John's once clear blue eyes were glazed as he looked down at the dark red stain spreading slowly across his bare chest. Looking up, he met his eyes, knowing that it would be the last time that he would be able to see the grey coloured orbs that he loved so much.
Oddly, he felt no pain, and no sadness. Just a ringing sense of finality; that everything would be over for him in a matter of moments. Before this moment, such a thought would have filled him with a blinding, all-encompassing fear, but right then, it felt unimportant, distant- like it was just something remembered from long ago.
Time began to pass too quickly for him to keep track of. Each time he opened her eyes, an age seemed to have passed by. Still, the other man, Sherlock, did not move. His eyes, so shadowed now, never left John's face, and never lost the grim, broken look that they had gained since the night began. John saw this, but it did not manage to pierce through the heavy, suffocating pressure that was building up in his head. Even as he tried to move, to wipe the silent, silver tears from his lover's pale white cheeks, the pain did not reach him fully. In his numb, peaceful state he was thankful for that. He didn't want to be distracted by the pain: for it to keep him from looking at those high, pale cheekbones and raven hair for as long as he could.
The light reaching through the half-drawn curtains cast shadows on the ceiling above him. This he noticed, as breathing became more difficult and his breath shallower. Red ran down his body, pooling warmly beneath his bent legs, across the tiled floor, the dark rivulets of his life rushing away from him.
Parting his blue-tinged lips, he sighed, knowing that he could not speak, but wanting, more than anything, to be able to say something. Anything. An "I love you." A simple "goodbye." But, no, the time for that had long since passed.
Another sigh.
A faint, broken sob.
Then, silence.