A/N: Hello, people!

I don't own Sherlock.

I have no beta.

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John stared at the grave in sadness. Sherlock was really gone. He'd hit the ground. He'd bled all over. John felt no pulse.

He'd already cried, away from the pitying eyes of the public.

Why did Sherlock have to do it? What could possibly make him want to kill himself? He never cared what people thought about him before, so the public's lack of positive interest in him should not have mattered. So what had happened?

If Sherlock was somehow emotional, he would have turned to drugs again. Mycroft had told John that it was a recurring thing in Sherlock's life. That was why the man had 'worried' constantly over the state of his little brother.

Was he being threatened? If so, Sherlock could outsmart anyone. So there had to be another reason.

He stood there, pondering over it all, when he noticed it. There was a red dot on his chest. He'd recognized it and knew that a sniper was near and was trained on him. He didn't look up though, he stayed right where he was, intent on using Sherlock's tombstone as a cover for when he did move.

There was only one sniper. The dot was of a considerable size, meaning they weren't more than two hundred meters away. They were either on the edge of the forest, or in the yard with him. Directly in front of him. All he had to do, was calculate the distance between them and find out how many bullets the rifle currently locked on him, held. Two or three.

He dove forward, shielding himself behind the large stone, noticing the explosions of dirt a few feet away from where he had been standing. The bullet was fast as it entered the ground and it came from an angle, but not by much.

Depending on how far in it got, would explain how fast the bullet traveled in feet per second.

The small explosion caused by the sudden attack, left a small trench that was dug out by the bullet as it had continued on it's path. From his position, he'd gather that it was maybe six inches deep. The trench was about ten feet long though, so there was a lot of power behind the shot. The assailant was closer than previously assumed. A bullet shot over a longer distance wouldn't have such a lasting effect on its target. The trench would have been smaller.

There was another shot, making two. John pulled off his glove and tossed it to the side while shifting onto his haunches, ready to bolt. It could take between five to ten seconds to reload a sniper's rifle. He could run 80 meters in ten seconds. A little over two hundred and sixty feet, which put him a third of the way closer to the enemy if he ran in that direction. If they weren't that good at reloading. Mostly, he probably had five seconds.

When that last shot sounded, John was up and around that stone, running a clear line down the center aisle.

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

He ducked behind a large monument, in time to miss being hit by a new bullet. So this person was a specially trained sniper. Okay then. Army man. But why was he attacking John? The only person to ever pull the sniper on John, was Moriarty and his crew of little misfits.

Unless... they were on orders to do away with him.

But what for?

Why did Moriarty use John against Sherlock before?

Because Sherlock cared for John in his own way. Proven by how he lost it at the sight of the semtex vest. How he insisted that John was his only friend. How he tried to warn John about possible girlfriends before making a mistake. How they smiled and giggled together after a good case. John may as well have been a flashing neon sign saying 'I am Sherlock's heart'.

So if Moriarty used John against him before...what would stop him from doing so again? It would make sense as to why there was a sniper after John currently.

Another bullet.

One.

But why would the sniper want to attack John now? Sherlock was gone. Dead. He wasn't going to just suddenly come back, so what was the point?

It wasn't like he'd just pop up all of a sudden, seeing that John was in such danger.

That made him freeze. He had a sniper on his tail, trying to off him. Possibly because of his relationship with Sherlock, who was dead, meaning John shouldn't be on the list anymore. Unless…..

Unless Sherlock wasn't dead and the sniper knew it.

But if Sherlock wasn't dead, then why hide?

How could he not be though? He fell. John saw it. Well...most of it. That biker had gotten in the way, making him fall over.

He'd seen the body on the ground tough, before collapsing in pain from his hip.

But then, wouldn't a body making an impact on the ground, make a noise? There had been no screaming except his own. He should have heard it, but he didn't.

Another shot.

Number two.

And the people kept moving him away from Sherlock. They wouldn't let him touch his friend. He barely felt the pulse point before being pulled away. He'd been so sure.

But then again, Sherlock had connections and then he had Mycroft. And Sherlock was an actor if there ever was one. Could he have managed to fake it? Was that possible?

For Sherlock Holmes, yes it was.

Third shot fired and John shot off like a bullet - pardon the pun - making his way closer. He wasn't pulling out the Browning until he was without visible distance of his enemy. His bullets were in low supply.

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

He rolled behind another large stone, sighing in relief as he was missed, yet again.

Another bullet, pretty close to his right heel. The enemy was moving forward, but to their right, in order to get a clear shot of John.

He moved over, behind the large monolith that served as a memorial for whomever he was standing on. He inched around, looking over and seeing a row of level tombstones for him to use as a shield as he crawled to the large monolith on the other side.

He did so, safely passing them by without issue. Once he was behind the new stone, he waited, taking his left shoe off and slipping it past the edge of the safety zone he had.

