as he was too focused on staying alive to care less.

John could feel his right shoe starting to slip off the sole of his foot, but there was no way he could adjust the laces as it would do him no good in his developing plan. It was barely able to stay wrapped around his heel, so his best option was to press his slipping shoe onto his secure one and let both his legs scrape over the grass, dragging the stranger down.

He didn't have to be lured too far with glued legs as a clearing suddenly appeared in the distance, splitting the trees away from the edge of the forest. The criminal seemed anxious to reach his goal, as he sped up to continue with his mastermind plan. Beyond the forest's boundary, a field of similar colored rocks were scattered over the ground, and the reflected surface not far away was in fact the waves of the Black Lake.

The person who was carrying him led the lion over to the water's edge, and from there threw John onto the ground with a tremendous effort. The blond braced his hands on the unstable earth, not allowing his skull to smash into the jagged stones, wet or dry that surrounded the puddle of water. The rim of his robes' sleeve dipped into the waves on the shoreline, farthest from the castle built off on top of a sloping terrain. Three‒quarters of the lake's surrounding view was forest ground while a narrow field of vision was reserved to see a perfect view of Hogwarts, the moon just over the tallest tower.

John spit into the fresh water, gagging in desperation to gain air flowing back to his lungs. Huffing, he flipped over on his backside to face the unknown person who'd kidnapped him right out of Sherlock's watch, and his blue eyes flashed with hatred towards his enemy.

"You!" he spat, staring up into the smirking boy's face and pointing a finger directly towards his nose. He was able to speak no longer as the Quidditch player's eyes went wide in alarm the split second before the criminal's hand connected with his face. The blow to his cheek sent John crumbling to the ground, scrunching up his face as it stung from the skin on skin contact. Knuckles collided with flesh, and the finger bones missed Watson's eyeball by a few centimeters.

And as the criminal smacked his schoolmate of the opposite house, John got the strong scent of unforgettable Jasmine flowers shampoo the Pureblood always washed his hair with.

Perspiration was beginning to form on the pale face of Sherlock Holmes, and his Sycamore wand tended to slip from beneath his trembling fingers as he paced through the forest's rows of trees. He held the ignited stick aloft before his neck, hoping to spot some sort of clue that would lead him to discovering John's he was dead or alive, Sherlock had a gut feeling that he was going to find his only friend. His companion.

Ever since the dementors had fled previously, there was no sign of them returning to finish off their killing session. Sherlock hadn't encountered one in at least ten minutes, and the hound seemed to have fled for good, perhaps traveling off far enough to settle in a different town.

Time was being spent preciously but carelessly as well. For Sherlock spent every millisecond searching for the Gryffindor, but John still had an open wound that needed tending to and he would start to lose consciousness soon.

His feet stopped for a rest near a particularly skinny collection of shorter shrubberies, and he watched a spider gingerly weave a silvery web around the weak twigs to provide its family with food, if it had one for that matter. He crawled a few paces backwards, tracing his feet over the ground to avoid tripping over another root and smacking his head for another time that night.

And then, Sherlock did the one thing that he thought would calm him down always did it with his skull up in his dormitory, however freakish that may seem, always did it with Mycroft when in times of trouble, and always did it with John whenever he requested for someone to be there with him, to tell the lion anything he needed to. He spoke. There was no one there to share the conversation with him, so he spoke to himself, expressing his thoughts and feelings by letting them pour from his mouth.

"I'm…afraid…" He couldn't believe the words that were spilling from his own lips, yet they came in stutters as opposed to confident words. The forest around enwrapping him in a blanket sent spooky noises shooting through the muffled air. The dozens of possibly mysterious and dangerous creatures lurking in the Forbidden Forest, Sherlock didn't want to know.

"I really am…" He paused for a moment, studying his hand, which shook uncontrollably before his own eyes, knuckles banging together. My body's betraying me.

He decided to flee from the vacant space, taking short, shuffled steps and once in a while checking over his shoulder for anything untrustworthy. If a dementor found him now, there would be no way he could possibly produce a Patronus. John was the only thing in the entire universe that gave him faith, being the happiest memory stuffed in Sherlock's cramped brain. But now he was gone, taken from him, and if the dementors came back to haunt the Ravenclaw, Sherlock knew he would surely fail and be exposed to the dreaded Dementor's Kiss.

Holmes quickened his pace, taking larger and longer strides, which slowly broke into a speed walk. He stopped after about five minutes, resting his back against the nearest tree to regain his breath. He felt something dangling loosely around his neck and readjusted his blue and bronze tie so it was draped evenly across his shoulders before continuing on his way.

