The Best Man He Ever Knew SxJ

Silence. A smothering white hot silence that Sherlock knew would be soon accompanied by pain. His assumption was confirmed when he attempted to sit up. A searing agony tore through his side and he crumpled on the hard floor. Why was he hurting like this? What happened? Where the hell was he? He lay still, his eyes squeezed shut, willing his brain to process what had happened.

The pool.

He had been at the pool with John and Moriarty.

Moriarty.

He'd had a dozen snipers trained on Sherlock and John, with a look in his eyes that said he'd won, he'd beaten the great Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock remembered feeling a sudden rush of fury. Nobody beat him.

The vest.

The vest that has been strapped to John, packed full of semtex. The vest that was lying between the two men, innocuous as anything. Sherlock glanced at John, who read the look in his eyes almost immediately and nodded tersely.

The gun.

His finger had tightened on the trigger almost without thinking about it, and as he looked down at Jim Moriarty's slightly bewildered expression…The shockwave had blown all three men back and gouged a massive crater in the ceramic tiling, showering the men with debris.

Sherlock opened his eyes and put his hand to the wound at his side, his brain now working at its usual lightning speed. Shot. I've been shot. Large caliber bullet, nowhere near any vital organs though. Broken ribs, possible concussion. John will make a proper diagnosis. He stopped. Where was John? Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain, he sat up and looked around. The poolhouse was completely wrecked, shattered ceramic everywhere, wires dangling out of the ceiling where lights had once been, water dripping from the walls, a small fire in one corner. A small gasping noise made Sherlock turn around. Ten feet away, John Watson was lying on his back, eyes wide open, gasping for breath. With blood seeping from the wound in his chest. Sherlock ignored his brains' signals to lie still and climbed to his knees. Crawling over to where his friend lay, he could clearly see the bullet wound in John's chest, right below his heart. Sherlock knew the second he saw it that it was fatal. The detached, rational part of him noticed the copious amounts of blood loss, near loss of eyesight, and body temperature and deduced that John would bleed out within two minutes, five if he held on. But no matter  how black and white the facts were, another part of brain bucked the idea. No. John can't die. It's not possible. There must be something…but he knew there was nothing he could do.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was weak and broken, only underlining how little time he had left.

"John. Yes. I'm here."

"Sherlock…it hurts."

"I know John. Don't worry. It'll be alright."

John spluttered out a laugh,

"Liar."

Sherlock sighed. John knew he was dying, he was a doctor, of course.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, "I am not letting you die, John! I can't!"

Tears bloomed from his eyes and slid down his cheeks, mingling with the dust and blood.

John smiled and rasped, "And I won't let you die," noticing the blood dripping from between Sherlock's fingers, "you've been shot. You need to go get help."

"No," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "I'm not leaving."

John stared blankly up at Sherlock, his eyes now completely sightless, and smiled wanly.

"Idiot."

So Sherlock Holmes sat there in the wreckage of the poolhouse as John Watson took his final breath. It was a sound Sherlock knew he would never forget. He'd seen men die before, heard that shaky, rattling intake of breath as the body fought to keep itself in existence, and fate fought to complete its mindless design. But it had never sounded so terrible to him. This wasn't just another person fulfilling their final obligation, this was a man dying. This was a life that had no reason to end. This was the best part of Sherlock Holmes, the man that had kept him alive on more than one occasion. And despite his massive intellect, there was nothing he could do to save him. As Sherlock held the lifeless body of his only friend and the best man he had ever known, the only sounds left were his heavy sobs. And silence.