One more miracle

Chapter Three

Sherlock sat alone in the trashed flat Mycroft had rented for the last 3 years to be at his disposal. The carpet smelled strongly of alcohol, from 7 years ago to be precise, and the wallpaper hardly clung to its domain. It seemed to prefer the floor. He rung his hands together, eyes closed in deep thought as he tilted his head back. Mycroft was definitely right, yet Sherlock didn't want him to be. He had indeed notice how his dear friend sunk deeper and deeper in the depths of sorrow, how his face had seemed to age twice as fast as everyone else in the world. If only he could just hang on for another week or two, then Sherlock could finally bring Moran to justice and keep him truthfully safe.

But John was already clinging to the last threads of his sanity. He was slipping, and he could fall any day now. The way Sherlock fell. Only John wouldn't return, and Sherlock would have to experience all the pain John did. Mycroft had already taken multiple precautions, such as taking every bullet in their flat and filling every gun with blanks. However, he wouldn't establish a camera. Sherlock had requested so, for John deserved privacy. He growled, gripping his hair tightly in gloved fists. It had never been so difficult to make a decision in his entire life. Everything came so simply, so naturally to him. Yet, having a friend at all was an entirely new experience.

Frustration finally getting the best of him, Sherlock strode briskly out of the flat that seemed to fall apart around him. He dawned a new trench coat and a scarf similar to his previous one, only a deep scarlet, and pulled the collar up as if to protect his pale, sharp features. It was another cool, foggy day, and the air still smelled musty from the rain. He kept his head low in a casual yet cautious manner, one he had perfected over the last three years. The busy people of London milled about, their tiny minds stuck on things of little to no importance. Sherlock glared spitefully at them and their incompetence. He wondered who anyone could even stand each other, and was glad that John was far from these average, despicable people.

His mind went totally blank as he walked past a market. He recognized the tan jacket in his peripheral vision and immediately pressed himself against the wall. Dr. John Watson himself pressed through the door with a small ding, transferring his weight onto the cane as he stepped out. Sherlock eyed the small rectangle bulging from the breast pocket of his coat. A bullet case. Sherlock felt his stomach twinge as John hobbled towards the flat they had once shared. He had reached the end. He was going to do it.

Sherlock waited for nearly a minute, then began to follow his beloved doctor. That was the final decision. Sherlock had to do something, before there was nothing he could do. He couldn't stand to find his only friend sprawled on the floor, that dreaded scarlet liquid pouring from his skull in the same fashion as Moriarty all those years ago. He couldn't imagine the pain of holding his limp, bleeding head in his hands, numbly allowing the blood to stain his palms. He could never let that happen. Not to John.