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
Sherlock Holmes had finally learnt to be sorry. He was sorry he'd ever met John Watson.
When John had nodded to Sherlock, he wondered if the doctor knew what he planned to do.
He thought he did – after all, when John had grabbed Moriarty earlier he'd been expecting to die. He'd take Moriarty out with him, and give Sherlock an escape, and he'd die to do it…
When John had killed for him only a day after they'd met, he'd been a little surprised.
Only a little, because he could see it in the doctor's eyes, in his life, in his calm at the action, he could see the absolute certainty and conviction the man had that it was the right thing to do.
Grabbing Moriarty, stopping him before he could hurt anyone else – that was the right thing to do too, in John's mind. It was worth his life.
Sherlock had wondered briefly how much of it had been because it might save him, but quickly dismissed it as unimportant. He couldn't leave – not while Moriarty could still escape, and not without John. He didn't understand why, not fully, not yet, but leaving John in danger wasn't an option – perhaps because John hadn't left him in danger when he'd had the chance before?
He's seen it in John's eyes – the defeat, the resignation – when the sniper's dot had settled on his forehead.
When John let the consulting criminal go, Sherlock was confused although he tried not to show it.
Stopping Moriarty was worth John's life, but not his?
There was no confusion now though. John was with him – they would stop Jim, and it would be worth their lives because John thought it was worth it, and Sherlock had learnt to trust John's judgement as completely as he trusted his own deductions.
Slowly he tightened his grip on the gun, lowering his aim from Moriarty to the bomb, and pulled the trigger.
The next thing he knew he was flying through the air and it took him a moment to register that he wasn't being thrown by the explosion.
He barely had time to drag in a breath before they hit the water, and he watched as the world turned orange and black above them, the heat of the explosion scorching even through the protection of the water.
John's arms were wrapped tightly around him, pinning his arms to his sides in a desperate hold as he kicked to push them deeper beneath the surface.
Sherlock made a move to help only to stop when he realised that doing so brought his feet into contact with John's legs, and injuring one another or getting tangled would do them worse than no good.
As he allowed himself to be pulled along Sherlock realised that he'd completely misunderstood the doctor's intentions.
He had guessed Sherlock's plan, and he had figured out, in scant seconds, a way for them to survive it. A way that Sherlock hadn't been able to see (hadn't looked for?)…
John grinned at him briefly, and Sherlock realised that his flatmate…his friend?...would make sure he didn't forget being out-smarted by him any time soon.
Sherlock found he didn't mind the impending teasing so much, since it meant that they would both be alive.
As John twisted them around in the water Sherlock noted absently that the water around them, lit orange by the fires above, was slowly turning red. He wondered if perhaps that was why John was holding him so tight?
Had he been injured and didn't realise it yet? He didn't feel injured, but John wouldn't release him, wouldn't let him move under his own power…perhaps he was injured and in shock?
Perhaps he needed a blanket, he thought wildly as he watched the trail of red behind them grow heavier.
When John finally dragged him from the pool he pulled himself to his feet, and dragged John up alongside him.
Then he realised what he should've already noticed.
As John grasped at him and began to drag him to the door Sherlock rushed to get his arms around his friend, supporting him even as they ran outside.
When they were a safe distance from the building, Sherlock stopped, and lowered John carefully to the ground.
He'd always internally (and occasionally out loud) mocked people who claimed to experience actual physical reactions to emotional situations, but now he understood…
He understood because fear had stolen his breath, his blood ran cold like ice in his veins, and his heart seized as he looked down at the mass of bloodied and torn flesh that was John Watson's chest.
*Exit wound,* his mind catalogued automatically, barely noticed, *one shot, in through the back right shoulder.*
He was scrabbling to pull his jacket off to try and slow down the bleeding before he even registered the idea. He carefully ignored the blood already staining the back of the jacket, blood he now realised must have sprayed onto him unnoticed as John had been hit and crashed into him almost simultaneously. It was a miracle he'd not been hit as well, as close as they'd been. The bullet must've passed within millimetres of his back.
Blood-covered hands held the jacket desperately – *hopelessly!* his mind screamed – against the wound, and burning eyes watched as the fabric turned dark as it leeched up John's life-blood right in front of him.
Tears burned unshed in his eyes and he forced them back. He couldn't let John see…couldn't let him know how bad it looked…Sherlock wasn't a doctor after all, he didn't know for sure – he shouldn't risk making John think it was worse than it was.
He'd never wanted to hope for anything so badly before...
He pressed a little harder on the jacket, and his eyes darted up to meet John's.
He quickly wished they hadn't. Resignation, clear as day, shone from the army doctor's eyes. He knew gun-shot wounds. He knew how badly-off he was.
He knew he was dying.
John knew, and that meant Sherlock couldn't hope any more. If John had no hope, then Sherlock – who'd never seen the point in such fanciful thoughts before John – could have none either.
Moriarty had brought them here. Moriarty had done this.
Moriarty had killed John.
Unshed tears dried up, and Sherlock felt a cold burn settle deep in his chest.
Moriarty's threat echoed mockingly in his head.
*I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.*
Before, he'd wanted to beat Moriarty. He'd wanted to be smarter, he'd wanted to win.
Now he wanted to kill him.
He wanted to destroy him. To tear him apart and make him suffer.
To make him hurt like he'd made John hurt.
John grabbed at his hands, and coughed around the blood that choked off his words.
He looked up at Sherlock, and in his mind's eye suddenly Sherlock could see that nod again, could see the trust in John's face, the determination telling Sherlock he could pull the trigger.
Telling Sherlock he could kill him.
Sherlock had killed John, the first…the only…friend he'd ever made.
Sherlock Holmes had finally learnt to be sorry. He was sorry he'd ever met John Watson, because John was dead because of him, and Sherlock would see the world burn for what it had done to them.
Reviews are very, very welcome! I have no idea where this fic came from, since I hate death!fic...It was just crying out to be written.
If I have a good enough response (ie. my characterisations aren't complete rubbish and what-not) then hopefully I can convince my muse to write something a little more upbeat next time :-D
Thanks for reading!