Johnlock one-shot. I met and got a kiss from Benedict, and now I leave you with this 'punch me in the heart' fic. You will cry, and there is no turning back now.

Warning: Major Character Death.

"Catch. You. Later."

"No, you won't!"

Sherlock held his gaze onto Moriarty until the devious snake in the grass left the room. He flicked his eyes to the bomb strapped to John's chest. In an act of impulsiveness, Sherlock rushed towards John, dropping the gun and kneeling to unstrap the bomb. "Are you alright?" he asked him, panic stricken in his voice as he undid the bomb. John gave no response. "Are you alright?" He asked again, this time sterner. "Yeah, Sher-" The bomb, along with the heavy jacket, were thrown to the side. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock grabbed the gun, leaving John for a brief moment to see if Moriarty was still present. John attempted to walk toward him, but his knees buckled beneath him and he fell against the wall. "Oh, Christ," he muttered, weakly. John drew in a few breaths, hoping that his wave of panic would dissipate. The door opened again and thankfully, it was Sherlock that came back and not that wretched Moriarty. John looked up at him to see that he was pacing back and forth uneasily. "Sherlock? Are you ok?" He asked as he saw Sherlock scratch the back of his neck and head with the tip of the gun (not smart on his end). But John just smiled knowing that he and Sherlock would be ok.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Fine. That, ah-" He started with a stammer. He swallowed the lump in his throat, hard. "That thing you did. That you, um, you offered to do. That was, um…" He looked at John for a split second. "Good." "Well, I'm glad no one saw that," John said as he never broke his sights on Sherlock, but the detective did stop to look at his shaken friend, the gun still secured tightly in his right hand. "Hm?" he questioned curiously at John's statement, his eyebrows rose with genuine intrigue. "You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." Sherlock cocked his head slightly, trying to make light of the situation that just occurred. "People do little else," he joked lightly. And John chuckled. He got him to smile and chuckle. Good. That was good.

It was time to get the hell out of there.

But as John tried to stand up, the red dots returned to their chests.

"Sorry, boys!" Moriarty announced as he walked back into the room. He gave a soft, but dark and maniacal cackle. "I'm sooooo changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." He gave another cackle, almost like he was the goddamn Joker facing against Batman and Robin. Sherlock had his back to Moriarty and he locked eyes with John, two shades of blue understood the silent message that they said. John gave him a curt nod.

"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty pressed on with a shake of his head. "You just can't. I would try to convince you. Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." This man was a lunatic, worse than Sherlock. He clenched the gun tightly in his hand. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock slowly spun on his heel, the gun pointed at Moriarty. And then he lowered it to the bomb-cladded jacket, ready to kill himself and John all for the sake of stopping Moriarty. John's breathing quickened with new found anxiety, but Sherlock was as stoic as ever, even with death staring himself in the face. John's eyes roamed all over Sherlock, drinking in his form, knowing that he could be the last person he saw alive.

John glanced at Moriarty, who gave a sharp nod with his eyebrows drawn up. "We know you won't do that, Sherlock." John saw only one sniper's dot on Sherlock's back as opposed to the three of four that were there before Moriarty gave that signaling nod. "Oh, no," he muttered to himself. Moriarty was going to kill Sherlock. No. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't going to let Sherlock die. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes. It's been fun, but you have to die, now."

John leapt forward and the shot rang out.

Sherlock's head connected painfully to the tiled floor, the gun went flying into the pool. His vision was blurry, nearly completely black. His vision began to clear after a moment. He shifted his weight and felt a blast of excruciating and searing pain erupt in his left shoulder and collar bone. Sherlock let out a hiss of pain as he pressed his hand to his shoulder. He felt the blood, his blood, spread on his back and seep between his fingers. He turned his head and saw Moriarty's shocked expression, his mouth agape and eyebrows drawn up. "Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that." Sherlock tried to sit up again, but felt arms around his waist restraining him.

He turned on his side slowly, hearing choke groans as he did. His eyes went wide and he gasped lightly. "Oh, John, no," he barely whispered. As gently as he could, Sherlock used his good arm to lay John on his back and was horrified to discover a bloody flower blooming on his left side, near his heart. Sherlock, seeing as how he had to keep his left arm clutched to his chest, pressed his right hand to John's wound, and he let out a grunt of pain. Sherlock looked at Moriarty over his shoulder. Tears stung his eyes, but he tried not to let them fall. "What have you done!?" he yelled, angrily. But Moriarty just smirked. "I told you, didn't I? I was going to burn the heart out of you. I just didn't expect the heart to burn itself." Sherlock looked back down into John's pain-stricken and glazed over eyes, whispering comforting words to him. "Well, seeing as how I did what I came to do, I'd best be off. Hope your shoulder heals, Sherlock. I want to play again sometime."

