A/N: Just a quick fic to get me into the Sherlock writing mindset again. Based off the pictures going around the internet.


John was too late.

His heart had raced the entire way to the scene, right from the moment he had received the text.

This is it. The only way. – SH

John had known exactly what it meant, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. For months, his roommate had been obsessing over how to take down Moriarty. The conclusion that he reached was that it simply wasn't possible.

Not as long as he was able to escape alive, that is.

John swallowed, but his mouth was unbearably dry.

Sherlock had realized that, in proper dramatic fashion, in order to defeat him, he'd have to die as well.

Lestrade had called the doctor's cell the moment the commotion began. Rooftop, two figures spotted, one matching the description of Sherlock. He'd gotten the text only moments before. There wasn't any doubt about what was going on.

No wonder Sherlock had been so eager to send John out for groceries. It wasn't for the detective to be able to avoid the mundane task; it was to stop the doctor from stopping him. Because they both knew that John would have, or he would have died trying.

The cab pulled up, and the crowd of people gathered and the ambulances parked and open made John's stomach turn.

The rooftops were bare.

As he slammed the cab door, one horrid sight met his eyes.

Mycroft stood, looking calm and collected yet utter devastation written deeper into his face.

There was Sherlock, being taken to one of the waiting ambulances. His face was bloodied, and his neck was at an odd angle. No one was rushing, other than to get him away from the crowd. He wasn't strapped down, and no effort was being made to treat any possible injuries. There simply wasn't any reason to, not anymore.

He felt the nausea rising and burning up his throat as his whole body quaked.

John was too late.