And then, one day, it happened, during a case, so unexpected. Sherlock got shot. The doctor in John already knew it was too late, but he denied it, he ran towards his friend and leaned over to him.
"Don't you do that to me... not again.. no... you can't...", he murmured sobbing.
"John...", Sherlock whispered, turning his head, trying with drowsy eyes to focus on his friend's face. John wanted to take a look at the wound and tried to move, but as soon as he did, Sherlock raised his head and grabbed his arm, and his voice was racked with pain, but strong as he said: "Don't. Don't go, John."
"I didn't..."
"Please... just... stay with me..." Sherlock sank down to the cold ground again. He still clung to John's arm as he watched the grey clouds above them passing by, and then suddenly the breathing got harder and harder, and he groaned.
John bit his lip, trying to withhold the tears, as Sherlock's glance found him for a last time.
"This is it now... isn't it? I feel it... and I thought it would be easier... I always assumed... but now... I'm afraid, John... it hurts, and I want the pain to stop... and I - I don't want to die... suddenly... I feel... so much... everything..." His voice slowly faded away now. "John... I..."
Sherlock's sight darkened and his eyes became empty with a last, groaning breath, and finally the hand that had grabbed John's arm sank to the ground.
John sat there, in silence, and silently the tears found their way, down his cheek and down to Sherlock's pale, quiet face.