Sherlock was dying.
Actual, god damn, putrid, boring death.
It wasn't even that exciting; in fact, it was about as dull as death could get.
He'd trodden on John's gun the previous week after having played with it for an hour or so the day before, and managed to shoot himself. That had been find – a bullet to the foot wasn't exactly terrible. However, an infection had developed and Sherlock being bloody Sherlock, he had refused to go to hospital with the infection.
"I've only just got back from the hospital, John – I doubt they particularly want to see me again."
John had ruefully sighed, forcing Sherlock to promise that he'd go down to the doctor's at least. He hadn't, of course – since when did Sherlock follow instructions?
Now he was dying.
In a hospital bed.
Dying.
"John?" Sherlock's heart beat was erratic – blood poisoning can do that to a person.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John had tears welling up in his eyes, but the soldier within him told him firmly to stop them.
"I love you."
Just as Sherlock slipped away, John said the words back.
Til death do us part.