Sherlock anticipated the bullet before it was shot. But what could he do? He wouldn't be able to push the gunman away from John - he was too far away. There was only one thing he could do…
He dived just as the trigger was pulled. There was a loud crack and a sharp pain in his chest. Blood was pouring out of a hole underneath his shirt.
John gasped. He ran to Sherlock. Time seemed to be going in slow motion. He couldn't be… Sherlock wasn't…
But the blood said otherwise. There was no ignoring the fact that Sherlock had just saved his life… at the price of his own.
John sobbed. Not just quiet little tears; great, racking sobs. The rest of the world was blocked out. He couldn't hear or see anything except the slowly dying body of his best friend.
"Sherlock," John whispered through his tears. "Sherlock, you once said heroes didn't exist. And that if they did, you wouldn't be one of them. But neither of them… neither of them are true. You are a hero. I'm honoured… so, so honoured… to call you my best friend."
Sherlock managed a weak smile. "I was pretty great, wasn't I?" And then his life force drifted away, leaving John holding what had been, and always would be, his best friend.