Disclaimer: I still don't own...

Author's Note: It's late and I'm still not sleepy. So I finished this off. Last chapter... Enjoy =D

Sherlock automatically flinched at the gunshot, then marvelled at the fact he could flinch. He opened his eyes, though he couldn't remember closing them and looked up.

Jim Moriarty turned his head slightly, a look of surprise on his face before he collapsed. The bullet hole in his chest spoke of the method of his death. And behind him stood John Watson, still holding the unfamiliar gun that had killed him.

'How did you get the gun?' Sherlock asked as a greeting.

'Sniper on the roof.' Sherlock nodded, and then frowned.

'How did you know…John!' Sherlock cried, moving to catch John as he suddenly collapsed.

'John! What's happened? What's wrong?' Sherlock drew one of his hands away from John to find it covered in blood.

'John, how did this happen? John!'

'I…didn't…see…it… I always…see.' John wheezed out. Then, with a sigh, his eyes closed.

'John! JOHN!'

It was dark and John couldn't see. He felt like he was drowning and nothing could save him.

Gradually the feeling lessened. Slowly, light began to creep in, along with a voice calling his name.

Then something shaking his hand.

'John. John.'

'Groggily, he opened his eyes, closing them straight away, flinching away from the light.

'Oh no you don't. I saw that. Wake up and talk to me.'

A finger started poking John's arm and John found himself forced to open his eyes to try and get it to stop. Looking around he saw Sherlock sitting by his side, finger raised to poke again.

'Finally! Do you know how boring it is here? The doctors and nurses are so tiresome.'


'Why am I here?' Sherlock looked confused. 'I thought that was what friends did. Did I get it wrong?'

John shook his head. 'What happened?'

Sherlock's face went dark. 'When you disarmed that sniper you failed to notice the knife he gave you and you began to bleed out. Now, I need to know what you meant by your final statement before you passed out.'

John thought for a moment, and then inwardly cringed at the realisation of what he had said. 'What statement?' he said, playing dumb.

Sherlock wasn't having it. 'I can see by the tiny signs of panic you're exhibiting that you know what I mean. So explain.'

John looked down. 'I've been having theses dreams and…visions. And sometimes they come true.'

'Like psychic visions.'

'More like, informed intuition most of the time.'

Sherlock gave him a considering look. 'And with Moriarty?'

John was taking confidence from the fact Sherlock wasn't mocking him or calling for the psyche ward. 'That was different.'


'When I saw it, it was as if I was there, living it with you.'

'Hmm…' Sherlock sat back considering this information. 'Is there a common theme to these visions?'

'Umm… death? Wait, do you believe me?' John couldn't keep the relief out of his voice.

Sherlock looked affronted. 'Of course. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever reminds, however mad, must be the truth. Now, did your visions ever concern yourself? If so, why are you here?'

Overjoyed, John began to answer Sherlock's questions.

John hadn't excepted things to stay the same after Sherlock found out about his visions and was pleasantly surprised when they mostly did. Yes, now every morning when he woke Sherlock would ask after John's dreams and receive a blow-by-blow recount in return. And yes, whenever John spaced out slightly, Sherlock would distract people while watching John out of the corner of his eye for a signal of what was to come. Or ask after it later, which ever worked. Sherlock even started listening to John opinion. Well, a bit more then usual.

But really, John saved Sherlock's life once in a while and Sherlock saved John from a life of boredom.

Business as usual.

The End