A/N: I had this quote sitting on my desktop for the longest time—"It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything"—and one day I thought of John getting shot, and the rest of the stories just followed suit. They're in chronological order and alternate between different characters. Enjoy!

"Drugs"

Sherlock lazily thumbs through the textbook, watching meaningless numbers and foreign symbols flit by. He doesn't care for calculus, even though Victor says he makes it look effortless.

Bored with the book, he lets the cover fall and glances idly about the room. It is nearly impossible to tell that another human being shares this room, because Sherlock's possessions are spread about like a blanket of mold, consuming every available surface, and Victor does nothing to impede him. In fact, he often seems to encourage it, something Sherlock finds slightly disconcerting but extremely convenient.

Most of his things are books. Stacks and stacks of books of practically every subject on desks and chairs, creeping along both beds, lined up against the walls and arranged in artful shapes. When Sherlock isn't concocting explosive chemical compounds, examining cadavers in the anatomy building, or scraping away on his Stradivarius, he reads voraciously in a now vain attempt to keep his mind active.

Pressing two fingers to his temples he groans, willing the gears in his head cranking madly away to stop. He's bored out of his skull and wishes briefly he was as simple and blunt as Victor, who never seems to suffer from the monotony like he does.

The door suddenly slams open and Sherlock nearly leaps out of his chair, so focused as he is on the ceaseless noise. It's Victor, his arms laden with thick, dusty history books—the kind Sherlock finds most tedious—his glasses sliding down his nose. Behind him trots Seb Wilkes, one of the boys they share the toilet between with, looking a bit dazed as he sees the inch-deep flooring of books.

"Headache?" Victor asks, dumping his armful of books on his bed.

Sherlock doesn't answer and mutters something vulgar about his parentage, but Victor doesn't hear. He does hear Seb's question, though. "What's wrong with him?"

Peeking between his fingers, Sherlock watches Victor shrug and sigh. "Too much going on in his head, apparently. He'll be fine soon." He picks his way across the floor, gathering handfuls of dirty laundry—mostly Sherlock's—ending up behind him and plucking his wallet out of an open desk drawer. "Teach Seb derivatives," he says, patting Sherlock's stiff shoulder. "That'll clear your head."

Dropping his arms entirely, he heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes. "Do I look like a personal tutor?"

Victor pushes up his glasses. "You're the only one on our floor who gets calculus." He heads for the door. "I'll be back soon. Play nice." Sherlock ignores him.

As soon as the door closes, Sherlock hops to his feet and reaches for a jacket. "Where are you going?" Seb asks huffily.

"Out," he replies brusquely.

"But Victor said…"

"Victor," he interrupts, "is a naïve, soft-hearted fool who will probably get robbed on the way to the cleaners."

"But he said you'd help me."

"Obviously he was wrong." He lifts his eyebrows. "Not my problem." He heads for the door.

"I'll pay you!" A note of panic.

"Still not my problem." He snags his key from the dresser.

"Not money, but… but something else." Hesitant pause. Sherlock stops, his hand on the knob. Seb seizes his chance and dashes over, holding out a plastic bag filled with sugar. Or something extremely similar in appearance to sugar.

Eyes darting toward it with indignant curiosity, Sherlock snatches it away and examines it in the light. Seb leans closer. "Ever tried it?" he asks quietly.

"Cocaine?" Sherlock snorts and tosses it back. "Not interested."

"Buddy of mine says it kept his mind occupied for hours," Seb says quickly. "Bit of a schizo. Says it silenced the voices." He nods at the bag. "I'll give you a sample."

Sherlock glances down at it. The noise hasn't stopped, only increased, so loud now it's practically deafening. He'd give his right leg to have just a moment of peace…

Victor won't like it. Barely tolerates his smoking. Sherlock realizes he doesn't care and sticks out his hand.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.

"Distracted"

John glances away for one second. One second. But that's all the time a bullet needs to fly across the parched sand, between the crumbling buildings, to embed itself deep in the muscle of his left shoulder.

He doubles over in shock and pain, watches Fletcher mouth something along the lines of What's wrong? before he's riddled with holes and lying on the ground, gasping like a beached fish. Blood pools along Fletcher's upper lip and his blue blue eyes roll up in his head.

