Sherlock does go a bit OOC out of this, but you know... This was my maiden voyage. I had a bit of a rough sea to sail on. Anyways, thanks for reading this one!

-HS

Sherlock gazed thoughtfully at the four-story office building he had jumped from with a slight perturb about it. I guess I overestimated my jumping prowess. He slowly shakes his head as he looks to the lower building he missed by a full three meters. How did I mange to fall short by so much? Before another thought of disbelief could cross his mind Sherlock became incapacitated by a spasm of pain rocketing through his body. When the pain finally faded from all his other nerve endings, Sherlock looked to the spot where throbbing prominently remained. It took an entire minute before he could grasp at comprehension towards the object protruding from his lower left abdomen. On the way down, Sherlock had hit a fire escape, which part of it had now fixed itself through his body. Running his hand through his dark curls in exasperation, the detective stopped short at a gash in his scalp that felt exceedingly deep. Panic began to rise in Sherlock as he estimated how much blood he was losing and he felt his consciousness starting to go. There was a point where mass hysteria was about to consume him, but fate intervened as he felt his breast pocket vibrate with an incoming text. After a few moments of painful maneuvering, Sherlock managed to grab a hold of his phone. How did this manage to survive the fall, but I am lying with a metal rod through my side and a possibly shattered skull? The thought passed quickly as he read the text.

"I got the pig stomach you requested. Also, some milk. Try not to shoot any darts in it this time? –JW"

A small smile threatened to break the stone Sherlock's face had set in. Always the milk with John. Sherlock began to laugh at the thought of his John carrying milk and pig stomach to the cashier, but had to stop as more blood made its way out of his wounds and it became increasingly harder to breathe. The darkness he was about to slip into seemed awfully promising, but Sherlock felt that if he closed his eyes, he would never open them again. Instead, he pressed the speed dial button to contact John. He picked up on the first ring.

"Sherlock, why are you calling? I told you I've got the pig stomach and milk."

"John, oh my John..." Sobs began to rack Sherlock's broken body as his fear of never hearing John again proceeded to wash away.

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Are you alright? Sherlock? Please answer me..."

"I...I fell... Need you... Office building we camped out at two weeks ago..."

"I'm on my way."

"But John, I-", the phone clicked off before Sherlock could express how he felt.

Sherlock didn't remember how long he laid on the ground before he felt the first drops of rain fall on him and John's face appear in his line of vision.

John took in the damage done to his friend and could only utter rubbish words to try to ease the situation. "Oh, Sherlock... you bloody idiot, I told you, you can't-", the sentence became cut off by tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"John, I'm not so much of an idiot to know I am dying. I just..." Sherlock took a half-hearted breath before continuing. "I had to see you, John."

"Sherlock, you will not die. You can't leave me. After all the things we have done, all the times you saved my life, you can't just leave! I've already called 999 and help is on the way. Please, just hold on, hold on for me, you bloody well hear?"

Sherlock failed to reply as his vision completely blotted out. In horror of never seeing John again, Sherlock began to scream for him as he flailed his arms, blindly looking for John. As fast as he could, John pulled Sherlock's hands into his own and Sherlock ceased his thrashing.

"John, oh John, I want to hold on. I am so afraid... I don't-", Sherlock can't continue as blood pours out of his mouth.

"Sherlock! Don't go, please, I-", John's voice cracks as he realized Sherlock wouldn't reply. He gives up on holding his composure as tears makes his vision swim. Laying his head gently on his dying friend's chest, he shudders with shock and tries to think of ways to save Sherlock. A tourniquet is useless, his skull is too damaged for any repairing here, internal damage... His fears confirm themselves when a fresh batch of blood rockets out of Sherlock's mouth. "Why? Why? WHY?"

The faint sound of sirens reaches John's ears. Maybe... Sherlock suddenly spasms and then becomes quite still, but faint intakes of oxygen are still visible. Words barely escape his mouth as he struggles to tell John everything. "John, don't let me go-", another spasm, "I-", love you? Want you? Need you? "I need you to make sure the people inside never get out without handcuffs. They are planning to bomb London..." A wild look appears in Sherlock's eyes. "I can't hold-", a last breath passes through Sherlock's body and John just stares with disbelief. His Sherlock is gone. Frantically John begins CPR, but stops as he feels how much more damage there was. Sherlock's entire chest felt broken in a thousand places. The crashing of raindrops down on the pair increased and John couldn't save Sherlock. "I don't know what to do..."

Medical personnel pull John away from Sherlock as they begin their work. John doesn't even fight. He is too limp and broken inside to do anything, but think about what he could've done...

Police storm the building and haul out all those inside. Mycroft stands stiffly and makes a promise to make sure none of them survive to tomorrow's sunrise. He looks up at a flag pole with the Union Jack flying lifelessly on it. Skewered on the pole was Sherlock's probable pursuer. Mycroft looks anywhere, but the bloodstained spot where John had gone back to kneel at. Donning his umbrella to avoid the oncoming torrent of rain, Mycroft strides over to the army doctor and lays a hand on his shoulder. "John, you have to leave now. This is a crime-"; Mycroft stops at the look of pain he sees in John's eyes. A look that he knew reflected back in his own. "I know John... I know. Let's go."

Cleaning up the last of Sherlock's strewn papers, John sits wearily down on their couch. He can feel the depression where Sherlock always laid, ranting about tobacco or how everyone is such an idiot. John can almost feel Sherlock standing next to him saying, "You've messed everything up! Those papers were in the exact strewn order I wanted them in!" A laugh escapes John as he remembers his friend. "My best friend..."Tears threaten to spill over as John stands and looks around 221B for the last time. He puts the papers into a box and hefted the memory of Sherlock into the stairway. John can't take anymore. He slides down the wall and sits there for hours. When John finally returns to reality, it is dark out and the sound of rain comes through the rooftop. Finding that his gun was now in his hand, John pressed the weapon to his temple...

Hello Sherlock...