Was it worth it? That's the question most people might ask him. If pulling the trigger had been worth it. If protecting John and Mary and yes, even Mycroft, had been worth it.
Other people might ask if he'd thought it would end like this. Not in a hail of bullets or from an expertly placed shot from a hundred yards away, but freezing in a divot in a mountainside in the Urals that could barely be called a cave, the game ending with no more excitement than being tucked into bed and drifting to sleep.
He's always hated being cold. He's always cold. People thought the coat was an affectation but it was a necessity.
Sherlock isn't certain of today's date but he's aware enough of the passage of time to know that once again, his brother is never wrong. His eyes flutter shut and he curls inward, strolling down the hallway of his mind, hand running along the wall as he selects a door.
He pushes the door open and walks into her flat. The bright, airy room that is her living room used to be the morning room of a mansion that's been cut up into six flats. She told him once, as she curled around him, just to warm him, as he lay shivering under her duvet, that she never minded the drafts in winter because of all of the light.
The room lays brighter in his memory than it did that day he stole an hour with her before breaking her heart for good. An event he always knew would happen but never thought would occur with such finality and force.
He'd debated until the last minute whether he'd finally reveal his feelings. What good would it do, really, if there was no hope? Then he'd looked at her, kneeling by that enormous, impractical fireplace as she lit a fire for him and he'd blurted it out.
Because she needed to know that all the love she'd poured into him had been returned. He knew his love didn't increase the validity of hers, that though she'd wanted it in return she'd never required it in exchange. But he needed her to know.
And now the Molly of his memory becomes the Molly who populates his Mind Palace, and she walks over to him. She pulls him to the fire and stands in front of him, placing her hand on his cheek and then his forehead.
"I can't do anything this time, can I?"
"No," he says.
"I love you."
"I love you, Molly Hooper."
"I'll keep your secret." She smiles and lowers her hand to his chest. "They'll never know, though eventually I think they'll guess."
"I'm sorry I'm always burdening you with my secrets."
"Nothing about you was ever a burden."
"You don't really think that."
She shrugs. "Hmm, maybe not. But consider it a last gift."
Molly helps him out of his coat and pulls him to the sofa. He lies on his back and she stretches out over him, spreading his coat on top of them. The sunlight turns her hair to flame and the firelight flickers on her face and he's finally warm. A warmth that spreads from his chest to his fingertips as he kisses the top of her head, closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him.