A/N: So, there are lot of theories about how the entirety of "The Final Problem" is either in Sherlock's or John's mind. Honestly, I love both ideas and think that both of them make sense (I have read sooooo much meta, bless this fandom) but decided to work on the hypothesis that TFP is John hallucinating after being shot.
I'm actually really nervous about this story, so please let me know what you think ^^
English isn't my native language and this is unbeta'd, so there might be some mistakes.
He is supposed to be brilliant, a genius. His mind is supposed to be an admirable and terrible thing.
He has always prided himself for being able to not only solve problems others could not but to also do it easily and quickly.
And yet, when it comes to this riddle, the most important one of all, it all dawns on him a little too late.
He found the note in the flat, discarded on the floor. Faith was real - Faith who was suicidal; Faith who had chips with him because she deserved it just as Sherlock had had chips the previous year but had never got to eat them all because John had been in danger, doomed to burn, left to die; Faith who looked so much like John had in the beginning, with her cane, her glasses, her jumper, her loneliness, her sorrow, her dark thoughts.
But that was all an act, wasn't it? Because the note holds a secret, has a secret message just for him.
His mind screams at him. One word; a word that is always in his thoughts, at the tip of his tongue, out of his lips an immeasurable amount of times. A small, simple word; a common word that is his personal prayer.
John.
John doesn't pick up his phone.
For a few heartbeats Sherlock considers the possibility that maybe John simply doesn't want to talk to him. That maybe John is still angry with him, still hates him.
No, he tells himself. John let him comfort him, wrap his arms around him; Sherlock still is not quite certain how long they remained like that, and still it wasn't enough because he wants to have John secure in his embrace for the rest of his life.
When John receives none of his three calls, Sherlock leaves the apartment with his hands shaking but his feet so fast it is as if wings have grown out of them.
Sherlock Holmes has never been fond of the colour red. He has always preferred dark colours, elegant in their lack of brightness and light, colours that you can dress yourself in and go by unnoticed, blend in with the rest of the world.
He has never hated seeing red as much as right at this moment. He finds it where he found the note: on the floor. The same person is behind both discoveries, the same person is the cause of both the note and all this horrifying red.
Sherlock is barely aware of his actions. He doesn't remember moving, but he finds himself no longer in the entrance of the room. He is now kneeling on the floor, his wide eyes fixed on a bleeding John Watson, his knees soaked in the little pool of blood.
His trembling fingers reach John's neck, searching for a pulse. Sherlock lets out a breath he hasn't realised he's been holding. It's weak, but it's there. John is strong and holding on to life with all the stubbornness he has ever exhibited.
As if on cue, he opens his eyes. "Sherlock..." he whispers. His voice is broken, no longer the determined voice of a soldier or the austere voice of a doctor. He is losing the fight.
"John, I..."
He doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he had in mind when he opened his mouth. Actually, there are quite a lot of things that he needs to say, but words fail him.
He somehow manages to get his phone out of his pocket and call an ambulance. After giving them the instructions quickly, he hangs up and feels more useless than ever before in his whole life. What is he supposed to do as John bleeds out in front of him?
"Is there anything...?" It's getting harder and harder for him to speak. Fear envelopes him, tightening around his chest, choking him. He almost can't breathe.
"Press...on the wound," John tells him.
Sherlock's hand moves immediately, finding the wound and putting pressure on it. As John's precious blood coats his long fingers and his palm, he remembers the army doctor showing him how to do this on another man, calling him nurse, placing his hand over his in order to guide him.
His vision is blurry; as he blinks, he concludes that hot tears are slowly running down his cold pale cheeks. He wipes them off with his free hand. He can't cry now. He has to be strong, for John.
"I think you should have chosen a male therapist," he tries to joke in a calm, conversational tone. However, his voice is shaky and almost fails him completely.
John gives him a small smile. The sight normally makes Sherlock feel lighter, happy, but not now. Nothing can do that now. Nevertheless, he has to admire John (once again) for his valiant effort to appear invincible. Is this simply a brave soldier not wanting to look vulnerable, or is he keeping up this façade for Sherlock's sake just as Sherlock is doing even though he's screaming and dying inside?
"Oh well, you know me and my terrible choice of women..."
Sherlock's teary eyes meet his. Is he still jesting or is he trying to tell him something this time? If so, is he talking about the women he dated briefly when they were living together in 221B Baker Street...or could he be referring to Mary?
No, he can't allow his thoughts to go down such a path. Mary was there for John when Sherlock was supposedly dead, giving him the love and affection that Sherlock himself could never give him so openly. She gave up her own life in her attempt to protect Sherlock.
He feels John's hand on his own, almost squeezing but not quite. "Press...a little harder."
Sherlock lets the good doctor show him the way, show him how much pressure to apply. In another time, in another place, he would have given anything to have John hold his hand (not quite, not exactly, but good enough for him), but now it only causes him more pain.
"I'm just an idiot," he whispers.
He's an idiot because he doesn't know how to save John's life. He's an idiot because it took him a while to deduce the most important thing in his life, the way he feels about John Watson. He's an idiot because he has never told John that John himself is his heart, the heart that Jim Moriarty once vowed to burn out of him.
John finally loses conscience when the ambulance arrives. Everything is a blur. The only thing Sherlock can remember is John, lying on a stretcher, pale, looking so small. Sherlock can't take his eyes off him. Everything else is insignificant, lost to him, because John is the only thing that matters.
"Please, let me stay, he's family," he remembers saying, his voice shaking again, desperate to enter the ER with John.
And when John is finally out of the operation room, his life on his own hands, the doctors not sure whether he will make it, whether he will emerge victorious from this fight, Sherlock is there. His legs won't hold him anymore, so he sits in the chair next to John's bed.
Don't you dare, he thinks. Don't you dare die on me. Your life is not your own to take away. Don't take your life, your light, away from me. Stay with me. Don't leave me.
Instead, the only words that he actually utters are the truest ones that have ever escaped his lips. "I love you."