'Hey.'
The word falls from numbed lips, from a mind whirling with a conversation full of explanations that weren't really needed, but provided all the same. Sherlock is stepping into a room that's too bright, that's offering a sight he never wished to see. He's stumbling messily to the bed holding his heart, the one thing that he's ever really needed and that's slipping away with every breath they take. Sherlock is choking with the thoughts that haunt him, mind desperately screaming it's too soon, it's too soon but, really, when would it be the right time to ever let go of something that's such a treasure?
John's eyes do not flutter; they haven't in over three months. The now frail body gives off no indication that he's heard Sherlock's greeting, but that's okay because, again, it's been three months and that should be enough time for the genius to know there wouldn't be a reaction, right? He supposed not, though, because that crushing sense of disappointment still blooms in his chest and makes him want to explode. It hurts, honestly. It's crushing to know that the person who you've thought you would be spending your whole life with is now currently brain dead, that they're heart would be stopped if not for the tubes and wires filling his body and stuffing him with oxygen.
Sherlock carefully folds himself into the space between the left rail of the bed and the semi-warm body in it, burying his face in the sent he's familiarised himself with over the span of time John's been here, but not the one he wishes was filling his nostrils. He knows it's time to let go, that it is only Mycroft's money he's wasting now, that John was dead when the doctors told him he was no longer producing brain waves, but the unfairness of it all is…is….
The time it takes to say his goodbyes seem like hours, but truly it is minutes and soon he's wiping off salty tears from his cheekbones and along his jaw and he calls in a nurse from the wing outside. She offers Sherlock a knowing, rueful smile, understanding without needing to hear the words. The detective stands next to the bed, resting his hand on the chest that's still rising and falling in a steady staccato rhythm.
It is three clicks, three groaning whirls and one more exhale before there is nothing.