What Would You Say?
If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?
When Sherlock first asked that it had been for a case. He'd never expected the question to be racing around his mind anytime after. He didn't expect to be lying on the floor with a bullet wound in his abdomen either.
It had started as a usual day. Lestrade had phoned up with a promising case. Promising taking the form of a double murder. One thing led to another and then they were chasing the killer. They? Oh yes... John. Where was he? Sherlock recalled running on ahead. The memories were hazy but he was absolutely certain John had been following him. John always followed him no matter what the cost. Reliable, dependable, trustworthy. Things Sherlock valued in a person.
A sharp left turn
Coat billowing out behind him
Running
A corner
Lunging
Bang
Pain
It all came back to Sherlock as he shut his eyes. Images flew past his eyes. Words swirled around his train of thought. Colours. Blue, green, yellow, purple, orange, red. Red. Red was everywhere. On his clothes, slipping through his fingers, spilling on the pavement. Red stood out from the other colours. No- where were the other colours? Everything appeared to have turned grey. Grey. He'd never like grey. Background colour. Sherlock had never been able to blend in the background. He'd always been too different, too freakish. Nobody hangs around with freaks. Well... nobody but John Watson. Freak, friend, freak, friend... words merging together... what was the difference?
"Sherlock!" A voice called out very close to Sherlock's face. He felt pressure on his wrist and moaned as someone pulled his shirt away from the wound.
"John..." He breathed, his eyes rolling as he tried to focus on something. Darkness was overwhelming him. He couldn't see. Panic rose in his chest and he coughed, spluttering as blood dribbled over his chin. The dark liquid stood out against his pale skin which was glowing in the moonlight.
"It's okay, Sherlock- I'm here." More pressure, this time pushing down on the injury. Sherlock shuddered violently in pain and cold. He was still wearing his thick coat. His coat was reliable and trustworthy. It kept him warm. So why was he still frozen? It didn't work like that. Sherlock was the cold, emotionless one... the coat was like a shield. Thick and sturdy- it blocked the insults. It protected him.
"Yes..? Lestrade? Yeah- it's John," John spoke quickly and clearly into the phone but it came out muffled. Or maybe that was just Sherlock. People's voices didn't naturally fade in and out... did they? Sherlock wasn't sure. All he knew was that the flames which were burning him weren't going out. And that was a problem. They were making it hard to think. So now he had different options. Well, he called them options. They weren't really. Sherlock was quickly losing control of the events that were about to happen. His control was... spiralling out of control. He could keep fighting. Or he could join the darkness.
"Sherlock- don't close your eyes! No, come on! Stay with me!"
John's voice... it was the only thing tying him down to earth right now. John was what he was fighting for. He wasn't going to stop fighting if John didn't want him to. He was going to try... but trying was so hard. Sherlock was no doctor but he could literally feel the life leaving him. A dark place in the back of his mind was growing. Slowly it began to absorb the rest of his brain. Usually darkness was something to be feared but this shadow was inviting. It promised a pain free journey. Journey? Since when was there a journey? Where was Sherlock going? Someplace warm hopefully with apple pie. Mmm, he liked apple pie. His mother always used to make it for him when he was sick. Sometimes John made apple pie too. The sweet smell always filled the flat quickly. Sherlock made a point of shutting all the windows on those days.
What time was it? How long had passed since the deafening gunshot rang out through the narrow alleyway? All these questions. No answers. Why wasn't John answering? Oh yes. Sherlock hadn't spoken aloud. John couldn't read minds. That would be stupid. Handy but stupid.
"Shush, shush, it's okay,"
So he had spoken? Probably not a question though. If he had asked a question there would be an reply. Sherlock listened to the silence for a moment. It was peaceful but something else was there. He listened harder. A strange, sobbing noise was piercing the quiet. It sounded afraid. It sounded like someone was suffering. It sounded like someone was scared. It took Sherlock a moment but then he realised the noise was coming from him.
"John," He whispered again, suddenly terrified of what lay ahead.
"Don't worry Sherlock. You're going to be fine. Okay?" John's hand stroked his hair. It felt nice. A warm liquid splashed on Sherlock's face and he blinked in confusion. Was John crying? Slowly the droplet trickled down his visage. Soon it was joined by others. They weren't all falling from above though. His own eyes were full of the salty tears.
What would you say?
The blackness tinged Sherlock's vision and he panicked again. Then he felt John by his side and relaxed. Everything was fine.
If you were murdered?
The wound in Sherlock's stomach was hurting but he ignored and looked up to the stars. They were so bright. It was like they were calling him.
If you were dying?
Slowly he turned his head. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open but he needed to do this. He waited for his vision to clear and then looked above. He could still see the stars but something more important filled the rest of the picture. A face. The face of his best friend.
If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?
Eyelids slipping shut
Breathing slowing down
Heartbeat halting
Fingers limp
Body still
"Goodbye John."
oOo
A/N: I'll just go sob in a corner now, 'kay? *Sniffles* Goodness, that was heartbreaking to write! Well, I hope you all enjoyed. Please review! It would make me stop crying... *looks hopeful*. Thanks very much for reading though! x