Sherlock
It was calm. Finally, silence. I missed silence, total silence. Voices occasionally filtered through, but it was impossible to decipher them. What did it matter? Nothing. Memories were all I had now. Even those would start fading soon. I couldn't find it in myself to care. I had no idea why anyone was trying. I wanted it to fade, I wanted my world to turn to black. I willed it every second with increasing desperation. I'd had enough, couldn't they see that? This, lying in a bed, too weak to move, too tired to try, this wasn't living.
This was existing.
This was hell.
I preferred even the torture in Sudan, running and hiding in Somalia, even the illness in Romania. They'd let me be, there, they simply watched me struggle to live. There was no one touching me, my hands, my arms, my face, my hair.
There were no voices.
There was no John.
I could hear the familiar voice sometimes, when I was almost awake, almost alive. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to reach out and touch him. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to open my eyes and say something. I wanted to say anything.
What could I possibly say?
What could John possibly have to say back?
"Don't be dead."
"Don't wake up."
"Don't."
I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to be tired, I didn't want to be weak, I didn't want to feel nothing.
I was done with feeling, too.
I was done with breathing.
I was done. I wanted to let go. I wanted them to let me let go.
I wanted them to let go, too.
I wanted to scream. Couldn't they see there was no point? I was done, I was finished, there was nothing left to save.
Nothing left of William Holmes.
Nothing left of Sherlock Holmes.
There was nothing left.
I could hear it, the noise of my salvation, the noise of my rescue, the noise of my end.
My own personal flatline.
The sound was so beautiful, more beautiful than anything I'd ever heard.
Then there was nothing.