I wonder idly if there is anything more after this life as I stare up at the darkened sky. I can't make many stars out over the light pollution emitting from the city's humming streets but there are one or two pinpricks of light dancing in the black expanse above me so I focus on them as my life-force slowly drains away.

I'm lying spread-eagle on my back by the docks with two gunshot wounds; one grazing my head and the other embedded in my right shoulder. The pain dulled long ago, a result of blood loss and shock I deduce. The criminal who shot me departed seconds after the deed was performed, not quick enough for me not to get a look at him though: mid thirty's, closely cropped brown hair, married, murderer of three women and soon to be murderer of the world's only Consulting Detective. I sigh mentally as the crimson liquid continues to pool around me. Such a dull way to die, gunned down by someone stupid at the docks. He really was an idiot; the case almost wasn't worth my time it was that easy to solve. The only piece of the puzzle I had missed was that he would panic when being pursued and pull his gun.

I wonder vaguely where John is, he was with me when I began chasing the killer, so where Lestrade and the Yarders but got lost somewhere in the winding back allies of London. It was a shame really; I don't particularly want to die sprawled on my back with two bullet wounds tonight. I must resign myself to this fate however, as help doesn't seem to be coming.

I can feel the blood pumping its way through my veins and onto the concrete, every thump of my heart brings me closer to the End. I suppose this was true anyway, we are always getting older; every passing day brings us closer to our inevitable demise. The head wound bothers me a little: what if all of my intellect is spilling out from inside my head, mingled with the blood? Every brilliant thought and deduction, congealing on the pavement as they wait to be cleaned up by the Council.

Will anyone really miss me when I'm gone? I know that they'll all miss something: Mycroft will miss someone else to manipulate, Mrs Hudson will miss someone to mother, Molly will miss someone to dote on. But will they miss me, the real Sherlock Holmes? Perhaps John might, but he's survived the harsh reality of war, he can get over my death.

A heavy lethargy washes over my blood soaked limbs and my eyelids droop. This is it then. Goodbye world.

Goodbye John.

Right on cue, his strong, familiar presence has joined me and is desperately telling me to stay awake, to stay with him Sherlock but I'm too far gone by this point to even try to reply. I let myself be comforted by him being here, applying copious amounts of pressure to my wounds and telling me that everything will be fine, just stay with him.

Maybe it will, but for now I'm happy just to drift in this grey area between life and death and gaze at those tiny dots of light in the evening sky.