I don't know where I am… Sherlock was beginning to lose courage. No wonder he wasn't sorted into Gryffindor. Like…John. I could be venturing deeper into the forest for all I know. I'll be lucky if I come to the edge and find an exit. Don't be stupid, you're not going to find an exit, he argued with himself, making two sides to the situation in his fragile mind.

"Ouch!" He felt a cracking pain in his left big toe and retraced the steps of his path before concluding that he'd stubbed part of his foot on a rock sticking out of the dirt. He cursed again, bending over and massaging his foot through the thick material of his shoes. I hate nature…He grumbled, pressing harder into the shoe. Why…

Flinching from a new, blaring sound, Sherlock covered his ears as a shriek rang out in the air, ringing off about a third of a mile away slightly to his right. His mouth flew open and his hands lowered back down to his sides as he reconsidered where the sound had come from, or more for that matter, from whom. The cry was not from any animal, nor any creature that could be roaming the woods. A hint of terror, lungs involved to project the sound, help screaming from the throat of a young boy…

"John!" Sherlock sprang to his feet, snatching up his wand. Without delay, he bolted off into the darkness, the faint light of his wand flickering in and out of the corner of his eye as it swung beside his leg. He dodged the trunks of blurred trees, leaves on their branches brushing against the curls in his hair. Twice he nearly tripped over boulders again, but his legs powered through and he ran on, sprinting to pick up speed. He ran northwest, his mind knowing John was somewhere off in the distance, trouble arising.

This game was going too far. No one is going to die. John will be okay…The Ravenclaw urged words of comfort to rack his brain and he slowed to a halt once more to gasp massively. He clutched at a cramp under his heart but flatly forced himself to run again. Holmes gritted his teeth in pain and scrunched up his nose as a sharp thorn bush dug into his cheek. He didn't stop to care to it or cease the bleeding. He could feel the hot liquid sliding down his thin face, making red tracks over those knife‒like cheekbones of his.

Another piercing screech rang out through the trees, this time much closer and sharper to make out. Sherlock blurted out his best friend's name faster than the scream ended, and all too soon a passage out of the trees molded into view as the detective pulsed onwards. To his right the edge of the forest ran with him, and his stopping place was the farthest point on the intended line bordering the Black Lake. After what felt like hours, he met up with the last row of trees lining the outlet of the Forbidden Forest but halted to scan the surrounding area before proceeding on his path.

Movement was seen in Sherlock's peripheral vision, and his eyes darted to a figure hunched over, inches from the lake's closest waves.

"John!" Relief and dread filled his veins as he rushed over to join his buddy, who sat motionless on top of the crumbling rocks the eagle darted over. There was no response from the smaller boy at the mention of his name except for a deep moan that came from his mouth. John was on his knees, sitting back on his heels, one shoe slipping off his foot with his head bent over from view. As the brunette knelt next to the blond, he noticed the athlete covering his face with his hands, not in the least bit wanting to expose his beat forehead and chin. The eagle tried to pry them away from the Gryffindor's cheeks, but they were like magnets permanently attached to his pale skin.

"John! John, it's okay, I'm here!" But Watson made no movement. He didn't show the slightest stir when his name was said in his ear repeatedly but continued to hide his head from Sherlock. The lion was trembling from head to toe, the front of his robes unhooked and hanging lazily down on either side of his ribs, exposing the scarlet patch on his clothes where his wound had bled.

Sherlock just sat there, horrified, staring at his friend. Finally John moved, shaking his head back and forth slowly with a great effort to power over the limpness that was dominating his muscles. A little gasp of air came from behind his hands, muffled, but Sherlock could nonetheless still hear it.

And then, John spoke. Not to anyone in particular, but he whimpered and pleaded out loud, startling Sherlock and making him shuffle back a few meters on his backside. His voice shook and cracked as the words prayed between his teeth, and the consulting detective understood and imagined Watson had vanished from reality and was exposed to a world where tortured cries rang in his ears.

Which could only mean one thing...

"No…Please…Not him…NO!" His last cry came as a shriek, and Holmes stood up accordingly, holding out his wand and preparing himself to protect John.

At that instant, a shuttering cold swept over the two first years. It made the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up, and all the happiness in his body was suddenly drained from him. He scanned the entire boundary of the forest, waiting for the soul‒ sucking hooded figures to show themselves.

