Two Birds with One Stone

A desperate struggle, a flailed kick to try and get the harpoon away from Sarah. He wanted to help her, wanted to save her, wanted to get her away from the six feet of pure death aiming straight at her. He had hoped to even kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, and dispense of Sherlock's attacker at the same time.

And he had killed two birds with one stone. Just not in the way he wanted to. Not like this. Never like this.

Lying on the ground, unable to even go to his friend's side, screaming out into the empty night for help, screaming at Sherlock to hold on as he stared down disbelievingly at the spear that had impaled him straight through the stomach, pinning him to his attacker. A stream of blood trickled from his lips as he fell to his knees, clawing weakly at the projectile.

"...John..." he gasped, reaching out to his friend. "help..."

Tears streamed down Sarah's face as she shook in her binds. John turned to the woman that had led them to this, who was staring at the scene before her in utter shock, unable to believe that her plan could have gone so utterly wrong.

"Please," he begged. "Let me go to him, please."

She numbly stepped forward, drawing a small dagger and cutting through the ropes that bound him to the chair. He leapt to his feet as soon as he was free, sprinting to Sherlock's side and falling to his knees beside his friend.

"Shh...shh...it's alright, Sherlock. It's alright, I'm here. I'm here." He smoothed his dark, curly hair away from his blood-drained face, continuing his litany of nothing-phrases, the comforting words that one uses make the passage to death less painful.

"It's going to be alright." It won't be alright. There's no way anyone can get to us in time. He's dying.

"John..." he shook now, the tremors making him gasp with pain as the spear jostled in his chest. John noticed absentmindedly that the other man who had been speared was moving no more. He had been lucky enough to have been hit in the chest. Died instantly. Sherlock didn't have that luxury, and John could tell that every breath emanating from the man was pure agony. "...I'm afraid."

"I know," John murmured, his heart breaking at the broken words, continuing to stroke Sherlock's hair. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"S'not your fault." Sherlock tried to reach out and touch John's face, but his arm trembled and fell to the ground with a thud. "Don't...don't blame yourself..."

His breath grew more and more shallow, gasping, frantic, trying to get enough air to his lungs. Not long now, John thought grimly, clutching Sherlock as close to him as he could with the spear and the bulk of the other man. His hands clutched at the fabric of his coat.

Sherlock was crying, he noticed weakly, crying. Scared. Dying and terrified. But at least he wasn't alone.

Inhale. Exhale. Nothing.

Sherlock Holmes hadn't been alone when he had died. But now John Watson was.