In My End Is My Beginning

***The summary should say "to them." at the end but for some reason every time I wrote it, it got deleted? I dunno, sorry bout that :P***

Author's Note: Woo hoo back writing Sherlock again! It's been a while haha :P Infinite thanks go out to my wonderful and ever-faithful beta buddy, Fiona (fionasank), who helped me make this story a lot better :D And the title is taken from a collection of poems by T.S. Eliot called "Four Quartets". Happy reading! :)

The brisk night air whipped past John's face as he ran down the streets of London, chasing yet another criminal. He kept his eyes fixed on the slim, tall man in front of him or, more specifically, the long black coat that was waving behind the man in question. If John looked away for even a second, he knew he would lose track of the detective in the perpetually winding streets.

Damn Sherlock and his bloody long legs, John thought bitterly as he struggled to keep up.

Just as he finished that thought, the criminal – originally a murder suspect who had turned out to be the culprit (proved by Sherlock's deductions) – veered into an alley. Sherlock followed with John bringing up the rear. However, what the murderer didn't realize was that this particular alley was a dead end (something Sherlock undoubtedly knew, thanks to his meticulous map memorization). The murderer – Tobias Sampson was his name – surveyed the area for possible escape routes, his head swiveling quickly from side to side. Seeing none, he pulled out a gun before John had the chance to pull his. Sherlock, completely nonplussed at this sudden turn of events, just rolled his eyes.

"Really? A gun? How very predictable. Boring." he said scathingly. Tobias' face just darkened and he pointed the gun directly at Sherlock. John's heart leapt in his throat and his hand started to inch to where his gun was hidden in his belt. Unfortunately, Tobias noticed.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you Dr. Watson. In fact, why don't you slide that over here, or I'll shoot your little friend." Tobias said menacingly, moving closer to Sherlock. John cursed under his breath and motioned toward his gun.

"Slowly." Tobias growled. John obeyed and slowly put his gun on the ground before kicking it over. "There now, that wasn't so hard was it? So here's what's going to happen–" Tobias started to say, but Sherlock cut him off (much to John's horror).

"No. This is what's going to happen. The police will arrive shortly, and you will spend the rest of your life in jail for the murder of your wife and her lover." Sherlock said with confidence. Tobias' face started to go red with anger.

"That slut deserved everything she got! The bitch cheated on me!" he said angrily, losing all previous signs of composure. There was a gleam in Sherlock's eye that John knew could mean nothing good.

"Yes, and why do you think that is? Could it be that for the past year, your wife has been supporting you financially because you couldn't hold down a job? Or maybe it was the drinking. No? The gambling perhaps? My, my, so many to choose from. It's really no wonder that your wife desired another man, one less… how shall I put this… utterly useless?" Sherlock said, condescension simply dripping from his voice. Both John and Tobias were in shock. Tobias recovered, his face positively murderous. John could only stand there watching the situation unfold helplessly. Then, time seemed to slow down for John as a gunshot rang out and Sherlock crumpled to the ground.

At that moment, John distantly heard sirens as police cars blocked the exit to the alley, effectively trapping Tobias. John ran to Sherlock's side and knelt down, his ears ringing and his mind screaming.

Sherlock's breathing was labored and he held a hand to his chest. John swallowed, his anxiety rising, as he took Sherlock's hand and slowly raised it, uncovering the wound. His breath caught in his throat. A scarlet stain was rapidly spreading through Sherlock's dress shirt, too rapidly. John was an army doctor, he should be used to seeing this by now, all the blood…

But this was Sherlock's blood.

He pressed both his shaking hands to the wound, trying to staunch the steady flow.

"John…" Sherlock croaked. John's eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay…" John said, his voice wavering. He repeated the last phrase like a mantra, although he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, Sherlock or himself. His eyes kept flicking back to the wound, making a mental list of all the arteries and organs the bullet could have hit. Sherlock's eyes started to flutter closed.

"No! Sherlock, you have to stay awake! Do you hear me you bastard?! Stay awake!" John cried in desperation. Sherlock forced his eyes to stay open and nodded his head incrementally, his gaze never leaving John's face.

"John… everything… hurts…" Sherlock said, wincing with every shallow breath he took. Tears pricked at John's eyes.

This couldn't be happening. Not here, not now, not like this. There was so much he wanted to do, so much he needed to say…

John wished he could take all of Sherlock's pain away. If this was the detective's final moments, he wanted him to be at peace. He wanted to take it all away; he wished Sherlock wouldn't even be aware of it, if only there was some way that–

John's eyes widened as an idea came to him. He looked at Sherlock with urgency.

"Sherlock, go to your mind palace." he said. Sherlock looked at him with confusion. John swallowed back tears.

"I know how you get when you're in it. You're so lost inside your head that everything else slips away. Maybe… the pain would… I don't know. Just… please, Sherlock."

"Not… going to… leave you." Sherlock said, his gaze determined. Sherlock lifted one of his hands and placed it on top of John's. John let the tears fall as he came to the realization that Sherlock would take the agony if it meant he could stay with John. But John wouldn't be selfish. He wouldn't.

"Oh, for once in your bloody life, would you just listen to me!" he cried. The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

"John, you know… I've never been one… to take orders…"

"You're an idiot, you know that?" John said gently, smiling through his tears.

"So I've… been told…" Sherlock replied, his eyes closing.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John cried. He pulled the man towards his chest, not caring about the blood that was staining his clothes.

