"I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of"-STUD
"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered…What would you say in your last few words?" Sherlock questioned rapidly.
"Please, God, let me live."
Use your imagination." He retorted, waving his hands animatedly.
"I don't have to." And I didn't, for I'd been shot, been on the verge of death. Typhoid had struck after my bullet wound, taking me dangerously close to the end. I'd had the occasion to work out (and practice) what I'd say on my death bed.
Sherlock must've caught my meaning. He lowered his eyes for a moment in realization. A split second later he continued his rapid-fire interrogation, but he watched his words.
A/N: School's started. Very busy.