our_bbcsherlock | One Last Breath, One Less Miracle

Title: One Last Breath, One Less Miracle
Word Count: 535
Warnings: Character death, angst
Category: PG, maybe PG-13ish
Characters: John, Sherlock
Summary: A Moriarty copycat manages to do what the Consulting Criminal couldn't.
A/N: This fic was inspired by this picture. EDIT: Some wonderful person pointed out that the art came from this amazing artist reapersun

“Sherlock.”John gasped as he shoved the rubble away from him. The last thing he remembered was the Moriarty copy-cat smiling at Sherlock, pressing the button to the explosives. The psychotic man had them reenact the whole first meeting with Moriarty, even the part where Sherlock ripped the bomb vest off of him. Only this time, Sherlock wasn’t the one with the trigger.
John gritted his teeth against the pain from the bruises and cuts. Standing was an issue but he managed it…and got a view of dark curls floating around a submerged face.
“SHERLOCK!” Wounds forgotten, John took off at a stumbling run and jumped into the pool. He flailed for a moment before stroking over to Sherlock, grabbing fistfuls of sodden clothing.
“C’mon, Sherlock, C’mon,” he chanted over and over as he pulled Sherlock to the edge of the pool. Lifting Sherlock up, he placed him on his side and then pulled himself out. John turned Sherlock over and grabbed him under the arms to pull him further out of the water, but stopped when Sherlock gasped.
“John?” Sherlock coughed. John sighed in relief when Sherlock started to cough the water out of his lungs, but then turned cold as more blood than water started to pour out. And then John realized that wasn’t the only place blood was coming from.
John reached for his jacket to rip it off so he could press it against the wound on Sherlock’s head, but a pale hand reached up and snagged it before he could.
“Don’t bother, John,” Sherlock gasped. “Would only…stain it in vain.”
John’s jaw clenched. “No, Sherlock, you’re going to be fine, you’re—”
He stopped as Sherlock smiled. “You’re doctor, aren’t you, John? Read the signs. I already feel weak. Internal damage of some sort I’d guarantee.”
As if to punctuate his words he started to cough blood up once more. John clenched his free fist in Sherlock’s jacket. He was right, John knew. He was bloody right and for once, John hated it. Sherlock had been closest to the bomb. He got the worst of the blast. The police would be here within a few minutes in response to the blast.
And they would be a few minutes too late.
John’s breathing became heavy. He felt as if he were the one dying instead of the friend in his arms. He leaned over Sherlock, bringing his forehead down to touch his.
Sherlock’s cold eyes were locked with John’s, his hand tightening on John’s like it was a life preserver.
“I’m sorry, John.” He whispered.
“For what? Being a prat and getting yourself blown up? Don’t know if I can forgive you for this one, Sherlock. Nope, this one I’m going to let hang over your head for awhile.”
“No,” Sherlock smiled. John saw how Sherlock’s eyes were losing their fire, that manic light that seemed to be part of the ever present presence that was Sherlock Holmes. Saw the bright ice blue turn to dull grey.
“No,” Sherlock struggled with his breathing, his chest rising falling sporadically. And yet he still held on to the smile. “Sorry that I couldn’t give you one more miracle.”
And the last breath left him.