"Help. Baker St. Now.
Help me. Please.
SH"
Hitting 'Send' on his phone lifted a weight off of his chest that the now-empty syringe couldn't have dreamed to lift. Sherlock didn't want to reach out to Lestrade in what could be his last moments, but he was more than aware that John didn't need him anymore and he didn't want to bother him.
Greg's phone beeped twice and he quickly glanced at it as an afterthought on the way to his bedroom. What he saw made him freeze momentarily; he hadn't seen a message like this from Sherlock in over a year, but the circumstances surrounding his reaction to those particular texts weren't exactly favorable to his credibility, so he put his phone on his nightstand and continued getting ready for bed.
At Baker Street, Sherlock sat in the middle of the sitting room carpet. His heart felt like it was about to flutter from his chest. Now unable to see the screen of his phone from the shaking in his hands, he threw the phone across the room and he watched it in slow motion as it hit the wall and landed face-up, unharmed, on his sofa. His head swam with visions of John and a thousand distorted voices yelled about how much they hated him. Sherlock tried to swat them away from his face but that only made him dizzier. He swayed and barely caught himself before landing face-down on the carpet.
A ringing noise immediately differed itself from that in his ears. Sherlock jerked his head around and began a slow crawl on all fours across the floor, in the general direction of his phone. After a few rings it stopped and quickly started again. In his feverish stupor the ringing made his head feel like it was about to explode. The pain forced him to vomit without any warning. In his panic he inhaled a small amount before he could finish, causing him to cough uncontrollably. Anxiety set in and he could barely breathe from his coughing.
Finally at the couch, Sherlock reached a hand up with the last of his strength and hit the phone with his entire hand. The familiar voice of his favorite copper from Scotland Yard came from the speaker; it was muffled and distorted but still barely recognizable. Sherlock formed the only words he could think of.
"G…Graham…Gary…Help…me…"
"Sherlock, I'm on my way!"
The world's only consulting detective couldn't stay awake anymore. He was so tired…
Greg got off the phone with the emergency responders as he pulled up to 221B. Not bothering to turn off his car, he barreled through the building's entrance door, took the stairs three at a time, and kicked in the door to Sherlock's flat, Mrs. Hudson shouting after him.
"SHERLOCK! Sherlock, where are you?!" Greg needed not say it; the pale detective was lying on the floor before him, his lips gray and his eyes closed. He fell to the floor, cradling Sherlock's head in his lap. Two fingers went to Sherlock's neck to check for a pulse and he was rewarded with a thready but definitely-there thump under his fingertips. He slapped Sherlock across the face - anything to wake him up.
"Where are the bloody ambulances?!" Greg shouted at nothing in particular, wishing with his whole being that he had had the equipment to help Sherlock.
A weak gasp from his lap caught his attention, and he looked back down to see Sherlock's empty and bloodshot eyes finally open. His bony hand reached toward Greg's face and caressed his cheek, shaking so violently that Greg had to hold it still with his own hand. The hand on his face was as cold as stone.
Sherlock smiled up at him peacefully. "Y…you came," he whispered. Greg didn't realize he had started crying until a single tear fell onto Sherlock's forehead. He let out a quick laugh and checked Sherlock's pulse again - it was growing more faint by the second.
"Of course I came, you great lughead." Greg choked back a sob, not wanting to panic his friend any more than he had to. "Always knew you couldn't take care of yourself without getting in trouble. You're gonna hear it from Mary, you are."
Sherlock's eyes glazed over and Greg panicked. He tapped the side of Sherlock's face with his palm. "Stay with me, Sherlock. Help is on the way." He turned Sherlock's face back to his and made him look him in the eyes. "Why did you do this, Sherlock? Why?"
"I'm tired. I'm glad…I'm glad…glad you're here…Greg." Sherlock's smile faded and with one final gasp he closed his eyes for the last time. Greg fixed his fingertips at Sherlock's pulse point and held his breath waiting for something, anything.
Nothing.
A minute too late Greg saw the flashing white and blue ambulance lights through the window. He sat speechless on the floor, waiting for the paramedics to come in.
He finally got my name right. The thought flooded his mind and he began sobbing uncontrollably, clutching Sherlock to him as if his own life depended on it. The bastard said the wrong name to piss me off all this time and he finally gets it right when I can't even call him out on it.
A voice called out to him from the bottom of the stairs.
"Paramedics, where are you?"
"YOU'RE TOO LATE! YOU'RE TOO BLOODY LATE!" Greg shouted at the top of his lungs, furious at the emergency responders. The next ten minutes were a blur and Greg wasn't aware of anything happening to him until the paramedics forced him into the back of an ambulance and wrapped him in a shock blanket and one of them told him to stay put and wait for the police.
Ha, the police. What fucking good are they gonna do now? Sherlock's dead, no way he bloody faked it this time. He's gone and there's nothing anyone can do about it.
Greg took his police badge from out of his jacket and flung it into the street, watching the new fallen rain carry it down the gutters.