Sherlock heard a snap of the man's fingers and a click of the door. He knew Moriarty was gone for good this time. For a brief moment, Sherlock took his hand away from John's body, pulled out his mobile and dialed Lestrade's number. "Lestrade, I need you to get an ambulance to the Bristol South Swimming Pool in Bristol. John and I have been shot. Hurry!" He hung up and all but tossed his mobile away from him. He placed his hand on John's bleeding side and ignored his own flesh that the bullet tore through. "Thought… I would… b-be able to… to get you… outta the way. Sorry," John stammered before swallowing thickly. Sherlock involuntarily grimaced as his shoulder continued to bleed. "It was a sniper's bullet, John. We were both bound to get hit." Sherlock began to breathe heavily; the blood leaving his body was starting to take its physical toll on him. "But thanks."

John gave him a weak smile. "Sherlock," he croaked, softly. "I think we both know… that… you're the… the only one… getting out of this." Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, and shook his head. He knew it would be true. His brain, no matter how fuzzy it was from blood-loss, still worked like a damn computer. He knew it was true, but was going to deny it until the end. "John, you can't say things like that. You sound like a fool when you do." John began to cough hard, which caused Sherlock to open his eyes. His tired eyes were glistening with tears and some even fell down his cheeks. "John?" He asked frantically. After a second, he settled down. "It's getting harder…to see you." John grasped Sherlock's good arm. His time was running out, and a tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

"You need… to listen… to what I have to say…" He swallowed hard again. His eyes were growing heavier; his vision became darker with each passing second. "John, please," Sherlock pleaded with a broken voice. "No. Just listen." Sherlock bit his trembling bottom lip and nodded. These were to be John's final words and he was going to listen. "I hated my life…when I came back. But I met you…and everything changed. I was… happy again. I was… used to… excitement… and y-you… brought it back. You may not… h-have known it… but you saved my life." More tears fell from Sherlock's eyes and down his face. "You saved mine." John gave Sherlock's arm a small squeeze, but he could barely feel it. Whether it was the gradual weakening strength of John or Sherlock's loss of feeling from the blood leaving his system, the consulting detective did not know.

"You are my best friend, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled at his friend as more tears fell from his eyes. "And you are mine, John Hamish Watson. I could not have asked for a better best friend." John drew in a breath, which left him as quickly as he obtained it. His eyes closed, a faint smile was left on his face. Sherlock's eyes shot wide with horror. "John?" He placed his hand onto John's left cheek, leaving a bloody handprint on him. He shook him lightly, hoping to wake him, make him move anything. But the army doctor did not stir. He was deathly still. "John," Sherlock spoke, louder, more broken. John still did not move. He caressed his friend's cheek.

"John! Please!" he begged, desperately. But he knew.

John Watson was dead.

Sherlock's breathing quickened with anger, hate, guilt, and sadness all at once. It was his fault that John now lay dead in his arms. John. His best friend, his only friend was gone. And it was his fault. He dragged him into playing Moriarty's game because he was bored. And John paid for it with his life. Sherlock gazed at John as long as he could. His body was going numb from shock and blood-loss. His vision was turning dark and splotchy. He knew that the sniper's bullet had shattered his shoulder and collar bone upon entering and exiting his body through John and would either pass out or bleed out.

His breathing now became labored as his eyes grew heavier. Sherlock's own body started to betray him; he was drifting between being conscious and unconscious. He had to stay awake, had to stay with John. Sherlock slumped over ungracefully on his left side. He howled painfully and finally rolled onto his back. He extended his left hand as best he could to grasp John's hand, just holding on to him. "John…" he gasped out. His hearing started to go, but he could make out the scuffling of feet against the floor and the creak of the door. But he stayed awake long enough to hear Lestrade scream his name and order the medics to help him.

And even when the darkness claimed him, Sherlock never let go of John.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sherlock's body jolted him awake to the sound of the heart monitor next to him and his eyes snapped open. He squinted at the brightness of the room. He realized he was in a hospital room, presumably in his own room in A&E. He gripped the rail on the right side of the bed and attempted to pull himself up. "No, Sherlock, don't strain yourself." He looked up and saw Molly, who now had sat on the bed next to him. "The bullet damaged you pretty bad." Sherlock's eyes trailed to his injured arm, which had been put into a sling. "You've been asleep for 6 hours since your surgery." He tried to get up, but Molly kept him on the bed. "Sherlock…"

"John," he croaked, weakly. "I have to get to John. He needs me."

