It only takes one bullet to end a life.

One.

Bang.

The man beneath you bleeds through his uniform, bleeds red and only red – there is no Union Jack here, no for Britain on his lips. There is just blood, and a wound that will not close. There is just tell my wife, tell her I – tell my wife, and the guttural gurgling of his throat, the too-wet sound of his gasping breaths. There is just a red that is far too dark, eyes that are far too dim, and a man that is far, far too young. Tell my wife – but his chest stills. You close his eyes with the pads of your fingers. Gently.

You will tell his wife.

It only takes one bullet.

He has his back to you, his back straight and his eyes on Sherlock's and you know something is wrong, something bad is going to happen, and Sherlock is raising that pill to his lips – stupid, stupid Sherlock – eyes caught on the cabbie's, and your gun is heavy in your hands.

Bang.

The window shatters; the man drops; you run.

No one will ever know.But Sherlock does. Sherlock always does. And he's thankful. It sickens you that it is enough to justify the man behind you, the fatherless children, the death of a stranger.

"But he wasn't a very nice man."

But, then again, neither are you.

It only takes a bullet.

And even though there are bombs strapped to your chest, even though you are a ticking time bomb, a walking explosion, a disaster waiting to happen –

Sherlock's got the gun, and you've got Moriarty by the throat, and you both know this won't end well, not at all, but is it worth it?

Sherlock's got the gun, but you've got the explosives, and Moriarty's got his sniper and it only takes one bullet.

Sherlock's got the gun.

(Nothing happens.)

One bullet.

Sherlock's gone.

221B smells like him. Smells like home. The holes in the walls (bullet holes, always, always back to bullets) remind you so much of the man who put them there. They are just as distracting, just as wrong, as out of place, as destructive, as empty.

Sherlock, you bastard.

You feel your gun, heavy in your hands. You wonder if it was always going to end like this, if Sherlock was just a catalyst, if you were always this weak. You don't know.

But if there is one thing you know, John Watson, it is that it only takes one bullet to end a life.

This is my note, you think. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?

Your fingers shake, your eyes sting, your heart beats desperately. The gun clatters to the floor, your breath coming in fast and ragged gasps – you are too weak even for this, too weak to just stop, too weak to end it all and it only takes one fucking bullet.

One bullet, John. One bullet.

You close your eyes. Knees trembling, you sink to the floor, hands covering your face, and you only vomit once. The tears do not stop, the sobs still so uncontrollable they hurt, and Sherlock's face swims before your eyes, serious, calm, untouchable.

Goodbye, John.

No, no, no,Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock –

(Bang).

A/N: Thanks to Sam for betaing! You're a star, dearest.