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The odd thing was, that it didn’t hurt. It should have hurt, but the only pain John felt, had been the initial heat from the impact of a bullet into his stomach. Funny. They, whoever they were, said that dying from a bullet into the stomach was supposed to be the most painful death you could get, and yet he felt no pain.
It was a little cold, though.
John backed against one of the walls in the small alley, clutching the area on his stomach where he’d been shot. Curiously he looked down, strangely amused that his first thought was well that’s my favourite jumper ruined, and not I’m dying. His second thought was that Sherlock would be annoyed.
Sinking to the ground, John closed his eyes with a deep sigh. Distantly he heard another shot, then some yelling, and then the feeling of gloved fingers against his face.
And sound. His name. John opened his eyes, smiling faintly. Or at least he thought he was smiling, he couldn’t be sure.
“Sorry,” he muttered, looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock’s pale eyes were widened, not much, but just a tad more than usual. Anyone else wouldn’t notice, but John knew the expression and felt guilty. Sherlock was afraid.
“You idiot,” Sherlock hissed, quickly fishing his phone out of his pocket. “When you didn’t say anything, I thought you were okay!”
“Didn’t want to slow you down,” John closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to see Sherlock afraid right now. In contrast to the stomach wound, the sight was painful. “The suspect?”
“Dead.” The answer was short. Cold. Unrepentant. Ah.
“Don’t bother,” John’s eyes flickered open, looking at the phone. It was too late to call anyone. He knew it. Felt it.
“Don’t be an idiot, it doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock said harshly, fingers rapidly running over the keys on his phone, and then with one significant press of his thumb, he sent his text. “You’ll be fine.”
John weakly huffed a laugh. Right. “And then what?”
“Then you’ll make tea,” Sherlock turned his attention to John’s face, purposely avoiding looking at the dark red spot staining his oatmeal coloured jumper. “Write about the case. You’ll berate me for something mundane I have or have not done, and life goes on.”
He wanted to sound calm, but there was an uncomfortable desperation in his voice. John didn’t like it.
Death itself didn’t bother him, but the sudden realisation that this would be the last time he and Sherlock talked… No, God no, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to go, knowing Sherlock would be left behind. Alone.
His eyes stung. First sign of pain so far. Drat.
“I’m so sorry,” John’s voice was thick, and he grabbed Sherlock’s arm, wet fingers twisting into the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat. “I’m not… Christ.”
“John!” Desperation clear as ice this time. “John look at me!”
“Don’t blame yourself,” John muttered. “I don’t want you to.”
“You’re not going anywhere!” Sherlock said angrily, touching John’s face again. This time, the gloves were off, and the warmth of his fingers felt so nice.
It hurt now. Not a lot, but enough so that John panted involuntarily. The alarm in Sherlock’s eyes made John frown. ”Stop looking like that!”
“Stop bleeding out,” Sherlock snapped back.
John wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. God, this was really happening. In an alley in London, cold, but thankfully not alone. Not yet.
“I never said…” John trailed off. “I wanted to tell you… someday.”
He didn’t have to say anything, Sherlock nodded frantically, his lips pressed tightly together. Oh, he knew, John thought. Of course.
“Mutual,” Sherlock whispered, swallowing visibly. His eyes were shiny, but in the wrong way. Not good.
“No regrets,” John’s hand slid down, wrapping around Sherlock’s wrist. ”All right?”
Sherlock bent forward, resting his forehead against John’s. His eyes were closed, and his face twisted in a pained expression. It broke John’s heart to know that it was because of him. Because of this.
Hot tears fell down John’s face, but they weren’t his. “Are you going to make me beg?” Sherlock asked, his voice strained. “Twice? Thrice? I’ll do it. As many times as it would take, if you’d just…”
“Just what?”
“Hold on,” not quite a plea, not quite an order.
“Sherlock, listen to me, listen,” John raised his head a little, their noses brushing. It was so intimate, so bizarre considering the situation. Typically John and Sherlock, really. “I have no regrets. This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are the best thing. You gave me back my life, you made me happy again.”
He was crying now, they both were. Unbearable. It was unbearable. But he had to finish, he didn’t have much time left. He couldn’t feel his legs.
“I’ve loved it. Every bit of it-“
“John.”
“Let me finish, dammit! Let me have the last word just this once!” John stared at Sherlock as he pulled back. John loved those eyes, never one specific colour, with flecks of orange in them if you came close enough to look. “Carry on. For me, please. Don’t… Don’t do anything stupid.” Sherlock made a face, and John frowned. “I mean it. I will haunt your stupid arse if necessary.”
Sherlock became blurry, and John wasn’t sure if it were tears or just his vision giving out. Maybe both.
“Don’t shut down. Don’t stop being brilliant,” he whispered, his hand falling limp to his side. This was it. Darkness crept in from the corners, enveloping him in nothingness as all light faded away.
-
The flat was quiet.
John sighed, tapping his fingers against his knee. He used to be so patient once, but now... Now time couldn’t move fast enough. He stood up, made tea, rearranged the books on the shelves, looking out the window, only to sit back in his chair again.
There was a sound of someone walking up the stairs. Slowly, uncertain. It was too soon. Not quite time yet, but John couldn’t help but smile.
Sherlock entered, looking around with his eyes cautiously narrowed as he took in the flat. When he noticed John, his eyes widened and a smile spread on his features.
“John.”
“You daft git,” John sniffed, getting up. “You’re too early.”
“Not my fault,” Sherlock shrugged, still smiling. “He had a knife.”
“You’ve battled knives before. You got careless,” John tried to admonish Sherlock, but the joy of seeing him made it difficult.
Sherlock looked at John, daring to move closer. “I had nothing to lose,” he said quietly.
John moved forward, pulling Sherlock in for a hug. The detective’s arms wrapped around John as well, and minutes passed without either of them moving.
Sherlock was the fist to speak, his voice breaking the silence.
“So… this is Heaven, is it?”
John nodded into Sherlock’s chest, still smiling. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop now. Sherlock was back with him now, and it was all John really needed. “Yeah, it is.”