Sherlock didn't really pull the trigger did he?
But he didn't hurt anymore. He hadn't seen any blood and everything was softer than he remembered. John and Mycroft had looked so worried, but they were safe now.
He couldn't have hurt them.
Just met a friend of yours.
A friend?
An enemy.
Oh. Which one?
Well your archenemy, according to him.
Oh, that one.
It didn't feel too much like sadness. Dying, that is. It just felt like letting go.
But of course, what was he letting go of? He couldn't remember anymore.
Taking your own life. Interesting expression—taking it from whom? Once it's over, it's not you who'll miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everybody else.