His life hadn't flashed before his eyes; there was no bright light to move towards, but Harry Pearce was certain that this time he was dying. He wasn't even sure what had happened exactly. His brain hadn't processed the gunshot until after he had hit the pavement – hard.
It was taking a lot longer than he thought. He wondered if it had been this way for Jo – he had consoled himself by presuming that death had come quickly for her, but now he wasn't so sure. The pressure in his chest was unbearable; every breath he drew took supreme effort. He could taste his own blood, smell it on the ground beside him. Death was far from peaceful, he thought. An unrelenting din filled his head, but he had neither the strength nor particular inclination to try to differentiate the sounds.
He had never been particularly religious, but he had always somewhat envied those who were, those who could trust in something implicitly. There had been too many betrayals given and received in his life to trust in anything, well, nearly anything. He could understand people's need to believe in some sort of afterlife, the comforting idea that there was something beyond their seemingly random and purposeless lives. But for Harry, the idea of any sort of afterlife was the opposite of comforting. Spending an eternity with those he had let down in life was too horrible to contemplate. There was his father, who in the midst of his own profound grief over the loss of his wife, had to deal with the recklessness of his elder son. Or Ben, who had died in a random accident, never understanding why his brother with whom he had once been so close suddenly became so cold and distant to the point of being cruel, never knowing that his brother was just trying to protect him. Then there was the long line of colleagues, who trusted in him to their cost. Had he chose differently, they could have lived, been happy…
He coughed violently, and the effort sent a wave of pain through his chest. The pain was excruciating; it was taking so long. Poor Zaf. He probably felt like this for weeks, maybe months. He can't breathe any longer. It won't be long now. I'm sorry, Ruth…
A strong pair of hands grabs him by the lapels and hauls him upright, and he only becomes aware of this because suddenly he can breathe again, albeit with difficulty. He's also vaguely aware of a familiar voice above the cacophony of his head.
"Dimitri…?"
"I'm here. Emergency services are four minutes away. Can you hold that?"
He concentrates and tries to focus on what's going on. Something is pressed up against the wound, and he instantly realizes that that his pain can get worse. In his blurry vision, he sees the hint of a smile on his young officer's face.
"You would've made a great sailor with vocabulary like that, sir."
He tries to smile back, but he's not sure if he's succeeding. Suddenly, he's very tired, more exhausted than he's ever been. Reality starts to fade away, and he can't help but close his eyes.
"Harry, hang on."
It makes perfect sense to him that an angel would have a voice like Ruth Evershed.