Vertigo dominated his perception. There were no longer objects, just indistinguishable blocks of color. It was as though he had been hit on the head—had there been any brain damage? Images of surgical gore flashed in his memory. His breath hitched. An army doctor, taken aback by gore? No, it was something else; something excruciating. Suddenly, the ill-defined masses of color took shape. John remembered his best friend in unendurable detail—his laugh, his curious gaze, his frustrated jeers, his excited outbursts and, above all, his voice.
John inhaled abruptly as he regained consciousness. His pillow was damp from sweat and he was just as exhausted as he had been when he had gone to sleep. He wiped partially dried perspiration—or tears—from his cheeks and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly, scaring himself senseless, he realized that he couldn't remember Sherlock's last words. He remembered the image of his figure falling with disturbing vividness, and he remembered how he had felt ill for weeks following the… incident. He still referred to it as an incident. He had yet to admit to himself that a death had occurred. The death of someone close… the death of a loved one. That would be altogether too much.
Once again, that question he had been asking himself ever since that incident appeared in the periphery of his mind.
What does one do if the best of one's life has already happened?
He closed his eyes and tried as hard as he could to push the thought away. He couldn't think that way. He mustn't.
And yet.
He covered his face with his hands and stifled a dry sob.
"Sherlock."