Ignoring the blood and the body and the sheer horror of it all, John reaches for the radio strapped to his arm and screams for backup. Bill responds back but he sounds so far away and John's eyes drift back to Fletcher, bleeding out on the floor.

He knows it's no use but he drops to his knees anyway, desperately trying to staunch the blood flow. His hands come up sticky and red and he can taste the tangy copper mist on his tongue and Fletcher's head droops to John's leg, lifeless and still. And all he can think while bullets ricochet around him, while voices shout and crackle on his radio, while pain begins to thrum along his backside in searing jolts, is Please God, let me live.

Let me live.

Bill finds John sitting with Fletcher's head in his lap, gun on his arm and blood trickling down his back. Dust and sweat and blood paint John's face in jagged streaks, and he's almost delirious with joy to see Bill.

"It was just for a second," he babbles as Bill slings John's arm around his neck and lifts him to his feet. "He was showing me a picture of his girlfriend. I only looked away for a second."

: :

John lies in the hospital bed, his arm in a sling, and stares up at the darkened ceiling. He can't sleep because every time he closes his eyes he sees glassy blue ones and matted hair and all that blood dripping over everything. But his shoulder doesn't hurt. Not really. His leg does, though, where Fletcher's head rested.

He's to be discharged and sent home within the week. Honorable, of course. Injured in the line of duty, currently suffering from a minor breakdown. That's what Afghanistan will do to you, they'll say. John can't imagine a worse fate.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.

"Dating"

Naturally Molly is upset. Who wouldn't be after being told your boyfriend's gay? Especially by the man you're trying to make jealous, and said boyfriend is clearly attracted to. She's more angry than hurt because Sherlock saw through her again, like he always does. But when Jim won't answer her calls, even after she begs just to hear the truth, it starts to hurt a little.

Molly checks her email for the ninth time that night and is surprised to see an alert saying John has updated his blog. She clicks the link and is redirected to his page. She starts reading the entry, titled "The Great Game," and her heart rises in her throat and tears blur the neat print across the screen and the guilt over what she's done actually makes her grope for a bin and vomit.

Jim is Moriarty. Nice, sweet, Glee-obsessed Jim is really an evil, twisted criminal mastermind. And he tried to kill them. Jim tried to kill Sherlock. The thought makes her vomit again, sick with guilt and pain and utter relief that he didn't. Then she's crying and Toby rubs against her leg and meows anxiously when she doesn't stop and she knows she can't stop because Sherlock almost died and it would've been her fault.

: :

Sherlock breezes into her morgue with all the force of a hurricane, demanding she assist him acquire at least ten thumbs because he needs to know something-or-other, but Molly isn't listening. She stifled a gasp when she heard his voice crack like thunder in the empty room and tears well in her eyes when she sees him, alive and well and as arrogant as ever.

Molly doesn't stop to think about her actions, only knows that she has to confirm for herself that he really is there and this isn't a dream, and hurls herself at him. She wraps her arms tightly around his waist and squeezes so hard she's sure he can't breathe, but she doesn't care. He is real. Then she sobs and sobs and sobs while Sherlock stands in her embrace, dumbfounded, and lets her.

It's amazing how one small mistake could mean the end of everything.

"Falling"

Sherlock Holmes is so much more than just a relatively attractive man. Granted, the wild mop of curls, ice-blue eyes, and white marble skin certainly don't repel her, but it is more the man beneath the mop and ice and marble that intrigues her. The one who is apparently stubborn enough and arrogant enough to leave his flat in nothing but a bed sheet. How can Irene not like a man like that?

She likes him even better once she meets him. He's clever and sharp and painfully brilliant. He's not disturbed or fascinated or even curious about the naked flesh she flaunts before him. He's coldly statuesque, but she knows fire and brimstone and raw passion burn within him. She'd love to pry that passion loose and watch him explode.

