Gregory Lestrade always knew it was a possibility; to die in an opium house, not that it was the way he wanted to go of course. Six hours, four back streets, two whore houses, and a opium den later, the inspector laid on the oriental floor on his stomach, unable to move. The sharp pain from his back made it impossible to turn over and reassure a rather distressed Clarky that he'd be fine. Even though that was a lie.
His legs wouldn't move, no matter how hard he tried, and he was bleeding too fast. Too much blood, too much pain, too many years on the force to even harbor a hope of survival. "Clarky," the word was almost too hard to force though his teeth, "I'll be fine, lad."
"Don't lie to me, Inspector Lestrade!" There was a pressure around the knife wound, which was only going to lead to a more painful death. The Inspector groaned, it was too much.
"Let go, Clarky," the words were slurred, more slurred than only moments before.
"You'll die!"
"I'll die anyway. I can't move me legs….I can't…I can't…" the injured body convulsed and blood leaked from his mouth. Lestrade spat out as much of the coppery liquid as he could before grinding out; "You'll make a damn fine inspector, Clarky." The inspector heaved again before losing contact with the world. He couldn't hear the cries of his constables or feel his closest friend shake his shoulder to tempt him back into wakefulness. In his final moments, Lestrade felt a mild surprise that no part of his life flashed before his eyes, and that his only thought was of Mr. Holmes; what would the prat think?