Death of a Hero
A bird flies over the scene not interested in the man that is lying on the ground. Not interested in the fact that he has sacrificed himself to save the one that was for him the most important person in the world. The bird can't see that nearly every bone in that body is broken or that the blood is wetting the ground. It can't see the tears that will be cried and it doesn't matter. The bird is already gone and has left the scene where a fallen hero is dying on the street.
Cold. It was cold. Why did he still feel the cold? He had thought that death would take all the feelings and all that pain away. So why was this ice cold feeling still around him?
Sherlock's eyes open, his vision is blurry and red spots creep up from the corners of his eyes. Above him is the sky in its gray glory. A face comes close to him. The face of one of the angels. No, not just one of them. The most important one, the only one that matters. He had never wanted to be on their side or be a hero like someone had told him recently. He just wanted to be with him, always on his side. Bathing in his light and imagining he did not belong to the other side.
The watery and salty lines from the first real tears he has ever let fall are still on his face but new drops of water fall from the sky. Maybe it's the way the sky has of crying for him or these are the tears of the one person he always needed to be by his side. He can't see it, all the colors are starting to disappear and the bright light will follow soon. The darkness will come again and take him away. Away from the angels and away from John.
John Watson is beside him, beside his friend and crying tears of sadness and sorrow. He can't help him take away the pain that he must be feeling. The only thing he can do is hold his hand and be at his side. He won't let go of his friend, no one should be alone in their final hours.
The blood that has left his friend's body has soaked his pants and he can see the light fading from Sherlock's eyes. His pulse is getting weaker with every passing second and John sees a last smile directed at him.
Sherlock Holmes dies there on the ground next to him. Later John would smile a sad smile thinking about the fact that his friend had always told him he wasn't a hero. But John has had and has all the facts and seen the evidence he needs to confirm what he has always known:
Sherlock Holmes was a hero.
The world isn't fair to their heroes; the world is unjust and doesn't deserve heroes. The world and the people love their heroes and celebrate them but the trust is thin and even a small shadow coming up and slightly covering the hero's light suddenly makes enemies out of their heroes.
How then can a human being be a hero at all? How can it sacrifice life for death? How can it be immune against hate and love? How are people that sometimes need to be selfish to be able to survive in this world suddenly become so selfless and give everything to another person?
And why is it that the world that doesn't deserve heroes gets them anyway? Why are heroes here among us? Why do they try to make things better? Why don't they just give up and let us all die in a dark world without them?
We don't deserve them.