A/N: I found this when I was looking through my notes. It was just the beginning though, so I though, why not finish and upload it?

Sherlock had killed someone.

Now, it wasn't the first time John saw someone die, or get shot. He was a doctor after all, an army doctor, on top of that.

But this was Sherlock.

He hadn't hesitated, his hand hadn't trembled and he had just pulled the trigger, and the man dropped dead in a matter of seconds.
But it wasn't that Sherlock had killed someone that affected John so much, it was the fact that he had done it for him. He knew he would get arrested (of course he did, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes) yet he had done it for him. He had saved Mary.

Now, he was standing in front of John. These were their last minutes together, seconds, even.

And John had so much to say.

You saved my life countless times since the day we met. You saved me from loneliness, you saved me from myself. You bought the excitement back into my life. I'm thankful, Sherlock, for all you have done.

But he didn't say anything, because he knew Sherlock already knew all he had to say. Heck, he knew all those feelings John couldn't put into words himself. Sherlock knew.

So instead, he grasped his hand. A simple handshake. To the best of the times. Then Sherlock pulled his hand away, and turned around to walk away.

No, John wouldn't let him simply walk away. Not this time. Not again.

So John reached forwards and grasped Sherlock's arm. Sherlock turned back, mouth open as if to say something, but no noise came out of his lips as John pulled him down slightly and embraced him.

They stood like that for a short while, John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck and shoulders (barely, damn that tall bastard) and Sherlock's own resting on John's back, warm and welcoming. Then they pulled away, and John immediately missed the warmth Sherlock graciously gave.

Neither said anything. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Sherlock smiled at him. John smiled back although he knew Sherlock could tell it was forced.

Then Sherlock walked away and this time, there was no turning back. He was gone for good.

John pressed his lips together and he looked down, taking in a deep breath. He had to pull himself together. He had a wife and a baby that would join them soon. Sherlock was gone. He had lived with that before.

Barely, a voice whispered at the back of his mind, but John ignored it.

"Sentiment," Sherlock had said once, "a chemical defect found in the losing side." Except it wasn't, not really. Because Sherlock Holmes had not lost.