Flashback

Chapter seven

Sherlock was cold. He felt like a bit of an idiot for not thinking to put some actual clothes rather than just his coat and pyjama bottoms, but right now he didn't care.

He cried, all alone I the dark, his side resting against the gravestone. He had wanted her to be cremated but she insisted on a burial.

Sitting there, Sherlock couldn't help thinking about that night exactly one year ago.

It was a couple of days before John and Mary's wedding anniversary and the four of them were out to dinner at a fancy restaurant to celebrate. John had called it a double date, much to Sherlocks disgust. It was not as date. They were already together, in fact married, but he went along anyway.

On their way out of the restaurant they all got in a cab to go home, only it wasn't an ordinary cab. They had ended up at some abandoned factory place, all of them hostages at gun point. Another car pulled up and out of it stepped Sherlocks enemy. No not Mycroft, Moriarty.

He was not there to play a game this time though. He was there to watch Sherlock suffer. He was given a choice. Choose one friend to die, or he would find Gracie and kill her.

He couldn't choose John, that was out of the question, he would never have chosen John, neither could he choose Mary as that would have been the equivalent of choosing John and there was absolutely no way he could choose Lizze.

There were 3 people he truly loved in this world and all three of them were being faced with death. He would not loose Lizzie or John and he did innately wouldn't loose his daughter.

"If you don't choose quick, I'll choose for you' he had said, '3...2.." Sherlock had been thinking of a way out of the situation but he could think of none so instead he shouted

"wait! Kill me! You can kill me, just don't hurt any of them." John had tried to object but was interrupted by a gun shot.

"Oh but that would be way too easy" Moriarty said and left.

"LIZZIE!" He screamed but she was already gone. The bullet went straight through her brain. No matter how many times someone said it wasn't, Sherlock still believed it was his fault. Still silently cried himself to sleep every night. Still loved her. But she was gone.