"I– I love you." John said quietly in the barest of whispers.

He felt hands grab at him and start to pull him to his feet. The paramedics had arrived, but John refused to move from Sherlock's side. After a fierce struggle, the paramedics allowed John to ride in the ambulance. John sat there holding Sherlock's hand in his, never feeling so worried in his life. John prayed that this wouldn't be the end, that Sherlock would make it through this, but he'd prayed for one more miracle before…

Maybe the universe wouldn't grant him another.

John sat impatiently in the bland waiting room of the hospital. He alternated between sitting and pacing, not being able to stay still for long periods of time. They had rushed Sherlock to surgery straight away, and it had been hours since he'd last seen the detective.

It was one of the longest nights of John's life.

He sat down again and let out a long sigh as he put his face in his hands. Then he heard the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall. A man cleared his throat.

"Dr. Watson?" a voice said questioningly. John's raised his head and stood up immediately, fully alert. He surveyed the doctor standing in front of him.

"Yes, that's me. How is he?" John replied, wanting to get straight to the point.

"Mr. Holmes is responding well to the treatment. It was a little touch and go there for a while, but with the proper care we're confident he'll pull through with no long-term side effects."

John's heart swooped with joy and he let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder.

"You're both very lucky, Dr. Watson. Mere centimeters closer and the bullet would have gone through his heart."

John eyes widened and a chill ran up his spine at the thought of how close he had come to losing his best friend.

"Can I see him?" he asked.

"Yes, he's just coming out of sedation, but he should be lucid enough for visitors."

The doctor then led John to Sherlock's room. John entered quietly, not wanting to wake Sherlock if he was resting, but the detective looked like he was just waking up.

"…John?" he asked, his eyes fluttering open.

"Yeah, Sherlock, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"As well as you'd expect someone who got shot in the chest to feel."

John couldn't help but chuckle. Even after getting badly injured, Sherlock Holmes was the same man as he always was, a snarky git.

"Jesus, I'm just… I'm really happy you're okay." he said smiling.

Just then, John felt the relief in him being replaced by anger. Before Sherlock could react, John reached over and lightly smacked the detective in the back of the head, not hard enough to really hurt (he did just get shot after all) but hard enough for him to feel it. Sherlock widened his eyes in surprise, and then narrowed them.

"You know, John, for a doctor, your bedside manner leaves much to be desired." he said, frowning indignantly.

"Just what the hell were you thinking back there?! The man had a gun, Sherlock! What made you think it was a good idea to start insulting him?!" John cried, gesticulating wildly.

"I knew the police were on their way, I was buying time. As for his reaction, I may have... miscalculated." Sherlock said, looking away and waving a hand in a passive gesture.

"You… miscalculated?!"

"Yes, John, that is what I just said."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

"You can't just do things like that, Sherlock. People's reactions to things can't be as well predicted as what someone had for breakfast that morning. As brilliant as you are, you can't know everything. Just… promise me you won't do anything that stupid again? Especially when someone has a bloody gun pointed at you."

"…I promise." Sherlock said after a moment of silence. John nodded and went to pull up a chair beside Sherlock's bed, taking a seat. A comfortable silence fell between them, the room filled with the steady beeps of various machines. John didn't really want to break it, but there was something he needed to know.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you do what I asked?"

John knew he didn't need to specify what exactly he was talking about, for which he was grateful. Sherlock seemed to ponder the question for a while before answering.

"I'm a man of little fear, John, but one thing I am afraid of is dying alone. And if, in my final moments, yours was the last face I see, well… I can think of worse ways to die."

And damnit if that wasn't the most sentimental thing Sherlock Holmes had ever said in his entire life.

Before John could speak, Sherlock continued, "Also… I feel I should tell you that I… I heard what you said."

John's brows furrowed. What was he talking about? What did he say? Until it clicked. The stupid love confession.

Shit.

"Oh. Yes. Well. Last moments and all, rather trying time, didn't mean anything really." John said all in a rush. Then the most puzzling thing happened.

Disappointment flitted across Sherlock's face.

"Ah, I see." was all he said.

"Unless… I mean, unless you wanted it to mean something…?" John asked, not daring to get his hopes up too much.

"Let's just say that while I consider myself married to my work, I seem to have found a mistress." Sherlock said, smirking. John chuckled.

He looked at Sherlock, trying to figure out what he should say. This was all happening so suddenly. Yesterday, if you had told John that he would end up in a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes, he would have laughed in your face, but now? Now it was within his reach and it was terrifying in the best possible way. His mind kept trying and failing to find the right words.

Well, they say actions speak louder… John thought before getting up, seating himself on the edge of the hospital bed, leaning over and carefully brushing his lips against the detective's.

After a brief moment, they pulled away, looked at each other, and simultaneously went back in for another kiss, deeper this time.

John tried to pour all of his emotions into that kiss, the worry, the relief, the joy, the love, and Sherlock gave as good as he got.

Without thinking, John put a bit more of his weight on Sherlock, and the detective broke away with a sharp hiss of pain. John immediately shifted his weight back.

"Sorry. I guess we'll have to wait awhile before we can do anything particularly… strenuous." John said, smiling mischievously.

"Mm… I look forward to it." Sherlock replied and John couldn't help but close the distance between them once more.

Sherlock Holmes may be a bit of an idiot sometimes, John supposed, but then again…

He's my idiot.

Author's Note: Hope ya liked it! Feedback is most definitely appreciated :)