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And so it happened that we died. We could never go quietly, no, it wasn’t in our hearts. Some might have thought it was in mine, but it never was. So we died young. You could say we expected nothing less.
It was a case like any other. Notboring. Fascinating. Intricate. There was a whole underground operation, a slave trade, hidden right under our noses. Then we got a whiff, and well, we couldn’t let it go.
It had been running for decades. It was strong and mean and well connected. It spread all around the world - and we were going to take it down.
Not alone, mind you. We had help from Lestrade’s team, Mycroft’s people, and his connections. But it was too sensitive to let many people in on it. Our cover too easily blown.
We were disguised as purchasers from Canada. For all their apologies, it seemed they were corrupt as any of them. Mycroft had us study the accents intensely, the geography, the political structure - just as a precaution.
But it was useless. We hadn’t thought to be found out so soon.
Sherlock had been excited, as usual. He took risks, as usual. Something about being with him made me feel immortal, as though the risks would pay off more than they would endanger. That was one of the reasons we were the best; we weren’t afraid.
We were stupid to be so sure of ourselves. Then again, we were always stupid. We were always blind. We never saw...But I digress.
Sherlock and I had just left our hideaway when we were met by an assassin. We took him out with ease and began to be wary. But it was too late. We had proved our alliances lied elsewhere, and been led into their trap. Disguised as police officers, old ladies, mothers with children, homeless people - suddenly there were enemies everywhere.
We took down as many as we could. We took down them all. A bullet to the arm, the leg, a knife in my belly - it was all forgotten in the moment I thought Sherlock was in danger. And so he was.
One of them had caught him, holding him still, holding a knife to his throat. The second I saw it, my injuries were forgotten and I let loose - five of them died to my hands without my taking my eyes from him. The man with the knife was talking, explaining. He was probably the orchestrator - not of the whole operation, no, but of this attack. He had found us, when we thought we were untraceable. He had outsmarted Holmes, and now he was gloating.
People who claim to be geniuses are always idiots. I put a bullet in his brain just as I was close enough to catch the knife before it fell into Sherlock’s neck. Just in time, because at seeing their boss fall three of them converged on me, and I whirled around to plunge the knife into the neck of a woman, and tug, while extending my gun in the other direction to shoot the man that was trying to sneak up on Holmes. My hands, still occupied in returning from their separate kills, weren’t fast enough to block the knife coming at me, and it sank into my side before I shot its owner in the face.
It may have been unnecessarily gory, but they’d pissed me off. I had to tend to Holmes. He was bleeding from a few bullet wounds and scrapes, but then I saw the deep, dark stain seeping around his ribs. Bastard had got him in the back while he talked to him, twisting the knife. And I had bet on his offering Sherlock his life to join them - they always wanted him. Always so excited to find someone else to play head games with, they loose track of reality. Except not this time. This time they didn’t get lost in gloating, until they had assured their captive had a likely fatal wound. There was no hospital nearby. He needed attention within five minutes or the damage would be irreparable.
The closest hospital was a half-hour’s drive away, and I could not fix him without the necessary tools. Having double checked this, I looked into his eyes. He knew. He looked grim. He gave me the sign I was to get to safety. Like hell I was.
With that I turned and redoubled my efforts. There was only five of them left, but I was injured. Three of them were caught with the last of my bullets, but I was injured. Severely. But not as severely as Holmes; I would live. So I had to fight.
Sustaining more injuries (cut through muscle of left thigh, broken toes of left foot, second bullet in left arm) I eliminated them. Limping, I made my way back to Sherlock. Of course the bloody idiot tried to console me.
“My fault.” He grunted through the pain. “Should’ve seen the trap coming. It was obvious in hindsight. You can’t blame yourself - I could hardly expect you to detect anything amiss, if it escapes even my notice, one with a significantly lower intellect like yourself would never have caught on.”
“Everything’s obvious in hindsight, Sherlock, that’s it’s point. I should’ve covered you more once I saw the attack. Bloody useless to have me hanging around now, being of such a subpar mind as I am, I’ll never figure out where they’ve gone when they relocate.”
He grasped my hand. It was slick with blood. His own or his killer’s, I didn’t know. Sherlock pulled me closer.
“Caring isn’t an advantage, but at this point I don’t think there are any.”
He kissed me, and I kissed him back. Then he went still. I rose from his dead body after checking his pulse to be sure. There would be a cleanup crew from the assassination. I had no intention of living without him. There would be nothing without him.
After he faked his death I had known, deep in my gut, that he wasn’t dead. I thought it was denial. But I knew this time he was not coming back, so nor would I. But I would take with me as many of them as I could.
I hadn’t thought...but it appeared to be true. Wouldn’t Donovan like to know she’d won her bet after all? Love is a funny thing, I guess it surprises everyone. It’s odd they all saw it before us, but that couldn’t be helped. In the grim silence, I wondered how long he’d known and refrained from telling me. Not sure I would have believed him, but still. Everything’s obvious in hindsight.
Sure enough, they came. Not surprised to find the entire attack dead, they looked around. They had planned for us very well. Too well. I itched at the unsolved mystery. You can’t get everything you want, right? I smiled maniacally - I had lost a lot of blood. Wouldn’t be long now.
I took out the three of them before it came. Nothing so pretty and symbolic as a knife in the back, but Sherlock was always more poetic than me. Not in words, but in ways. Like the man who knifed me, I got a bullet to the face. It was extraordinary pain. I didn’t survive it, clearly. Funeral must’ve been a bitch. Closed casket, I’d bet.
“We require your assistance.” A voice rang out. I saw no one. Well, things are expected to be a bit weird after death, the whole not-knowing and all that. Then I saw Sherlock, and I didn’t care. Not that he looked like himself, not that we had bodies, but I could just tell. The shade of blue. It was him. The voice explained clearly that slavery was something they had been working to end for some time, but this organization we had been tracking was resilient. The voice didn’t say anything so crass as ‘the devil himself is behind it’ but they might have. It seemed likely. In any case, we were to be returned to earth in vessels (fake bodies that would be mostly similar to life, but we would not be human again) in order to take them down. Whatever. Same old, same old.
Once we had faces again, they smiled. Once we had hands again, they grasped onto each other. And with that, we set off to finish the job we started. Not like Sherlock Holmes to let something as little as death stand in the way of a good case.