His Last Deduction

A/N- Hi guys, anyone reading this! This was BARELY edited, and is probably crap, but it's my first Watt Pad story. If anyone wants to be my beta, I would so appreciate it. Tell me all your constructive criticisms, tell the things you like, et cetera. I'm so sorry.

Anyways, in this story, John is still married to Mary and Reichenbach did happen. Also, I've had this headcanon for the longest time. ENJOY!

The bullet burrowed deeply into his gut, and Sherlock recognized instantly that there was only one thing that mattered.

He scurried to save himself within the walls of his mind palace. He manipulated his body and fell in the best direction and was pacified by Redbeard inside a locked corridor. It had been hidden so as to keep Redbeard away from Sherlock's thoughts, lest he show emotion.

It was all coming back up now.

Pain welled up in him, dull at first, and gradually became searing and sharp. At some point it became difficult to differentiate the problems of pain and the actual hole in his stomach. The pain had created a wound of its own.

But he wanted to die. He had wanted so badly to die and would have rather been murdered in one go with a bullet through his Godforsaken brain. But only one thing mattered now, the only thing that ever really mattered to Sherlock Holmes, and he couldn't bear to leave him the way things were likely to end.

He would live, if only for a few minutes more, for John. His John, his blogger.

He huffed at himself for expressing such sentiment.

Through the voices (his voice, John and Mary's voices...) telling him the world would be better with him gone, he surfaced briefly into a bleary panic. The voices grappled at him, hugged onto his legs and arms, kissed his face and pleaded for him to stay. Tempted as he was to sink away now (and a sixty percent chance he would), he heard the panic outside his mind.

"-erlock!" a different, familiar voice cried. There! There was where he had heard the panic, that familiar, desperate voice. Was it John's? Why should John be so terrified, so caughtout and frightened?

Despite the evidence, Sherlock refused to believe this result was an effect of him, of his impending perishment, or the lake of blood flushing out of him. People didn't feel like that for him, didn't care like that. Surely something else had occurred while he had been otherwise occupied? Certainly John's cry was merely his answer to glancing Sherlock in this state, if anything at all related to Sherlock.

...Had John been hurt? Oh, he wouldn't forgive himself, not even in Death, if that were true...

Finally, Sherlock struggled himself out and away from the voices and palace and back to his John.

His eyes focused and blurred as he wheezed, "John!"

The steady buzz of panic stepped back from him, still there, but not quite as suffocating.

"Sherlock- chimm." John's voice, interestingly, had choked and stopped.

Before he could continue, though, Sherlock pressed out his hand to nudge the blogger's. He had some things to say, and even Sherlock couldn't speak in Death. Maybe through Mycroft, if he'd planned ahead. Stupid emotions, clouding better judgement and making him think he would live forever with his love. How much of a lie that'd been.

"John..." he rasped again and felt the blood paw at his neck.

"Please, Sherlock, don't -- speak. You have to keep the energy inside you."

The words rattled around his ears as Sherlock finally took in the room. Kneeling beside him was John. Surrounding them and the steady hum of panic was the unsuspectingly ordinary London flat in which dwelled their most recent Greatest-Threat--Newest-Foe, and wrapped around his belly was a rigidly tied white cloth decorated with large plumes of red.