A/N: December 20th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012. Prompt was from Werepanther33: Angel

Beyond

Stupid. Stupid, foolish, idiotic... but self recrimination is pointless now. He is going to die. It is inevitable. A foregone conclusion.

"No," I whisper and the torso beneath my hands jerks, blood oozing past my bunched up coat jacket and between my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply. Please no...

A cough. A moan.

"H-Holmes..?"

He's dying. What do I say? What can I say?

"I'm- I'm here Watson." I hope he does not catch that telling stumble in my words. Now is not the time to fall apart. "Scotland Yard are on the way."

"And... Brohan..?"

"Dead." I do not glance to the body in the corner. Another foregone conclusion. "Watson..." What do I tell him? "Watson I-"

But he is gone, unconscious again. No one is coming to help, and all I can do is listen to his breathing. It is laboured, a struggle, but still he persists and I am so focused on each difficult breath, each shaky rise and fall of the ribcage, that at first I do not notice the sounds from outside the room.

Footsteps. Voices. Distant, but most definitely there.

"The Yard..." I breathe, a world of hope emerging before me. Looking down, Watson's face is so pale as to nearly shine in the darkness. He doesn't have long left. I am loathe to leave him, for fear he will die here alone, but reluctantly I stand.

"Watson the Yard I- I will not be long I-" I'm wasting time. "I will not be long."

I am sprinting, halfway out the door, when his voice rings out. It is dry and hoarse with lack of air.

"Mary..."

But already I am gone, bellowing for the Yard, for anyone, to come and help.

The Doctor had said it would be days before he awoke, that it was a miracle he survived at all. But then Watson has always had an obstinate streak, and the luck of the Devil himself.

"Holmes?" He speaks in a mumble, eyes barely open.

I grasp his hand where it lies upon the white hospital coverlet. "I suggest you sleep, my dear fellow."

He falls silent, I assume because he has fallen back under the influence of several strong sedatives the surgeons gave him, but just as I am about to release his hand he speaks again.

"Where is Mary?

The simple question is enough to stun me for a few moments.

"She- she passed away." I wonder whether he has somehow sustained memory loss from the trauma he has been through, but his next response suggests otherwise.

"I thought so."

And with that he falls asleep. I drop his hand and leave the hospital to lay a bouquet of flowers beneath Mary Watson's gravestone.

"Thank you," I murmur softly to the grave. I expect no response, but am grateful all the same.