John yelled again, and Sherlock grimaced at the noises coming unplanned from his lips. "NO! Stop it!" His red All Stars dug deeper into the rocks and his head sank lower as he keeled over. Sherlock wheeled around pronto, and there they were.

There must have been at least fifty, slowly gliding to where he stood, and the Ravenclaw threw himself between the monsters and his best friend. They were surrounded. The dementors had encircled around them, creating a non‒crossable bubble. There was something strange going on though…

They're not attacking me, Sherlock thought, mildly confused. They towered over his tiny body, sending shivers down his spine but stopped advancing and instead made him feel uncomfortable. From beyond the cloaked monsters, the eagle could make out another figure making its way to where he stood. It wasn't another animal, or creature for that matter. It was…

"Well," came the drawling censure, teasing with his control of power, "here we are at last, Sherlock. You and me, and our problem." The navy blue suit was ironed and spotless as usual, and Jim Moriarty's slick hair shined with a white glow from the reflection of the moon breaking through the grey clouds. The consulting criminal looked much neater than Sherlock did; spotless versus bruised and bloody.

Sherlock adjusted his wand arm, aiming directly at Jim's heart. Moriarty made no comment on the fact that a stick was being pointed sternly at him but walked casually in the direction where John was curled in a heap on the rocks instead. Sherlock's eyes went wide in frustration and fear. Don't you lay a finger on him, he growled in his brain. Don't touch him.

"Of course, this isn't the final problem. No no no," Jim teased, hands in his pockets as the spoiled look crossed his face, "I'm saving that for something special. No need to rush."

"Bit risky wasn't it?" Sherlock began to show off his rebuttal skills. "Bringing an oversized dog onto the ground of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry right under the nose of headmaster Albus Dumbledore."

Jim ignored the statement like an underdog ignores their opponent when in a face‒off. "This is just a glimpse, a tiny fraction of what I can accomplish in the wizarding world, Sherlock." He stopped strolling not three feet from John, hands in his dress pants' pockets. "I'm a specialist. I can do so much more…" He gave his enemy a wicked grin.

"So, this is how it is, is it?" Holmes tried to distract him from John. "Dear Jim…please will you team up with the school's dementors? Just to take over the world and create a diversion." He sped up abruptly. "Dear Jim, please will you lead us into a war?" Sherlock was taunting his foe now, revealing his plan right in front of him just in a different way, putting emphasis on the battle word to prove that he'd solved Moriarty's scheme.

"Oh, you're clever. Working it out so easily. Just so." He bounced twice on his feet and indicated the brunette was on the right track. I don't know how that's possible…Sherlock admitted in his mind,aneleven‒ year‒oldboy, finding powers strong enough to control dementors? "No one ever gets to me." Jim's last syllable was elongated. "And no one ever will," he finished.

"I did," Sherlock pointed out, shifting his stance so both hands held his wand now.

"But," Moriarty stopped Sherlock in his fight, "now you're in my way."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment," the Slytherin sneered, as if an insult was directed at him.

"Yes you did," Sherlock grinned in a matter‒of‒fact way.

"Yeah, okay I did." Jim's gaze flickered and switched to John, and he looked at the fearful first year with pitiful eyes. "Oh, such a sweet thing, young friendships." He made a rude gesture to add to his disgusted sound, and Moriarty slid his foot teasingly over the ground to stop a few inches from John's elbow.

"Don't touch him!" Sherlock blurted, coming closer with his wand as a hazard. Jim gave him a look like he was pathetic, and his hand wove around to pull his own Yew wand from his blazer pocket, holding it like a baton with his precise grip.

"Tut tut," he roused, drawing patterns in the air with the bright tip of his stick. The wand shot off green sparks as a warning, and Sherlock remained with a firm stance where he stood. "People do get so sentimental about their pets." At the indication to the oldest wizard's friend, Moriarty bent down and hauled John to a standing position, making him shake and find it torment to stand on his wobbly knees. Jim's left hand, his dominant one, snaked around John's neck, holding him in a firm lock and pushing his chin up to the sky.

John was having difficulty breathing. Whenever he inhaled, he had to cough gently in order to gain some oxygen. He tried to buildup strength so he could fight Jim, but the bitter cold the dementors were giving off took it all from him. The best he could do was use both his hands to pinch Moriarty's combative arm. Jim's wrist bone stuck out extensively, and it sank deeper into Watson's collar bone. A purple bruise was under his left eye, along with a small cut to add to the damage. It was as if someone had pulled a plug and his power source was cut off. The only way he could move was if Jim directed him around like a ragdoll. John's limbs were so flimsy he didn't even feel like himself.

