My Doctor, Watson

Chapter IV

AN//// Trigger warning. Mention of death and suicide. It's not that bad. Thanks for reading!

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John inhaled his breathe as Sherlock and him stared at the building, afraid of what lay ahead.

Sherlock and John stood side by side, joined in fear. Joined in anticipation. Joined in the source of a common enemy.

Sherlock reached over and grabbed John's hand, surprising both of them. John looked over but didn't say anything. Although he could feel his face getting hot in the freezing air. With each exhale, his breathe emitted out of him, as if it were going somewhere, but froze up on the way to the definite destination.

Sherlock's hand felt cold and calloused. His long, slender fingers wrapped around John's. His hands felt empty, it felt as if not even the bravest soldier dared to touch. And Sherlock's eyes. His eyes looked like a deep pool of loneliness, the pool dark, dense, and never ending with solitude.

John's eyes weren't so mysterious. They were philosophical. They burned bright with infinite questions that would never be answered.

Sherlock turned to John and looked him in the eye, and John felt a sudden urge to jump into the pool with Sherlock.

"Shall we?" He asked. The man with a tough exterior was full of dread on the inside. John nodded hesitantly and they proceeded up the steps, still holding hands. John wondered why this far from normal man was acting so casual. So.. human.

Sherlock ungripped John's' hand to open the door, and the warmth was never rejoined. The door creaked open, but it wasn't loud enough to scare off the birds swarming the property.

Sherlock took small, quiet steps. John followed, cautious of every move. He watched as the detective scanned the area.

"The plan. Do it." Sherlock spoke.

"What plan?!" John asked.

"Shoot me." Sherlock said. His voice was gruff, and he tried his best to whisper.

"Excuse me?" John responded.

"Just do it. Not figuratively. Moriarty's only job is to pester me. He needs to think that his job is complete."

"I'm not going to-" John tried to say, but was interrupted when he heard footsteps on the upper floor of the dark, empty factory. "Oh bloody hell." He said, his voice echoing off the ceiling.

John was shaking. In his old times of being in the army, he never experienced a challenge like this. He was being asked to kill his own mate.

"But, Sherlock, you're my best friend."

"I'm your what? Oh, never mind. Just pull the trigger. Aim it at the boxes behind me and retrieve the empty gun shell. Place it by me. Do hurry, this is a serious matter. I don't need you messing around because of your emotions." Sherlock snapped.

John reached into Sherlock's coat pocket and pulled out his hand gun. He let the cold pistol burn his flesh, it was a weapon. A weapon he swore to never touch again. A weapon that could not only kill Sherlock, but kill John inside. With one loud bang everything would cease to exist.

John aimed, his hands shaking more than ever. He squeezed his eyes shut, and with a rapid motion, he pulled the trigger.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock had collapsed. He lay on his back, still. But he wasn't dead. John ran over to the storage boxes and found the bullet. He hid all the evidence of the shot the cardboard took in expense of his sanity.

Sherlock had blood gleaming on his white shirt, flowing to the ground. But it wasn't blood. Being an army doctor, he knew that blood didn't have that consistency. Moriarty wouldn't know that, though. Hopefully.

John was questioning what exactly the plan was now, when he heard a voice.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 or are you just pleased to see me?" the voice said.

"Neither." John answered to the growing darkness.

Moriarty stepped forward and stared at John, and then his eyes caught something else. Sherlock's "dead" body.

Moriarty suddenly held his breath and snapped his head towards John. If a stare could lead you to your imminent death, it would be this one.

"Joseph.. What have you done?" He asked with an annoyed tone.

"My names not.. Whatever. I was tired of Sherlock constantly bossing me around, treating me as if I were nothing. Like I didn't matter to him. I told him a case would be here, but I snapped. I couldn't take it anymore." John responded, acting as if he didn't regret what he'd done.

"Oh, dear me. Dear me." Moriarty said, sucking in his teeth and shaking his head. "Why would you come here? Where I am?" Moriarty continued.

"I didn't know you were here. This was the only empty area in the closest perimeter of Baker Street. I thought this place had been abandoned for years." John fibbed.

Moriarty glared at John and kneeled down to Sherlock.

"My angel.. Has fallen.." He muttered.

John stood there and didn't say a word. He couldn't help but admire Sherlock's brilliant acting skills. He wasn't even breathing.

"Congratulations, Jacob. You've ended my job.. for me." Moriarty said. John feared that Moriarty would be happy with what John did, and it seemed to be coming true, until he pulled out the gun.

At first, Moriarty aimed the sleek black pistol at John. John stood still, only moving to shift his foot or take a curious glance at Sherlock to see if he was going to defend him.

"Okay, um, before you shoot, my name is John Watson." John said, but immediately regretted it as soon as the sarcastic words fell out of his mouth.

"I should kill you. I should make you suffer. I should make you CRY." He yelled. "I bet you didn't want to see anyone else die tonight, Watson. But.. Oh what a mistake you've made." Moriarty loaded the gun and placed his finger on the trigger. John swallowed hard. He knew this was his last breath.

And then, Moriarty turned the gun around and shot himself in the head. He fell fast, as if he were never standing. As if this were just a radio broadcast, the incident never happening, just a wave. A telepathic anomaly.

John raced over and grabbed Sherlock's hand, helping him up. Sherlock brushed his hands on his Jacket and strode over to where Moriarty's now deceased body lay. Moriarty's eyes were open, and his breathing was coming to a stop.

Sherlock stared, watching the psychopath get closer and closer to death. The grim reaper's hands were holding on, never going to give up. When his breath stopped, Sherlock said "Game over" and walked away from the scene.