But there's more to him than even that, because Irene knows passion often mimics anger and she suspects his passion also befriends melancholy. He's like poetry: complicated and layered with double meanings. Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice…

And Irene is positively captivated by this strange, lanky, earnest man. She has more questions than answers. She knows he's oddly attached to the stout, stubborn doctor who follows him everywhere, but why? Why did he pick John Watson out of the billions of human beings that populate the earth? And she knows he's an amateur detective, but why detective work when he's so utterly brilliant that he could hold any position and succeed at it? Why is he cold and aloof at all?

But, if nothing else, she loves a challenge. She gradually realizes it isn't so much about making him crumble, tremble and beg her to have her merry way with him, but to uncover the hot-blooded man lurking beneath the cool exterior. Because Sherlock Holmes is interesting in more ways than one.

He is like the mirror to her own damaged soul. And how strange it is to look upon a man and to see oneself gazing back.

So perhaps she gives in, just a little. Perhaps she allows herself to succumb to base attraction because he is so dazzling in this world of the commonplace. It doesn't matter if she never kisses those perfectly bowed lips, never watches her name drip from them smoother than honey. If they address her, if the eyes pick up on their commonality, that will be enough.

: :

Irene has never been very romantic. Romance is for desperate, depressed women or dewy-eyed girls, neither of which knows that the world is cold and apathetic and cares very little about your aspirations of "true love" and rugged princes sweeping you off your feet.

But the firelight and Coventry and Sherlock's long fingers flicking gently against the violin strings have an eerie effect on her. Apparently a trace of romanticism lingers in her heart because she suddenly wants to touch his skin and hold his hand and do rather naughty things with her tongue. They don't quite make it that far, but she can feel his heartbeat thump against her fingertips, firm and strong.

From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.

Hang Jim Moriarty's plans, at least for the moment. She's starving, practically quivering with hunger, and she would like nothing more than to have dinner with Sherlock.

: :

But if it had to perish twice…

The dominatrix brought to heel by a gangly, obnoxious virgin. Irene grimly acknowledges the irony as Sherlock smirks at her briefly before raising her mobile so she can see the entered password, although she already knows what she'll see. She did program it, after all.

It hurts to be beaten, especially at her own game. She wants to cry out that he cheated, but she can't quite force the anger past the lump suddenly lodged in her throat. Besides, she doesn't want to look like a hypocrite.

Sherlock is oddly stoic after his victory. She's watched him succeed before, understands the thrill of euphoria that floods one's veins after proving one is the smartest person in the room, knows the blue eyes will spark and the lips curl into a knowing smirk. But not this time. Instead, Sherlock strides calmly away, not sparing her a glance as tears spike her long black lashes.

"Do you want me to beg?" she croaks, indignant despite her defeat.

The answer comes too quickly. "Yes."

She doesn't like this, any of it. Usually it is she asking that question, she who is in control. And he won't even look at her.

"You're right," she whispers, the tears slipping free and falling. Sherlock turns toward her then, his face solemn except for the slightly raised brows. She sucks in a breath. "I won't even last six months."

There is shine, but no spark. They stare dully at each other, and Irene suspects he feels as defeated as she does. Strange, how she can look at this man and see her own reflection staring blankly back.

His lips move, his voice even and low. "Sorry about dinner." And he leaves. And Irene knows she'll be dead in a month.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.

"Information"

Mycroft never should have let James Moriarty manipulate him into giving information about Sherlock. It wasn't even important information, just bits and pieces of their intertwined lives to keep him salivating but never satisfied. Sherlock read Treasure Island when he was five and decided he wanted to be a pirate. Sherlock taught himself to play the violin when he was eight. Sherlock didn't know a single constellation because Mycroft taught them to him. Sherlock went to university to be a chemist and left with no degree and a made-up career.

Still, it was enough.

John's back is taut, his jaw set, and his eyes fiery when he confronts him at the Diogenes Club. He blames him, which is no good because Mycroft already blames himself. At the time he hadn't thought anything of it, but Moriarty always seems two steps ahead of him and three ahead of Sherlock, and he should have considered the possibility that his little brother, unmercifully stalked by a raging psychopath, might not live to see tomorrow.