Tears stung Molly's eyes. "No, Sherlock," she spoke softly and sadly. "Molly, please! Let me go! I have to get to John! He's scared and he needs me!" He continued to try and fight against her, but along with Molly, his own body fought against him. The drugs in his system were making him dizzy and drowsy. "Sherlock!" Molly cupped his face in her hands. His eyes glistened with tears. Gently, she started to smooth back his hair. "John," she started with a break in her voice. "John didn't make it. He died in your arms at the pool. There was nothing that could be done. I'm so sorry." Sherlock's face scrunched up and he hung his head, allowing himself to cry in front of Molly. He leaned into her embrace as she felt his tears seep into her shirt. She pressed as soft kiss into his hair as she cautiously wrapped her arms around him and listened to him cry.

The reality settled in for Sherlock: John was gone and he wasn't coming back.

Sherlock was released from the hospital the next afternoon, and John's funeral was two days later. It was an open casket. He looked peaceful, it almost gave the illusion that he was sleeping. There had been a billboard that had a collection of pictures of John throughout his life. Some pictures of him as a kid, graduating from Bart's and some of his army photos. He looked happy in most of them. Sherlock entered the room in the funeral hall with Mrs. Hudson. All eyes were specifically trained onto him. But none of the people looked at him with hate. They looked at him with pity and sadness. They all knew that Sherlock tried to keep John alive, but given that he was also injured, they understood he was limited to what he could do.

Harry gave a speech about her brother: how much she was proud of him, how he offered as much support he could her drinking and how when he moved in with Sherlock, John became happier. And then it came time for the detective to say a few words about the man that lie in a casket because of him. He stood at the podium. "Um," he started, softly. "John was a brave man. He saved my life, and if I could switch places with him, I would. He will always be one of the greatest people I knew. He was my best friend, and like everyone here, I will miss him, too." Sherlock left the podium, almost left the room, but knew he had to stay. The minister gave a few words of prayer as the service came to a close.

And that meant it was time to bury John.

They all went to the cemetery, listened as the minster said a few words of prayer as the casket was lowered into the ground. Sherlock watched as the dirt was now being pushed onto the casket, enveloping his friend forever. People had left, seeing as how they said their good-byes. Mrs. Hudson had left Sherlock at his request. He wanted to be the last. She was a bit reluctant to leave him because he was still injured, but he reassured her that he would return to the flat when he was done. "Sherlock?" He looked over his shoulder, slowly turning to see Harry walking toward him with a box in her hands. She held up the box and opened it. Inside was the Purple Heart medal engraved with John's name. "Harry, I-" "He'd want you to have it. So, please take it." Sherlock took the medal delicately into his hand as Harry hugged him (carefully as to avoid aggravating his sling encased arm), and kissed his cheek.

Sherlock was left to stand at John's grave alone.

He placed the medal in his coat pocket. Already, he could feel the tears prick his eyes. He hung his head. "I'm not done," he said, softly. "I'm not done saying good-bye. Because these words are for you and you alone. I hated my life, too, before you entered into it. Everyone hated me or couldn't stand me. And you were the only one who called me brilliant, even if you couldn't stand me yourself sometimes." A few tears started to fall, but he wasn't going to stop them. "John, you were the brilliant one, and the greatest, bravest man I ever knew. No one will convince me otherwise."

Sherlock knelt in front of the tombstone; his eyes released all the tears that managed to fall. He sniffled, lightly. "It is my fault you died, John. I wish I were in that casket instead of you. You had done nothing wrong. You didn't deserve to die. I am so sorry, John. I know it is impossible to hear me, but just know that I am so sorry." Sherlock raised his hand to the tombstone and traced over John's name with his thumb. "I tried so hard to be better, and that only happened because of you. You saved my life in more ways than one. But what am I to do now that my best friend is gone?" Sherlock stood up and wiped his eyes as he stepped away from the grave, away from John. He began to walk away, but looked at John's final resting place for the last time. "I told you I would be lost without my blogger." Sherlock pulled out the medal from his pocket and looked at it while gently rubbing his thumb over John's name as a single tear fell onto it.

"And so I am."

John Hamish Watson

1972-2010

Beloved Son, Brother, Friend

Honored Soldier, Fallen Hero

He did not want you to go

Please review, follow, favorite, which ever pleases you. If I made you cry, it was my accomplished goal.

~Fortune (AKA Moffat)