"Put him down," Sherlock snarled. Jim just smiled while grimacing.

"Sherlock," John managed to rasp, "run!" But Sherlock didn't retreat. He kept his feet planted in the ground, debating what the best way was to point his wand at Moriarty without the risk of hitting the lion. Jim was reaching into the inside of his suit, exchanging his wand out for an object Sherlock couldn't get a clear view of.

"You can torture me, you can do whatever you want to me," Moriarty continued, "but nothing is going to prevent them from killing you tonight." His head indicated towards the hooded monsters. John squirmed again, but Moriarty's grip was tightening around his neck. As the pressure built up, John let out a pathetic squeak from his mouth. The tips of his shoes barely touched the ground and his feet wiggled inside his red sneakers. Finally, the one shoe dangling off his sock‒covered toes fell and bounced away, landing on its logo side.

"It's either you, or your little pal here." Sherlock concluded from Moriarty's cleverly spoken words that he'd planned for one, if not one then both of the boys to die that night.

"Fine. Kill me," Sherlock said, and John almost let tears stream down his face. What is he saying? Sherlock, don't give yourself in. I need you…

"Oh, I don't think I want to do that," Jim hinted, lugging John up so he stood better on his feet. Holmes narrowed one eye thinking he could get away with it, but it was just enough for Jim to notice his confusion. "I think we'll play this game a little longer, shall we?" Sherlock showed his response with an indication of his head, shaking it back and forth in intimidation.

"Sorry Sherlock," Jim teased, lengthening John's spine forcefully. "I'm soooooooo changeable!" With that last torment, he extracted the unknown object from behind John's back and stabbed it into the shorter boy's neck and pressed the plunger on the tool.

Simultaneously, Sherlock and John both sent screams from their mouths. The needle being forced into John's collar was injecting some sort of fluid into him, and he yelled in agonizing pain as it spread through his blood. His body became weak, and his vision had blurred significantly, adding to the side effects his injuries had given him. Less than ten seconds later, the world around John went pitch‒black, and Sherlock saw his best friend collapse to the ground, the right side of his head splashing into the water of the lake, soaking his blond locks.

"NO!" Sherlock wanted to punch every inch of Moriarty he could reach, maybe pounce on him and break a dozen bones, but the shock that had hit him had prevented his body from launching himself at Jim. The well‒groomed boy had fled from the scene of the crime, leaving Holmes and Watson alone on the shore of the Black Lake.

At least a dozen of the dementors followed Moriarty back into the woods, but the rest were advancing on the two first years. Sherlock unfroze his feet from the spot where he stood and prepared himself to defend John and his own life. He focused his mind on John. Only John, nothing else. The spell was said from his lips as he yelled it out across the lake. "Expecto patronum!" Nothing happened. He concentrated harder. "Expecto patronum!" A whisp of silver sparked from the end of his wand but vanished and died quickly. The dementors were closing in on them, and he was alone. Alone, and had to protect two lives.

John, Sherlock thought. John Watson. This is all just a dream and it's not happening. John's right next to me, and we're sitting outside under a tree after a Quidditch match…John…Comeon,Sherlock! he urged himself.

He whipped around in fear, checking to make sure the dementors behind him hadn't snuck up on him. Sherlock almost ran into one as it protracted a scaly hand, the long, pointed finger nails inches from his neck and its tattered robes swaying in its shivering cold. He felt the bumpy claw enclose around his throat, and the eagle tried to unclamp the hand away from his contracting windpipe. The supply of air was shortening. I'm going to die, he thought. I'll suffocate. His feet left the ground, and his face was coming closer and closer to a disturbing sight.

The dementor was beginning to lower its hood, and all Sherlock could see was a gaping hole in the deranged skin. There should have been two dents for eyes sockets, but altogether they didn't exist. No slits for nostrils were shaped in the center of the blank face, nor did a bridge of bone stick out as a nose. What resembled a mouth was an empty hole, sucking the life out of him and preparing to kill him.

