This story was inspired by and created because of a prompt from Catie501 (thank you again!) who requested: avalanche. "Sherlock has followed a killer or something, and they are caught by an avalanche. John & co set out to find him..."

My pleasure.

The most difficult thing, actually, was to maneouvre them into a situation where this could happen, so in this story, the boys are on the hunt - abroad (well, let's say abroad...).

I hope you enjoy your reading.

Dying Like That Is Stupid

1

Lost

Of course it had to have happened to them. Of course.

John didn't even curse anymore as he slipped again, catching himself with an outstretched hand on the snowy surface.

"Are you sure we're still walking in the right direction?" he called out, trying to reach Sherlock, already metres ahead.

Greg shot him a look, and John sighed in exasperation. "Sherlock!"

Their friend didn't even bother with turning around.

"Still no signal?" Greg asked him as John pocketed his mobile again.

He curtly shook his head. It couldn't get any worse, he assumed.

They had been following their suspect, their murderer, probably, up to Scotland, had located him in a small village John always forgot the name of - and after they had found the final proof they needed to convict him of double homicide nine years ago and a third one four weeks ago, had intended to confront him. Had intended, because he ran away as soon as he saw them, and of course they had gone after him.

Had found him, had lost him again - and in the end, had got lost themselves. Somewhere in Scotland, on some way uphill, in the middle of the winter, in the snow and in the cold. Without signal on their mobile phones. Really brilliant.

"Sherlock!" John called again, quickening his pace. As much as it was possible on this slippery ground, that was.

Sherlock stopped for a short moment, his coat collar turned up, his cheeks flushed. "What, John!" he demanded, his eyes glistening.

"Do you even know the way?" John wanted to know, sneezing. Jesus, it was cold out here.

Sherlock's eyes darted off into space, his expression became neutral for a moment. "No," he finally admitted. "But going by the course this path is taking and the amount of snow to be found in the trees, the probability that we are walking down to the village is theoretically higher than of us having decided for the wrong way."

John sighed again as Sherlock resumed his former pace, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "At least it's not night yet," he mumbled, but Greg had heard him. "Sherlock will find the way back," he claimed. "Or at least I hope so."

His feet were frozen, John was sure of it as he continued to move his legs and walk. "I could be at home now," he mumbled, "together with Mary, planning our holidays."

"Holidays?" Greg wanted to know, interested.

John curved his lips into a quick smile. "It's our third anniversary this year. Three years since we first met." And one and a half years since Sherlock had come back, he added in his thoughts.

Mary. At home now. But no…

The case had been a private one, originally, a young woman longing for knowledge of who had murdered her two sisters nine years ago. Sherlock had taken it, almost gleefully, and of course John had participated in his investigations. They had had rather many cases since Sherlock's… return, and since Mary never opposed, John enjoyed the thrill, enjoyed returning to what had once been his life. But then, suddenly, this case had become more serious when their client had been murdered, too, bringing Lestrade onto the scene.

Sherlock had quickly found his suspect, but he hadn't had any proof, and when the Yard had declared the third murder to be suicide and not related to the double homicide of nine years ago, they had nonetheless kept investigating, both of them convinced that they were on the right track.

Lestrade had joined them, inofficially, and together they had travelled to Scotland, following their suspect.

Mary had seemed rather relieved to be rid of John for a few days - he knew she had her own ideas for their holidays and didn't, much to John's displeasure - and amusement -, want him to meddle all the time.

And now here he was, lost somewhere in Scotland. And not even Sherlock Holmes seemed to know the way.

"At least you've got something to tell her when we're back," Greg attempted a joke.

Ironically, it hadn't even been their fault. Not even Sherlock's. They just had got… lost, the traces they had left while following the suspect thawed away. Bad luck.

John stopped and sneezed again. "'s not funny, Greg," he mumbled. "We're lost, nobody knows where we went, nobody at home will miss us for at least… two or three days. If we're getting trapped in a snow storm or something and die, nobody will even come looking for us."

Greg chuckled, stopping, too. "I didn't know you had such an optimistic streak," he replied, still grinning. "Come on, John, we'll be fine. Just a little unexpected walk… We've got Sherlock with us, remember? He'll find the way."

"I hope so," John muttered, sighing. "Got no intention of spending the night on this… bloody… mountain."

Greg scanned the sky, scanned their surroundings. "It's still broad daylight, John. And we're just in Scotland, not somewhere in… dunno. Alaska."

John sighed for a second time, narrowing his eyes to get a better look at Sherlock who had crouched down, a few hundred metres ahead already, examining the snow. "What…," he just began, sensing something, when everything happened in split-seconds.

One moment there was movement, quick movement, the other moment Sherlock was back on his feet, another figure behind him, having grabbed him by his throat.

"Greg!" John shouted, about to fall into a sprint.

"Don't move!" the other figure shouted. Their suspect. Their murderer. They had been walking in circles… had they?

"Don't move, or I'll shoot him!"

It was only now that John could see, very clearly all of a sudden, the outline of a weapon pressed to Sherlock's temple. His insides froze.

"Greg…," he forced out.

His original shock lasted only seconds. Seconds until he, all of a sudden, became aware of a deafening noise, like a dozen trains passing by right close to him.

"What the hell…" Greg mumbled next to him, stockstill. Then they saw it. Something white, white and nebulous and huge, rolling down the side of the mountain. Something directly above Sherlock and their suspect…

Avalanche. A bloody avalanche.

John's blood turned into ice as he started running again, no longer caring about the gun, only thinking about snow, snow, snow, started running as if his very life depended on it, only to be held back by Greg: "SHERLOCK! GET AWAY FROM THERE! SHERLOCK!"

The thunderous clangour of the avalanche drowned every single word out, and John was left watching, destined to be too late, watching his best friend who was too far away, out of his reach, but in the reach of the avalanche.

John watched as the masses of snow plunged down the hill, watched as pines and conifers disappeared behind a giant cloud of white, watched Sherlock stand there, motionless, their suspect laughing loudly.

When the sight cleared again, all John could see was white. No trees, not in an area of about hundred feet, nothing, only white. Tons of snow.

And no sign of Sherlock.

Thank you for reading.

Let me know what you think, please.