Another bullet sounded. The third. It hit the shoe.

He darted out from behind the shield, running as fast as he could to get closer to his enemy. He was within range now. A man, former army personnel, now working as a hitman. For Moriarty. Maybe the man really was gay after all.

He whipped out his Browning and on the third second of his five second reprieve dash, he managed to shoot his enemy in the right shoulder, causing him to drop his rifle. John proceeded with the other shoulder, just to be sure. Harder to lift a heavy weapon that way.

Fifty feet.

Forty feet.

Thirty feet.

He shot a kneecap just to be extra sure.

Ten feet.

He kicked the rifle away and stared down at the bleeding man. About his age, maybe a little older. Blonde, army cut. Obviously a higher ranked official if he learned to be a sniper. Higher than a Major-General, definitely.

The blond man glared at him.

"You aren't going to kill me? I didn't think you were cruel, Captain."

"Just as you referred to my rank, you do realize that I was a soldier and sometimes mercy is not deserved. Besides, I know someone who will make you squeal."

Keeping his gun pointed clearly at teh man's other knee, he dialed Mycroft's number.

"John?" he answered on the first ring.

"When was anyone going to tell me that Sherlock isn't dead?"

"John, I know his passing is difficult, but he isn't alive anymore."

"Don't pull that tone with me, Mycroft Holmes! The funeral ended ten minutes ago and I stayed behind. Not even…...a minute ago - wow, only a minute - anyway, I was targeted by a sniper and just spent the last minute running and fighting for my life. And in that minute, I managed to reason out that Sherlock faked his death for my well being for some undiscovered reason as well as fell my attacker, who obviously knows who I am as he called me 'Captain'. What is going on?"

There was silence on the line for the space of a half a minute.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

"Thank you."

John slipped the phone into his pocket, still finding it hard to believe that everything that had just transpired only took up a minute of his time. Wow.

True to his word, Mycroft and several people with armor and weapons appeared and the men and women took his attacker away. Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella. "I've given an order and your landlady is already on her way to my home. Detective Inspector Lestrade is already there. You are coming with me as well."

"Why? What's going on, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed, "You were correct in your statement. My little brother lied to protect you as well as Gregory and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty had snipers trained on you three at the time and when he killed himself, they were given an order to shoot unless Sherlock jumped. Only Moriarty could make them stop and with him dead, they had to follow through with orders unless Sherlock jumped. He orchestrated it all with his 'homeless network'. He had some sort of plan in mind, but with this new development, I don't think it'll work so well. Now come, John."

John quietly followed the man even as he blinked in shock from taking it all in. Sherlock had done it for him. And Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He cared about them enough to kill himself. It was so sweet and so Sherlockian, he nearly cooed.

The ride to Mycroft's was uneventful, him being left to his own thoughts.

When he entered the grandiose mansions, he was attacked upon entry by none other than a blast from the very recent past. His arms were full of a jabbering Sherlock.

"John! I was at the funeral! I saw you! I saw the sniper, but I couldn't say anything without giving myself away. I had no weapon to assist with. I didn't see the ending, but you're alive so that means you were the victor, correct?!"

John breathed deeply as the last two days of horrid emotion came upon him all at once. Sherlock died, but then he wasn't actually dead. Sherlock was buried, but it wasn't actually him. And then he learns Sherlock did it for him. And now here he is, alive and well and worried for John's well being.

"I'm a soldier, Sherlock. I know about weaponry and trajectory. I calculated the distance and the amount of bullets used and then used my speed to get me across the expanse when he reloaded his weapon. The only casualties were my shoe and glove, that I used to flush out the last bullets, giving me time to attack finally. Once the man's leg and shoulders were disabled, I called Mycroft and your brother has him in custody now. I managed to piece it all together in a minute and when I asked why I wasn't told that you were alive, he tried an excuse, but I'm not that stupid. Former military, it's obvious in his accuracy, haircut and the tone he used when speaking to me. Higher than a Major, but I can't be too sure. About my age, maybe a little older."

Sherlock was grinning at him. "It's so fascinating when you enter 'soldier mode', John. Do you know why I lied?"

John smiled, wrapping his arms around his best friend. "Yes. Thank you, Sher."

"I just wanted you safe," the man whispered into his ear.

"I know. I forgive the lie. You were very sweet."

Sherlock was still grinning even as they pulled apart and John's heart fluttered.

"John, may I try something?"

"Sure."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him and John realized something in that moment. Sherlock was not as 'married to his work' as he seemed and John was not 'not gay'. Because the kiss felt right and he never went against his feelings.

They grinned in a cheesy fashion when they pulled apart a little.

Sherlock's eyes went wide, "Want to help me hunt down Moriarty's web?"

"Oh God, yes!"

A/N: Done!

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