We're losing you Sherlock!" Every instinct in John's body was screaming.
Sherlock Holmes had been shot. A bright crimson wound pools through his chest, staining the usual crisp white shirt the detective had worn to their break in to Magnussen's office.
His hands press against Sherlock's oxygen mask. He asked Sherlock Holmes to not be dead once before. Now he was asking him not to die.
It can't end like this, John thinks. Because it's supposed to be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson forever. They're supposed to be solving cases together until they're both old and grey, and their bones ache from running after London's criminals for so many years.
John doesn't know why but he's always seen Sherlock as this invincible, indestructible creature. After the fall, once his anger at the detective had left him, he'd convinced himself that nothing in this world could kill Sherlock.
He remembers Sherlock's words. They ring in his head clear as a bell. It's like the man himself is talking to him. "Between you and me, John, I always survive a fall."
This time the fall was too far, and too hard. There is too much blood, and the shot is too precise. No matter how much he wills Sherlock to be OK, John was a soldier, and he knows what a kill shot looks like.
He wants to hold Sherlock and tell him it's all going to be OK. He knows how much pain is coursing through his best friend right now, and he understands the science behind what the bullet is doing to Sherlock's body even in this very second.
If the world was a good place then Sherlock would be able to will himself back. But that's not how things work. People aren't able to just will themselves back into existence from a bullet wound like that. Not even Sherlock's great genius would be capable of that.
He knows there isn't much time left. So he stops the futile begging, and he leans in close. He notes how glazed over Sherlock's eyes are; pain, shock, impending death. But somewhere in there is his Sherlock, most likely scared out of his mind, and dying in the worst way possible.
His Sherlock
And that's what he is, isn't he? He's always belonged to John, and John has always belonged to Sherlock.
It strikes him then that there are so many things that have been left unsaid between them. He has to say them now or he might regret it for the rest of his life.
His lips press against Sherlock's forehead without hesitation. He closes his eyes, exhales deeply, heart weighing like led in his chest. "Look Sherlock…this is hard for me…saying this sort of stuff. But you're the most human, human being I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. I mean it. Sherlock Holmes, I'm in love with you, you hear? I just…you need to know that before you…go."
The man's eyes flicker with brief recognition. He tries to speak. His lips tremble, and his breath comes in short, ragged bursts. John thinks he hears something along the lines of "loveyoutoo" but it's too slurred to make out clearly. The next word out of his mouth only goes on to confuse John further because it sounds an awful lot like "Mary"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
John watches in horror as Sherlock's body starts to shake, and he goes into De-fib. The medical staff are fast acting and try their best to revive him, but John knows that it will get them nowhere. It's too late.
He watches as Sherlock dies. This time he knows that this is for real. He feels a cold numbness wash over him, as he watches the love of his life taken from the world.
Sherlock flatlines in front of him. Even as the medical staff are calling it, John holds Sherlock's hand, squeezing firmly. He swears that he will find whoever did this to his beautiful genius, and there is nothing in this world that will stop him from enacting revenge.