Bullet wound. Left side, most likely no vital organs pierced. Heavy bleeding. Location of bullet… ignore the pain… yes, still inside. Damn. John could fix this. He'd be telling me to go to a proper hospital, but I know he prefers stitching my wounds. He likes to make sure it's been done right. John. Where is John? Oh, yes, with Lestrade, where I left him. I should stop leaving him behind; he's useful.
John's going to be very angry when he finds me this time. He'll sit with me in the ambulance and make sure I don't take out my IV. Later he won't be rested after sleeping in a hospital chair, so he'll be out of sorts and irritable. But I'll kiss him until he stops frowning. That's how it works.
But he doesn't know where I am. He won't find me soon enough. I didn't tell him where I was going, and even if I had, what reason would he have to look in a ventilation shaft?
My phone. I should call John. Or Lestrade. No, it fell out of my pocket when I was climbing. It's on the floor now. That was foolish.
Will John find my body? This is an abandoned warehouse after all. Murderers use these as bases for a reason. Mycroft will probably track me here using CCTV, though, so my corpse won't be very far into decomposition.
Will John cry? I [hope] think so. He cried last time. But he might not have any tears left.
Will John want an open-coffin funeral? I don't know, it never occurred to me to ask. I wouldn't want to see his face expressionless. It would be a mask made to look like John. John's face cannot exist without emotion. It wouldn't be my John.
Will John even go to my funeral? I couldn't go to his.
Will John stop functioning without me? He almost did, last time. I would.
No. John isn't dead. John is alive. John is safe.
John, you'll to be my last thought.
Not much time left.
John Hamish Watson.
Goodbye, mine.