"No!" John was gasping breathlessly, running towards the hospital. Sherlock was still falling.
The actual moment of impact was obscured by a large truck, which moved away a few seconds later. Even as he rushed ahead, he was knocked back onto the ground by a bike, barely noticing the fall. He stumbled forwards and fell to his knees beside Sherlock, feeling desperately for a pulse - strong, weak and threaded, anything at all.
There was nothing.
He held onto Sherlock's wrist tightly, tight enough to hurt. He should flinch. There was nothing.
But Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He didn't flinch at little things like pain or stop for small things like sleep. Sleep was boring.
After a few seconds that could've lasted years a group of doctors and paramedics swarmed the scene. John breathed heavily as kind fingers slowly prised his from Sherlock's wrist.
Within ten minutes John was on the ground, a shock blanket wrapped tightly around him and a comforting hand squeezing his arm.
People rushed in and out of the hospital with emergencies ad concerns and people to visit, unaware of what had just happened. Sherlock's body had been taken gently inside.
He had been declared dead at the scene.
And through it all John sat rigidly on the floor staring at the sticky pool of crimson blood.