Sherlock did the only thing that could've saved his life. Feet twitching, he reached out as far as he could and kicked the killing creature right under its waist, if it had one. His body fell onto the rough rocks, and he coughed to redeem his breath. He hacked several times, spitting up the gunk that had clogged up in his throat. His wand had flung out of his hand and was now some four meters away. Holmes launched his body to his weapon, snatching it back up safely in his grip. Seconds later, he was on his feet again, the dementors swooping in for their second attack. John…

"EXPECTOPATRONUM!" The spell started as a flimsy shield of silver, spinning its way through the air in front of him, but as the thought of John grew stronger in Sherlock's mind, so did his Patronus. The silver phoenix erupted from the tip of the wizard's wand, like all the other times he'd accomplished while practicing with his schoolmates; just like an hour ago, when he and John raced through the Forbidden Forest, the phoenix and wolf dancing between the trees as they sprinted along side by side.

The Patronus spread its great wings and sent off blazing blue sparks from the ends of its feathers, blinding the dementors and pushing them away. Sherlock grasped his wand tightly, directing the charm to finish off the creatures, to force them back into the shadows from whence they came. His fingers slipped on his wand wood, but he kept a firm grasp on the base, his knuckles turning white.

The dementors were turning their backs now, scabby green hands covering the opening in their hoods cowardly. Sherlock's legs were shaking violently, but he forced himself to stay on his feet until all of the dementors vanished from view. When the last of the creatures hid in the depths of the forest shadows, Sherlock's legs gave way and he sank freely to the ground, knees scraping over the jagged rocks. He let his knees buckle under the weight of his chest, gravity pushing him down to earth.

He used some of his remaining strength to lift his head, gazing at the beautiful phoenix flying through the air towards him. He was amazed at how it remained floating in the air, almost a solid form and impenetrable by light. It opened its sharp beak, and Sherlock extended his hand out to touch the mist for the first time. Before it came in contact with his fingers however, it faded in a mass of white and blue and the spell died.

"John!"

The only way Sherlock could make his body move was to crawl, his hands fighting to clasp rocks and wet sand for support. He shook all over, cold sweat dripping off his face, and he kept his eyes locked on his unconscious friend.

"John…" His voice was barely a whisper. He nudged his friend hopefully on the shoulder that faced the night sky, but he knew John wouldn't stir. Tears began to form in his glassy eyes, and he let his expressive feelings show as the droplets of water ran gradually down his long cheeks. A single tear peeled off the end of his nose, falling down to land on John's black robes. The mix of salty water and blood stung on his face, and when he rubbed the oozing liquid from his cheek his hand was covered in the scarlet fluid.

There was still coldness about in the air, but Sherlock could feel a warm feeling starting to spread through his arms, giving him back his strength. He rolled John over onto his back and pressed a hand to the boy's chest. It took a while, but eventually the slow and calm rising and falling of Watson's chest was felt under Sherlock's hand, and his heartbeat was one continuous drum beat.

Sherlock examined the spot where John had been wounded on his neck. A mixture of blood and some orange liquid was pouring sluggishly from the opening, and a large stain blotted the front of his Gryffindor sweater. His All Stars were splotched with water, as he was drenched from head to toe on one half of his body. Sherlock took a small sample of the liquid on the end of his pointer finger, bringing it up to his nose to smell the foul mix.

Poison…

Sherlock stared into John's adorable but sleeping face, wondering if he would ever wake. His sandy hair stuck out from his head and water droplets fell from the small strands on the edge of his hairline. Some of whatever was injected into John's veins was spreading like butter in the mucky water. The eagle applied pressure to the lion's cut, ignoring his own injury and debating to himself whether or not it would do any good to save his friend's life.

Sherlock's vision was beginning to fade. His brain was receiving waves of blurriness, and he could hear a faint beeping in his left ear. Moriarty was nowhere in sight, and neither were the dementors as Sherlock pulled John in closer to his body. His sight became a whirl of colors. The muscles in his arms and legs were weak, and all he tried to do was breath. Inhale and exhale. His final breath left his mouth in a pant, and his royal blue and bronze tie rolled off his shoulders completely as his body shifted positions, rolling over the uneven ground.

The heaviest part of his body went limp, and his head dug into the cold stones. His figure crumpled onto the bedrock beside his best friend as the haze of colors clouding his vision all faded to black. The hand that pushed against John's cold skin regressed to the bottom of his neck, no longer able to find the stamina.

His green eyes got one last glimpse of his best friend before closing because of the tiredness. Sherlock's free hand slid off John's rising chest, and he tugged at the fabric in one last attempt before he completely gave out. His damaged cheek burned when it slumped into the stones. All his muscles unfolded as the last of his strength left him, and Sherlock Holmes shriveled into the ground, defeated in a way, as he fainted.