A collection of Johnlock oneshots

Do it. (Pt2)

Moriarty cackled, the sound of his amusement echoed around the empty room. Sherlock was panting heavily and looked fairly distant. He was sat on the cold concrete floor, running sweat soaked hands through his sleek black curls.

The red dot finally disappeared from Sherlocks chest and his head shot up to look at Moriarty.

The Irishman was stood with his hands shoved in his trouser pockets and an unbelievably smug look plastered on his face. In one smooth movement he spun around and strolled out toward the door.

"See you soon, Sherlock." He drawled before the door clicked behind him.

In a split second Sherlock made a frantic kick at the gun, sending it skidding away from him and sped towards the body laying on the floor ahead of him.

It didn't take long before Sherlock realised that John was already dead. He had aimed precisely so that he wouldn't be killed but nerves must have gotten the better of him. His hand had been shaking, making an accurate shot almost impossible.

"John." He half shouted but his voice broke making it more of a cry. Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands. It was still warm.

It took a minute for it to sink in completely.

John is dead.

I killed him.

Sherlocks face was a mixture of tears, sweat and terror as he stared down at the body of his best friend. His best friend whom he had just murdered.

No. No no no. Oh god no.

John.

"Wake up." Sherlock sobbed pointlessly. He knew he wouldn't.

I had to do it. Sherlock thought. Moriarty had him. If I hadn't killed him then Moriarty would've shot me then hurt John. Hurt John slowly and painfully while no one was there to save him and no one knew where he was. I had to.

It didn't matter. John was dead. Sherlock had killed him. How was anyone ever going to forgive him? How was he ever going to forgive himself?

The floor was covered in a pool of deep red blood that poured out from John's chest. Sherlock was sat in the middle of it, coat, trousers and hands covered in the liquid.

He heard the sound of sirens and the metal doors open. A number of police officers and paramedics rushed in. They had a job detaching Sherlock from John but eventually, despite very vocal protests from Sherlock they managed to. Sherlock was dragged outside by two of the policemen while all the others stayed back to tend to John.

Sherlock was sat in the back of an ambulance with his head against the wall, eyes half closed and eventually he was given an orange blanket. Normally in this situation, at any other crime scene he would've gotten up and walked away but the sweet memories from their first case together and the subtle comfort of the blanket kept him grounded to his seat.

He looked up and watched the chaos of the crime scene take place. Although he was a key witness and should've been either arrested or taken in for questioning or at least talked to by now, no one had bothered him yet.

Sherlock watched as one of his brothers cars pulled up and the older man got out. Before he could do anything another man caught his eye. Lestrade was headed straight for him, eyes red and with large bags under his eyes. Sherlock got up and walked towards him too.

As Sherlock opened his mouth to speak he was cut off by the DI's arms wrapping around him and squeezing tight. Sherlock didn't know what to do but settled on hugging back despite previous protests. He let his head hang over Greg's shoulder and even let one or two tears out. The hugging helped more than he imagined it would. He felt the blanket fall from his shoulders and the grip of Greg's arms tighten around his waste.

"It's all my fault." Sherlock whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. He felt Greg shake his head.

"It wasn't. Don't blame yourself Sherlock. There was nothing you could've done."

Oh if only he knew. If only he knew what I'd done. He wouldn't be comforting me. He wouldn't even be speaking to me. I'm a horrible person.

The two men pulled apart, each wiping his eyes as there was a faint cough from nearby.

Sherlock looked up at his brother. "Take me home." He asked and Mycroft was about to protest and inform Sherlock that he had to go in for police questioning when Greg interrupted him saying, "Take him home, Mycroft."

"Very well." He agreed, stalking back over to his car.

Greg and Sherlock shared a brief look before Sherlock slid into the back of the car next to Mycroft.

The journey was silent for the most part, the only sounds coming from Mycroft when he instructed his driver on where to go and when he said "I truly am sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock just nodded in response and went back to gazing out the window and drowning in guilt and self disgust.

--

Sherlock sat in John's chair, unable to bring himself to be able to look at it empty. It hurt too much.

He sat there for an hour. Thinking. Wishing. Hating.

Before he knew it he was on the stairs heading up to John's room. John's old room. He went straight to the wardrobe, reaching a long, slender arm up to fetch the small handgun that John hid under an old jumper.

Sherlock toyed with the weight of it in his hands. He thought about John. About Moriarty. About what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do.

Oh Moriarty was clever. Too clever.

Moriarty had won. And Sherlock couldn't live with that.

(A/N ta da ☺️ ever the joyous story to brighten up your day/put a smile on your face. Hope you enjoyed it! 😉

No okay I'm pretty sure that one broke even me and I knew what was going to happen.

I hope that wasn't too long a wait for you guys!)