A/N - I have no idea how much time passes between the engagement and the wedding, but for the purpose of this fic, we'll say not much.

Cradling his newly-dead wife in his arms, John Watson wished heartily that this would all turn out to be just a nightmare – that he would wake up to find that she'd suffered a severe but survivable wound (like she'd given Sherlock; why did he survive being shot when the assassin hadn't), or that she'd never been shot at all. He needed her, Rosie needed her.

God, Rosie. How would he ever find the words, when she was older, to explain that her mother had died because his best friend had been showing off, and John himself hadn't been there to stop him – had chosen (been chosen) to wait behind until someone could come to look after Rosie.

Guilt, as well as grief, swamped him. He had wanted to be the one to rush to Sherlock's side, to be useful again. Perhaps then he would have found the courage to block E's number once and for all. He'd been so close to confessing everything to Mary, and now she was gone, never to know just how badly skewed her perception of him as a 'good man' was.

Squeezing his eyes ever more tightly closed, he breathed in the scent of her hair (fading already. God, he wanted to brand it into his nose so he'd breathe it forever more) and wished. He wished . . . he wished . . .

{Video slows to a halt . . . and rewinds}

The bang of the gun seemed to echo around the small chamber, until Sherlock was mildly surprised the glass didn't shatter. Mary tried to shove him out of the way, but even with surprise on her side, she didn't manage to move him far, as he'd already been moving in her direction to ensure she was out of the bullet's path.

Mary went stumbling backwards with a horrified cry, catching herself against the glass wall just as a sharp pain blossomed in the middle of Sherlock's chest. It knocked the breath out of him, and he, too, went stumbling down to one knee.

"Sherlock!"

He couldn't tell who had called his name, but the hands that caught at him were Mary's. He wanted to tell her he was fine, it wasn't anything he hadn't overcome before (where were the avatars of Molly and Mycroft, coaching him on how best to fall to enable him to survive?) but he couldn't get the breath for it, and he couldn't quite make his body straighten up.

Instead, everything was going dark, and he was suddenly viciously cold. Hands were lowering him to the floor, and although he could hear a babble of voices above him, he couldn't discern any clear words. He blinked (when had everything got so blurry?) and Mary's face was suddenly clear above him, her eyes anxious and furious and filling with tears.

"You hold on," she said, fiercely. "You hear me, Sherlock? John's coming; you hold on."

Hold on . . . to what? Mary's face swam in his fading vision again. I vow . . . to keep you . . . safe.

A faint smile curved his lips as Sherlock sank completely into the cold darkness. He'd kept his vow. To the end, he'd kept his vow.

John skidded into the room just in time to see his best friend go horribly limp. Crashing to his knees beside Sherlock, one hand went out to his wife, and the other to Sherlock's neck, hoping that the reckless git had just lost consciousness.

There was no pulse.

"No."

John had no idea who had said that, but he completely agreed. Sherlock hadn't even been back from being 'dead' for a whole year yet, and John wasn't sure he'd quite recovered from almost losing Sherlock to Mary's bullet. He couldn't be gone. Not again. Not for real.

Mary's arms were around him (suffocating him) as she buried her face in his shoulder. "He saved me," she murmured, her words muffled. "I tried to push him out of the way, but he pushed me first."

. . . Idiot! John wanted to grab hold of the lapels of that ridiculous coat and shake Sherlock, shake him until he woke up, until he opened his eyes, until he stopped being dead! (Hadn't he learnt to duck? Had the last time taught him nothing?)

"No. This is – this can't be happening."

Wondering if perhaps Mycroft had said that, those words dripping with shocked disbelief, John looked up, but Mycroft looked as composed as ever, if a little more pale and a lot more grim. Lestrade had turned away, his head bowed.

Lowering his head again, John closed his eyes to avoid looking at (the body) his friend in front of him. He wished he would wake up to find this was just a nightmare. He wished . . . he wished . . .