Mycroft remembers the first moment he held that tiny, fragile, dark-haired baby in his arms, how he solemnly promised his mother he would be a good brother and take care of Sherlock. But he was not there at that crucial moment to catch Sherlock when he fell. He knows this when he opens The Sun and reads the irritatingly inaccurate article about him, and his heart pangs because he knows he failed.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.

"Doubt"

No one blamed Lestrade for thinking it. In fact, they were all probably cheering him on from behind their cubicle walls and cupped hands and open newspapers. To think Sherlock was a fraud…

Lestrade knows he should be more loyal. He shouldn't doubt Sherlock. He's never had cause to doubt him before; why should this be any different?

So the little girl screamed. So Sherlock made an escape, pointing a gun at John's head as he took him "hostage." Sally was just speculating; all that resentment isn't good for her, so sometimes she rants and rants and rants.

Right?

And Lestrade doesn't doubt Sherlock, not really. It's ridiculous to think Sherlock has been faking his own triumphs for six years, especially when he was a strung-out junkie who couldn't see straight, because that's too much involvement, too much information, too much time and money he knows for a fact Sherlock does not have. But, the idea… Was it even possible? Would he even do it?

Now he knows for certain Sherlock's not a fake. The evidence in The Sun is flimsy at best. Lestrade has never heard of Rich Brook. His kids watch everything so he knows children's shows, but they have never heard of "The Storyteller." And liars don't admit to lying. They go on lying, right to the end, because that's what they do. And John said Sherlock lied and no one knows Sherlock better than John Watson.

Maybe he just doesn't want to be taken in. Maybe he doesn't want to believe that he really wasn't smart enough to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he doesn't want to believe there is no hero, never was a hero, just a cunning little egoist crouching behind the curtains.

But none of that really matters, does it? Because, just for a second, Lestrade was what Sherlock always said he was: an idiot. And he believed. And now there's overturned soil and rain and flowers and a slim onyx tombstone engraved with Sherlock's name tucked beneath a tree.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.

"Human"

This isn't right. Not… not at all. Moriarty is laughing at him. Laughing. At him.

Moriarty asks if he started to wonder.

Perhaps, for a moment…

Moriarty asks if he figured out the code.

Well, of course he did, he's not stupid…

And Moriarty laughs—high, bitter, maniacal—and screams that yes, he is. Because there is no code, there never was a code, and he's disappointed that Sherlock fell for his little ploy.

Moriarty mockingly explains that Sherlock wants everything to be clever, just like he is, but people are ordinary and not so clever at all. And, it turns out, Sherlock is one of them.

Sherlock recalls telling John, after they met, that the frailty of genius lies in the fact it craves recognition. Sometimes this desperation results in mistakes.

Moriarty accuses him of being ordinary. Sherlock is certainly feeling less than stellar at the moment, yes, but ordinary? That cavity where John tells him his heart is aches suddenly. Everything he is, ever was and could be, everything he's built his life on, seems to crumble into sand as Moriarty laughs and laughs.

But Sherlock is not like Moriarty. Perhaps then he would've foreseen Moriarty shoving a gun in his mouth and shooting himself in the head. But he doesn't, and suddenly Moriarty's hand is jerked out of his and he's flopping to the ground, that ugly sneer stuck on his face, as warm, sticky blood pools around his head.

: :

Sherlock steps up to the ledge, trying not to wobble even though his legs are threatening to give out prematurely. He's not afraid, per se. A little tremulous, maybe. Resigned to his fate.

John's devotion is quite touching. Perhaps he is ordinary, because he feels tears blotting down his cheeks realizing that John's faith is truly unshakeable. It doesn't matter how much he lies, or how convincingly, because John still believes in him. And that matters because that means John cares about him and he knows now, for certain, that he cares about John. And he always has. And if he must take a swan dive off the top of St. Bart's hospital—ironic, that—in order to protect him, then so be it.

Sherlock drops the phone and spreads his arms.

He leans forward.

He falls.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.

"Left"

John knew Sherlock was an arse but this is really too much. He chucked that American CIA agent out the window like he was yesterday's trash for God's sake, restoring balance to the universe and whatever. How could he just… abandon Mrs. H like that? When she was shot and hurt and probably dying and… and because he needed to think?

