John Watson could remember the death sounds of every person he'd ever seen die and every person he'd ever killed. Screams, gasps, declarations of love, and bubbling groans of pain. He'd heard the final squelch of blood or the last beat of a heart a hundred times over. He'd watched the light leave a million eyes.
His own death scream echoed in his dreams, a name reverberating off an old building's walls and crashing back into his own ears but falling short of the person he was desperate to save. As graceful as ever, a black figure with wings; voluntarily dropping into the air, his destination a cruel and unforgiving cement road. His death scream of his friend's name paled in comparison to the silence Sherlock's death left in his mind. He'd been much too far away to hear anything, no whispered words, no crunch, no breaths, no heart beats. Just a silent, surreal fall; and a cold body in a puddle of blood.
John Watson was alive, physically. But his final scream of a name, two syllables; were the signal of the end of his life.