There is nothing I can do but listen as the heart moniter marking every beat of Sherlock's pulse begins to flatten out into a horrible whine that fills the air. I barely notice the medical staff desperatly trying to restore Sherlock back to life and simply stare into space, feeling more than a little dazed. How the hell have we ended up here? How did the day turn out so badly? I badly wish I knew the answer to these questions. Maybe if I did I would be able to understand why this was happening.
I can't believe it is barely seven hours ago since Sherlock smiled slyly over his shoulder as he left the flat, smug in the knowledge he would easily be able to track down the person strapping explosive vests to innocent people... how wrong he had been. Even with his intellect I don't think he could possibly have foreseen the twisted direction events had taken. With a pained sigh I close my eyes, resting my head back against the smooth leather of the chair as I do so. Ever since we arrived at the hospital I have found myself reliving the terrible things that had happened, despite my attempts to block them out.
Once again I find my thoughts transported back to the silent emptyness of the swimming pool. The explosive vest had felt like an impossible weight dragging me down as I waited for Sherlock to turn up. Throughout the wait Moriarty had laughed in my ear, taunting me with the simple fact that he had finally managed to beat the great Sherlock Holmes. The whole time I had been praying Sherlock wouldn't come; that he would give the memory stick to Lestrade and give up this idea of luring out the actual criminal. Of course in the end Sherlock hadn't been able to resist. I can still remember the shock on his face when he intially saw me, as though he honestly believed for a second that I could have been the one behind the horrific murders. Even now the thought stings a little. I suppose though I can't be too annoyed at Sherlock because, honestly, I had never believed he would actually pull the trigger.
I am sure he could have come up with another way out. Sure Moriarty pretty much had us cornered but there must have been another solution; things can't have been so desperate that Sherlock would willingly endanger our lives...could they? The thought makes me pause for a moment and brings me back to the reality of the hospital room and the medical staff's frantic activity. I stare blankly at it. At the time I had been almost certain I was going to die. Only Sherlock's quick thinking of shoving me into the deep end of the pool had saved me from the worst of the fire and the deadly shards of metal and concrete flying through the air. I had managed to escape with only superficial cuts and bruises and a mild concussion from where I had collided with the side of the pool. All in all I had been exceptionally lucky...unlike Sherlock. Suffering from severe burns and with shards of metal embedded in his lungs and chest it had been highly doubtful he would even survive the trip to the hospital. Twice the medical staff had been forced to resuscitate him; the second time having to briefly put him in a medically induced coma. Not that it had lasted long. The doctors and surgeons had quickly realised it would take nothing short of a miracle to save Sherlock Holmes. Sadly a miracle never arrived.
A wave of sadness rises within me and I find myself angrily wiping away tears with the back of my hand. Crying is pointless, it will not save Sherlock or change the things that have happened. Behind me someone, a familiar voice, clears their throat but does not say anything. I don't have to look round to know who they are. Poor Mycroft has arrived just in time to see his little Brother finally slip away. The thought makes me draw a deep, shuddering breath. It can't end like this can it? The years solving crimes with Sherlock, the friendship I have with him. Can it really all just slip away? By the bed the medical staff step back with drained, exhausted expressions on their faces, giving me a clear view of the bed. Without his usual vitality Sherlock looks shrunken and pale. Even the blood staining the bandages wrapped around his chest looks oddly drained of its normally garish colours. One of the medical staff slowly intones date and time of death before all of them slowly filter from the room. A doctor leans over and switches off the heart rate moniter as he passes it, cutting off the montonous drone of the flatline. Suddenly, horribly, the enormity of what is happening finally hits me. No more solving crimes, no more watching a brilliant mind at work, no more excitment...no more Sherlock...
A violent shiver runs through me and ice oozes through my veins. Burying my head in my hands I burst into loud sobs that shakes me entire body, not caring that there are witnesses to my sorrow. I feel Mycroft lightly lay a hand on my shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. He doesn't have to say anything, I can tell he is also silently suffering (though unlike me he would never show it. It seems impossible that events could have gone downhill so quickly. A feeling of numbness sweeps over me. Surely it can't all end like this; it just isn't fair after everything we have been through. I should be the one lying dead in a hospital bed, not Sherlock- how can someone so full of life just simply stop... It can't end like this...it simply can't.