"Alone protects me," Sherlock replies, bouncing a rubber ball.

God, an arse and an idiot. "No, friends protect people," he snaps. And he knows he's right and Sherlock is wrong, so he stomps out the door and runs to flag down a cab. He has no idea what he'll tell Mrs. Hudson when he walks in alone.

: :

Mrs. Hudson greets him herself when he storms into the flat— she's standing at the base of the stairs while a workman fiddles with a light above. She's perfectly all right; not a scratch on her, not a hair out of place. She asks if he and Sherlock have cleared up the whole arresting business, because it sure gave her a fright last night and she'd like to see them come home.

Jesus Christ, it was a trick.

John races out the door without saying a word, forces his way into another bloke's cab—never thought he'd actually pull Lestrade's warrant card—and demands to be taken to Bart's.

Please, God, let Sherlock not have done anything stupid…

: :

Sherlock teeters on the ledge of the rooftop, calmly asking John to step back, to stay where he is, to listen quietly. As a doctor, John knows exactly how fragile human bones and muscle are, how they'll shatter into splinters and unravel like thread when faced with a dizzyingly powerful impact. How the skull will crack and blood will leak onto the pavement and pulse out with each weakening heartbeat if he falls.

He's scared. More scared than he ever was in Afghanistan, more scared than when they held guns to his head or strapped him to a bomb or laser sights glittered on his chest. More scared than he's ever been in his entire life, because this isn't his life at stake; it's Sherlock's.

He's bloody terrified.

John can hear Sherlock's voice break over the line, and his heart breaks with it. He wants to ask him why he's doing this, because this is so wrong and it hurts too much, and why can't he just shut up?

John remembers watching Sherlock's terror-stricken face stare into the fire, his hands twitching, mumbling that he's fine. His words flash through his mind: When you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Sherlock calls himself a fake, and John knows that's not true. It has to be a lie. Has to be. Because liars don't admit to lying. And Sherlock would never lie about this.

John remembers Sherlock telling him that geniuses need an audience or they'll go mad.

Sherlock wouldn't do this...

"Goodbye, John."

Would he?

"No. Don't." This must be a nightmare. The moment feels so surreal. The breath is gone from his lungs and he can't move, can't speak, can't breathe. Sherlock drops the phone. He leans over the edge.

And John's world stops.

: :

John stands in the cemetery, alone in front of the black stone with the shining white letters spelling out his best friend's name. How lifeless they look, carved into the black sheen. How tremendously they fail to convey everything Sherlock Holmes was: brooding, brilliant, rude and vibrant and completely insane, the only man he's ever trusted, his best friend in the whole wide world. Yet this simple tombstone, this mound of fresh earth, and these handfuls of wilting flowers are all that are left.

He starts to leave. He doesn't want to be here…

But something within him breaks suddenly and he stops, gazing back.

He's sure Sherlock had a reason for jumping. A very, very good reason. He is—was, he reminds himself forcefully—far too vain to off himself. Sherlock would say the method was elegant. John would call him an idiot. It hurts all the same.

He reaches out, letting his fingertips graze the cool stone. All the things he wanted to say, should've said but didn't, or couldn't, or wouldn't… and it's too late now.

A sob wells in his throat, choking him until he slowly exhales and closes his eyes for a moment. He wants to say something, some of the words he never got the chance to. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

John has never been very religious, but now he asks for a miracle because he doesn't know what else to do, and because Sherlock lived to prove people wrong.

"Don't be… dead," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Would you do that, just for me?" His eyes brim with tears, and he covers his face. And John lets himself cry for the first time since that awful day.

After a minute, he straightens his back like the soldier he is and opens his eyes. Turning crisply on his heel he strides away, clinging to his dignity like a child to his bear. He must be strong. Can't have Mrs. Hudson fretting any more than she already is.

: :

John sits and stares at an empty chair, mug of cold tea in hand, cane just an arm's length away, thinking.

Lestrade once told him that Sherlock was a great man. And one day, if we're very very lucky…

Sherlock once scolded him for believing in heroes. Heroes don't exist, John…

And now John will never know which one was right.

It's amazing how one small mistake can mean the end of everything.