The blood stained the carpet, turning the expensive velvet red. John Watson watched as the pool slowly spread, reaching out sluggishly, as though it didn't want to leave him. Somewhere he could hear Sherlock yelling for him, yelling his name. He probably just wants a cuppa, John thought.
The blood was leaking from his stomach and chest. He had dissected human bodies in medical school, of course, and Moriarty had evidently picked up the craft somewhere. He couldn't even be surprised.
In the end, there was no pain. It had to be there, of course, but it wasn't. It was as though he was trapped in a horror movie, but at the same time wouldn't cooperate. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't give the monster a victory.
He heard the footsteps running towards him. He felt the arms that held him and the shaking of the man's body. He didn't understand why. It wasn't as though he was in pain. He was floating away, detached from it all, and how could that upset him?
He wasn't anybody special. He wouldn't go out in a blaze of glory. He would go, simply leave, flying away to where the pain that had wrecked his insides and torn at his mind, until the wound, would never torture him again. To where there was no blood.