He had the option to meet the people, people who wanted to thank him for what he'd done, for giving them parts of John.
Sherlock hated them for that, for them to be breathing and living, warm, with parts of John inside him. A woman even had his eyes. She was seeing the whole world through John, and there was no way Sherlock could reconcile those images.
Besides, he wasn't sure if he could stand being near them and not wanting to rip open their bodies to see John inside of them, to reassure himself that he wasn't entirely gone.
And that wouldn't be good for anyone.
Speed dial number two. He couldn't bear to change it.
It rang, and he pushed down on his side, hissing in pain. It was going to stain his scarf.
"What is it Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. He didn't sound amused.
"I got shot again," he breathed, laughing shakily. He didn't know why. It wasn't funny. Or was it?
He could hear a steady stream of curse words, and Lestrade bellowing at him to tell him where he was, but by then Sherlock's phone had slipping from his fingertips and was lying on the pavement.
And Sherlock grinned.