How Deep, a sherlock holmes fanfic

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

How Deep

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A/N: CHALLENGE - We've all thought of a different ending to 3GAR. Come on, admit it. We've all mentally rewritten that scene. So I was thinking, why not write down each of our versions and see how we all imagine it? It is a fascinating tool for style study, I've discovered, as well as just plain fun :)

How Deep

"Well, well!" said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat, and--"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. I suddenly felt as if a fifty kilo weight had been hurled against my chest. The world seemed to stop as my legs collapsed under me and my knees hit the hardwood floor.

There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons.

My vision began to fail and I felt myself falling again. I dreaded the impact my head would surely make with the floor, but it never came. My friend was suddenly at my side and had stopped my descent. He lowered me down slowly, my head resting on his knee. With much difficulty, I regained control of my mind enough to look up at him.

It was worth a wound. It was worth many wounds to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The firm lips were shaking, and the clear hard eyes were alight with fear. For what I imagined would be the only time, I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

"Watson--" His voice shook with an emotion I never thought to witness in him, and it occurred to me that I must be more seriously wounded than my current state of shock was allowing me to feel. At that moment, my friend reached down and I felt a sear of pain as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my chest. And when he lifted his hand it was dripping with blood.

I suddenly realized the extent of my injury. Even more so as my vision began to blur.

"Holmes…"

"No, don't—don't speak Watson."

"I…"

"Shh…" It was easy to listen to his admonition with my brain beginning to speak strange things to me, and I was barely aware of Holmes blowing his police whistle as my sight began to fade altogether. I was content to let my brain sink into oblivion, but forced my eyes open again as I heard my friend frantically calling my name.

"You cannot die Watson! Please don't die!" I desperately wanted to answer his pleading, to tell him I would be fine. But I was beginning to doubt that I would be, because I was no longer able to speak. I was also having difficulty keeping my eyes open. I concentrated all of my energy on keeping my eyes locked into his as darkness and pain threatened to take me.

But it was so hard…

Of all the dangers I had faced in the course of my career, of all the terrors I have known, none could compare to the sheer horror I felt as I saw Watson fall. And no crime scene has ever sickened me as much as seeing blood pouring from the chest of my dearest friend.

I silently prayed for the police to arrive soon, and cursed the ego that had made me come without aid in the first place.

Despite my attention on my fallen comrade, I was still aware when Evans came to himself and began to extricate himself from the scene in a manner I am certain he thought was quiet. But not quiet enough. I took up my pistol and aimed it.

"Not another move Evans! No, stay where you are!" The man froze with a look of fear that could have matched my own. "If you attempt to leave this house I will kill you!" Evans sat back on the floor in a rather undignified manner and rubbed his head where I had hit him, and I turned my attentions back to the man whose blood was now soaking my trousers.

"Watson?" I could feel my voice shake as I looked into his half-open, unfocused eyes. I sighed with relief as he slowly met my gaze. But my relief was short lived because his breathing began to grow shallow, and his gaze began to falter.

"Watson! Watson, look at me!" I knew he had heard me from the look in his eyes, but beyond that he had no reaction. "Watson!" His eyes closed for a moment and I caught my breath, but he opened them again and gave me such a singular look that for a moment my fear was forgotten as I pondered it. It was…what? He was trying to tell me something, but what?

I never had my answer, for at that moment his eyes closed definitively and his breathing ceased altogether. I believe mine did as well, for I found myself gasping for air a moment later, bringing my mind back from the state of suspended time in which it seemed to have been.

I would have refused to believe that my friend was dead, if not for the fact that his blood had begun to congeal in the wound. I staggered back in shock, eyes wide as realization finally dawned on me. He was gone.

I think I would have sat there forever if Evans had not made a sound which caused me to turn. And the state I was in, I had almost forgotten that it was he who had...

The look of indifference on his face brought it back, and my shock instantly turned to rage. I snatched up my pistol, fully intending to kill him.

But before I could pull the trigger, I heard a banging and footsteps in the hall, and moments later three constables were in the room. It took all my self control to keep from pulling the trigger even now with witnesses, but I knew that such an act would only lead to my own death on the gallows. I lowered the weapon.

I watched the constables with some annoyance as they surveyed the scene. Two of them seemed confused, but I recognized another as one who is often assigned to Lestrade. And like his superior, he had an ounce more intelligence than the average official.

This man instantly took charge of Evans, which spurred the others to join him. He then came to me and asked me what had happened. I was surprised that I could speak and heard myself giving him a summary of the events.

"I'm so sorry sir," he said with a grim look, and then went to place a call to the yard. The other men had Evans handcuffed and seated where he had fallen, and he and I spent the next twenty minutes staring at each other. And what I saw in his eyes insulted me.

He was thinking of a way to escape. I could see it in his darting glances. And he felt no remorse whatsoever; because whenever he met my eyes, his held that same look of indifference they had when he pulled the trigger that had ended my friend's life.

I vowed at that moment that I would be the one to end his life, be it with my pistol in this room or on the scaffold in Newgate Gaol.

When I had gotten the call that there had been murder committed and that Sherlock Holmes had captured the criminal, I was in no way prepared for the scene that met my eyes when I entered the home of Nathan Garrideb.

Two of my men were leaning against a cabinet speaking lowly, and Durham who had called me was standing next to who I supposed was the murderer: none other than Killer Evans.

But my heart dropped when I saw Sherlock Holmes. Or rather, it was when I saw the body next to him. And Mr. Holmes looked as dead as the doctor. Never before in my life had I seen such agony as I saw in the face of my associate.

The men I had brought with me were going to work at the scene, and my man Durham came to speak to me.

"I haven't questioned him much sir, I thought you should be the one…" he trailed off as I grimaced. He was right of course, but it was a task I was dreading. And really, was any questioning necessary? The events were quite clear to me.

I nodded at Durham and crossed over to Mr. Holmes, glancing at Evans as I passed. The hardness of his eyes made my blood run cold, and I clenched my fists at my sides.

"Mr. Holmes?" He slowly looked up at me.

"Oh. Hello Lestrade." His voice was as hollow as his eyes.

"I…" my train of thought was stopped abruptly as I looked at the doctor. The sight of his pale face and the dark blood made me feel ill, and it took all my self control not to rush from the room and become sick on the sidewalk.

"I am surprised…to find Evans alive," I finally said. Sherlock Holmes blinked. I knew he had heard the implication in my words.

"Your men were astoundingly efficient this evening," he said flatly, looking away to stare at nothing. I sighed grimly.

"Well…shall I have the men remove…um, the body?" He started at this and looked back at me.

"I…yes. But be careful!" he cried as I waved the men forward. They went about their work and I gave Mr. Holmes a hand up as he watched them with a look of pure grief.

"Lestrade, may I ask a favor?" he said, placing a shaky hand on my arm but looking me steadily in the eyes.

"Of course?"

"When Evans is hung, allow me to play the part of executioner." I slowly nodded.

"Of course," I said.

And he did.

Author's notes: For those that know me and know my unfavorable opinion of AU's, let me assure you this is the only one I shall ever write.