A collection of Johnlock oneshots

Fault (Text part 3)

(A/N Last part to this one! I wrote it, the by accident deleted it just before I finished it, it went nothing like this. But this version was much better in my opinion.

Thanks so much for reading, comment opinions! X)

One. Single. Shot.

Just one bullet straight through the back of his head. His beautiful head. His beautiful, brilliant head that contained his beautiful brilliant mind.

Gone.

Obliterated.

Destroyed.

Destroyed by him.

JM.

That evil, sick and twisted little bastard, with nothing better to do than ruin the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

In that moment, John wanted to die too. He wanted to reverse their situations. He most certainly didn't want what he had been given.

He didn't want Sherlock to be dead, and he didn't want it to be his fault.

But it was. How could it not be?

There was nothing he could've done, he wasn't Sherlock! But it was still his fault. And there wasn't anything that could change that.

Just an old, disused warehouse on the outskirts of London, where Moriarty had hidden Sherlock, ready to be killed at any moment.

How was John supposed to find him? He didn't have a mind palace, he didn't know London like the back of his hand, he wasn't Sherlock Fucking Holmes!

All John wanted to do now was die.

But for some reason, he couldn't.

Sherlock's pale, blood soaked head lay limp in his lap as he ran his shaking fingers through his sticky hair.

It used to be so soft, he thought. It used to be so soft and black and curly and beautiful and perfect. Just so damned perfect all the time.

Now it wasn't.

Now it was nothing.

Now he was dead.

And it was John's fault. It was all John's fault.

If he had been quicker, or smarter or whatever, he could've saved him.

But no, because John was John. And it was his fault, and his fault alone.

Then there was a loud bang.

A loud gunshot.

The sound rang through the empty warehouse, bouncing off every wall, echoing it's way down.

John Watson's body slumped to the floor.

He got his wish.

He was dead.

Dead, next to the body of his best friend.

In death, he was a different man. All the worry and pain and upset, gone from his face. He was innocent once again.

The tiny trickle of light that found its way in through a broken window, slowly moved as the hours ticked by, passing the two bodies like the opposite of a shadow. Illuminating their peaceful features individually, for one last time, before they disappeared into the darkness completely and forever.

What will Lestrade say when he finds them tomorrow?