John Watson tumbled to the ground, gasping with pain. He clasped a hand to his left shoulder, drawing back with surprise when he found it soaked in blood.

Whose blood? Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock!

The screams inside his head came out of his mouth in between panicked breaths. He couldn't get up—couldn't get his arm to move, gain purchase on the damp pavement. He had to get on his feet, had to help Sherlock. The gunfire had come out of nowhere. It wasn't random though. The shots were cold—calculated. The gunman wouldn't miss. He hadn't missed. Watson's shoulder was proof of that. His old war wound, reopened, and nobody to save him this time. Except Sherlock.

Sherlock!

"I'm here, John, I'm here! Lie still."

Sherlock Holmes kneeled over his friend, both hands pressed to the bleeding shoulder. His blue scarf brushed John's chin.

Sherlock.

It was funny, John thought, that he was only panicked until he saw Sherlock, alive, unharmed. Things were perfectly fine, now that he was okay. His smooth, pale face was inches away from John's, perfectly formed lips shouting words that the doctor couldn't quite hear. Those damn eyes, wide with fear—

Sherlock?

"You stay with me, John, it's going to be fine! Damn it, stay with me!"

Of course, Sherlock. I could never leave you.

John stared at the man over him. He was beautiful—so beautiful. The sculpted cheekbones, and the way they made his eyes stand out. The dark curls that the blond had always wanted to run his hand through. The long, graceful neck that seemed to beg for kisses. Even his narrow, strong, shoulders were beautiful, giving way to his lean, lanky arms. John longed to fall asleep in those arms. They were around him, now, one hand on the pavement next to the doctor's head, and the other pressing down on his shoulder. Watson was tired, very tired. He might as well fall asleep under Sherlock now. It was the closest he would ever get to the real thing.

His eyelids began to flutter.

"John Watson, you keep your eyes open! Look at me, look at me!"

How could I look at anything else? Nothing is as interesting as you are, Sherlock.

A little curl was falling out of place, partially covering one of Sherlock's eyes. John longed to reach up and brush it away, but his arms wouldn't obey him. That was alright, he decided. He settled for gazing at the pale, stormy green eyes around the curl. It bounced up and down as Sherlock shouted.

"It's going to be fine, it is, I promise! Just stay with me! Stay with me…"

I'm right here.

Sherlock's lovely eyes began to blur with tears—what was that about? John watched as they began to overflow, catching on his dark lashes, running down his perfect face, and dripping off his chin… The doctor wished he could sit up and kiss them away, and then throw his arms around the detective and kiss him senseless, so he wouldn't feel the pain anymore.

"John, please… You aren't going to die, not now. Don't die on me!"

I'm dying. Of course. I understand now. Sherlock… Sherlock. I lied to you. When I told you what my last words would be. Please, God, please, let me live. I don't want to leave him—I love Sherlock, I love him. Sherlock!

His arm—the one that hurt slightly less—granted him this last request. He took a fistful of his friend's scarf, pulling him down, close.

"Sherlock…"

"Shh, John, it's alright," the detective sobbed. "You're going to be fine…"

"Sherlock." The doctor's breath came in short gasps. "Sherlock, I love you."

The man's desperate shouts choked off. Pale, green eyes widened with surprise, searching the doctor's face. He opened his mouth to say something, finally deciding against it and closing it. With a split second decision, his eyes slid shut as he cleared the tiny distance still between them. He pressed his soft mouth to Watson's, using his free hand to cup John's face. The pair lay there for a moment, an endless moment in the back alleyway. John could taste the tears on Sherlock's lips, and the blood from his own. It was perfect, and beautiful, and John couldn't imagine dying any other way.

Then, Sherlock's eyes flew open, and he was being ripped away from John. The doctor was aware of people around him, a sharp pain in his good arm—and everything faded into darkness.