My first foray into this fandom; please enjoy.
Inspired by the stars.
Disclaimer: How I wish...
How beautiful the London sky looked.
Offset by the faintest red haze, the black blanket was punctured here and there by only the brightest of stars, their brilliance dampened by the never dissipating smog but still shining true. John didn't remember having seen the stars this clearly before.
He supposed it had something to do with the seemingly never ending amount of clouds which hung over London like a smothering pillow.
Which wasn't so bad, John mused. The clouds gave London an air of mystery.
A shudder rolled down John's spine and he closed his eyes.
He was cold, oh so cold. But the stars were bright so he did his best to put the cold away.
Soldier on Captain. Soldier on. Ignore the pain. Push it away.
Idly, he wondered where Sherlock had gotten to, but quickly dismissed the worry. John was well aware he would come to no harm, not from the killer they had been pursuing at least.
John was sure the man was dead, as he lay in a pool of his own blood, eyes blank and staring at the sky alongside the former army doctor. The third eye gaped dead center of his forehead, a shot fired too late to save John's life, but soon enough to stop the killer from getting away.
A secondary shudder rolled through him, and he coughed, wincing at the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. He was well aware he was dying and had accepted the fact, much like he had done in the sands of Afghanistan. The only difference this time was the bitter taste lingering in his mouth at the thought of Sherlock (brilliant, amazing, infuriating, clever Sherlock) behind. But his death was as sure as the blade glimmering sickly red and protruding from his mid-chest.
From his professional opinion and the breath wheezing in heavy lungs, John hazarded a guess the blade had punctured a lung, likely struck the liver and, from the amount of blood coating his favorite jumper, nicked an artery or major vein.
Not long now.
At least Sherlock wasn't around to see him die; despite what the genius claimed, Sherlock was not a sociopath. John knew differently.
However, John wished he could say goodbye.
No matter.
At that moment, John's vision went, and a small smile graced his lips. The pain was gone.
It was time.
Dying in a cold alleyway had never been the way he'd wanted to go, but then again, he wouldn't have been here if Mike Stamford hadn't called out his name that fateful day. And Watson would never had met the great Sherlock Holmes. John wouldn't trade that meeting and the subsequent year for the world.
Besides, he had been ready and willing to give his life at the pool all those months ago.
It was time to go.
And the stars shone as brightly as they could in the London sky.
Lestrade found them moments later and the sight he found would forever be burned into his mind. Sherlock sat alongside John, back resting against the cold walls and one hand intertwined with John's limp one. Blood was caked across the two hands, and Sherlock's eyes were filled with a wild and stunned grief.
And the guilt flooding Sherlock's piercing gaze felt powerful and poignant enough for Greg to drown in.
It took four officers and Lestrade himself to pry the dead from the living.