The Only Thing Worth Fighting For

Chapter 1

"I need backup!" Sherlock screamed into his mobile as he ran down the narrow street to the building in which the Watson family now resided. "Mycroft, please!"

"ETA 3 minutes," Mycroft promised. "Sherlock, stay out of there. We don't know what's going on in the house."

"I can't... can't lose him... not John," Sherlock shouted, uncaring at his unusual level of sentiment towards his blogger.

"I understand," Mycroft insisted calmly, "but Sherlock, please be careful."

Sherlock hung up and picked up the pace, his expensive Italian leather shoes slapping against the cement pavement as his chest burnt from exertion. His whole brain was wailing, sirens exploding around his mind palace as one thought echoed again and again down each passageway.

Must save Watson

John lifted his gun and pointed it at the gun wielding attacker; he didn't hesitate to fire and landed a perfectly centred forehead shot, causing the man to fall backwards in a dead weight. John spun and threw himself against the back of the sofa and reloaded the pistol, he had three bullets left and would have to make them count.

Standing as quietly as he could he began walking to the doorway to the kitchen, as he could hear the commotion of his pregnant wife fighting against her attackers. John's heart momentarily stopped as he ran through the door and tackled the second attacker who was standing by the glass patio doors. With a scream, John threw himself and the criminal through the glass pane, grabbing the man tightly and hitting him as hard as he possibly could with the butt of the gun. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as the man ducked away from the pistol and turned on John, hitting his gun hand against the brickwork of the house and forcing him to drop his weapon. John cried out at the sound of bones breaking and a sharp pain rushing through his shoulder; using his hand to hand training he had learnt both in the army and living with Sherlock, he quickly gained the upper hand in the fist fight and pinned the man to the ground. Using a shard of glass from the door he stabbed the attacker in the throat with his good hand, snarling angrily as crimson coated his hands and the floor around them.

John heard the sound of running feet; standing himself to full height he braced himself for impact. His eyes widened as Sherlock turned the corner, his long coat trailing behind him like wings as he thudded into John's broken arm, causing the doctor to cry out.

"Mary?" Sherlock asked.

"Kitchen," John nodded, his body turning to find his wife, the pregnant woman carrying his child and the reason that he had killed two men tonight.

Both men flinched at the sound of a gunshot and then a roar of flame.

"Target is down, I repeat, target is down." Mycroft's voice came over the static as John followed Sherlock in a daze. The detective was holding a heavily pregnant Mary in his arms and quickly put her to the ground, allowing John to crowd around her to provide medical attention.

"Mary? Mary, open your eyes," John ordered, Captain Watson very much in control.

"J-John," Mary mumbled, her eyes fluttering open and a weak cough causing blood to seep from her lips onto her fleece pyjamas.

"It's alright, it's going to be alright," John insisted, his hand pressing on the gunshot wound at Mary's chest. Neither he nor Sherlock would ever mention the irony of the location of her gunshot wound.

"The baby," Mary muttered weakly, her eyelashes fluttering.

"She's going to be fine," John nodded, grabbing Sherlock's hand and ordering the younger man to keep hold whilst John pulled the arm from his pyjama shirt to press against the wound.