Disclaimer: I own nothing, sad as that it. I wish I owned it, but since I've written this, I guess it's just as well for our boys that I don't...
Author's Note: This is my first ever attempt at writing Sherlock fic, so please be kind! I hope I've gotten characterisation at least okay, if not good, but any advice would be gratefully accepted :-D
In the end, John Watson wished he'd never met Sherlock Holmes.
When John had nodded to Sherlock to shoot the bomb, he'd known exactly what he was going to do.
The military mind-set he'd been trained to took hold as he watched Sherlock lower the gun, and he braced himself against the wall as Sherlock's hold tightened, his knuckles whitening a little at the pressure.
He didn't dare chance a look at Moriarty, despite the overwhelming curiosity to see what the consulting criminal thought of this plan.
It was risky, but if he timed it perfectly…
Sherlock's trigger-finger began to tighten, and with a practised eye he watched the slow movement until it reached the point he was waiting for and sprang.
He crashed into Sherlock while the gun was still recoiling from the shot, hitting so hard he thought he might've cracked a few ribs, and sent them both flying into the depths of the pool.
The heat from the explosion seared against his back for an instant before he was completely submerged, and he kicked swiftly to push them both lower as he clung tightly to his stunned flatmate.
He grinned at the wide-eyed look the other man was giving him, a look which told John that for once he'd managed to surprise the consulting detective.
He wasn't sure what he thought about the fact that Sherlock was surprised by his tackle. Had he really thought John had agreed to a plan that would kill them both? Had he not realised the way out that John had seen?
He shook his head and kept swimming – there'd be time to figure that out later, for now he needed to figure out the safest way out of the pool for them.
The snipers might have survived, might still be lying in wait. Moriarty himself could still be waiting – somehow John didn't think he'd be so easily killed. Far more likely was the chance that the building above them could, at any second, come down on top of them, and with that in mind John twisted and started pulling Sherlock towards the side of the pool he'd noticed had the nearest fire-exit.
He ignored the sharp pain in his chest, ignored the way his head was starting to feel light as his vision closed in from the sides, and focused only on keeping hold of his stunned friend and getting them somewhere safe.
It wasn't until they collapsed to the ground outside the burning wreck of a building that John realised something was wrong.
He still couldn't breathe.
He had felt his knees buckle and Sherlock sagged slightly under his weight, lowering them to the ground.
Sherlock's hands were red where he'd been holding him, and he watched with a strange sense of detachment as the taller man ripped off his jacket shakily – which was odd, Sherlock shaking? That wasn't right…and why were his hands red? Was the younger man injured? Had John missed something in his rush to get them out? – and pressed it against John's chest.
Lifting his head a little, which was harder than it should've been, he saw that the blue fabric was darkening at an astonishing pace as it was pressed painfully against his red shirt.
Wait, red? Hadn't he been wearing a brown shirt?
Slowly, far too slowly, it dawned on him that Sherlock hadn't been injured – he had. What he'd thought had been ribs cracking had probably been a lucky hit by one of the snipers as he leapt for Sherlock.
He was losing blood far too quickly, and every breath was more of a struggle than the last – this wasn't a glancing hit…no nasty scar and sent on his way this time.
As Sherlock pressed desperately down on the wound in his chest, John looked up and watched panicked grey eyes as they locked on his own.
Sherlock was watching the life drain out of him on the cold damp ground, and John saw the second the genius realised there was nothing to be done.
The eyes above him hardened, growing cold and angry and terrifying.
As the world darkened and he felt his chest shudder to draw what he knew would be his final breaths, John saw his mistake, and he wished he'd been just a little smarter, a little quicker, a little more Sherlock…
Lestrade's words the day they'd met ran through his head.
*Sherlock is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.*
They'd both miscalculated.
They'd gotten it so very, very wrong.
Lestrade and John had both thought only of how good Sherlock could become if he learnt to care.
Moriarty's threat echoed in his mind.
*I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.*
John had given Sherlock a heart, and now it would destroy him.
Because before John, Sherlock hadn't really cared – he'd taken cases, helped the police, saved lives, all because it was entertaining, interesting…a way to keep from being bored.
John had made Sherlock care – he'd woken emotions Sherlock didn't know existed, didn't know how to handle, and now…
Now those emotions would twist Sherlock into a monster, because John Watson was dying – he was taking away the only thing Sherlock had learnt to care about. He was leaving him with nothing.
Grabbing tightly to Sherlock's arm with the last of his strength, John tried to speak, choking on the blood that filled his mouth instead.
His last seconds were spent trying to convey with a look how sorry he was, how he knew what he'd done, and how he wished he could take it back.
The cold, empty shell of his friend leaned quietly over him with a hard, blank expression.
In the end, John Watson wished he'd never met Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock had been a great man, and John had helped destroy him.
Reviews are very, very welcome...there's a second part to come for this story, and reviews always make me write quicker...just saying... :-D