They broke into the house without warning, an hour after the bomb went off, after months of tracking us, months of closing in slowly, shutting off our escape routes and allies one at a time. Sherlock’s vanished without a trace. You think it’s part of their plan to get to you, but I think it all got too much, even for him. I’ve started wondering why we’re still going, why we’re still doing this.
I didn’t have enough time to patch you up properly, let alone myself. You give me a look that says they’re not taking us alive so I grab my rifle and we start running. Well, as close to running as two men in our state can be.
My legs give out a couple of miles later. I hate myself for it, can feel the anger rising in my throat like bile because now I’m nothing but a hindrance to you and if I can’t protect you from them, then what’s the point? You drag me down an alleyway and I hand you my rifle, because it’s okay, I know how this plays out, and I think I’d rather be dead than see you be caught by them.
But you shake your head and hand it back wordlessly and then raise your eyebrows at me. I close my eyes. But I get it, I understand. You’d rather be dead than be caught by them too. Better dead than give them the satisfaction of having caught you, of having you.
We can hear their footsteps at the end of the street, boots pounding heavily against the pavement, one of them barking orders to search the entire area, to take us in alive.
I can’t stand it and it fucking hurts but it’s an order so I kiss you roughly, wanting the taste of you to be the last good thing I remember. And then I stand back, line up the shot between your eyes, and even though I’m shaking because I don’t want this to be the last time you look at me, the last time I look at you, I don’t miss. I never miss.