Chapter Text
The shot hits.
Blood oozes from the wound, even before the pain sets in, dripping onto the asphalt and turning everything red. Streams seem to form and threaten to pull Sherlock away, even though he doesn't move an inch.
He has to get into his mind palace; that's his only chance of survival. Molly Hooper. The thought of the pathologist calms Sherlock's perforated heart for a few seconds. But this time, she can't help him.
"You need to get out of the shooting line!" Graham yells at him from his thoughts. The detective reacts the moment the pain sets in. He dives behind a stack of crates. Too late.
The next shot hits.
As Sherlock hits the ground, he lacks the strength to get up again. The first shot narrowly missed his heart, the second one did not.
These are the last seconds.
"Sherlock!" The voice sounds muffled, it seems to come from another world, far, far away. "Sherlock!" The detective can recognize the voice; it is John. The certainty of having to leave him behind hurts more than the wounds.
A hand presses on the hole in his heart, trying to stop the flow of blood and prevent the inevitable.
So this is what dying feels like.
Many times Sherlock has narrowly escaped death, but this time, this time it is real. And it feels different than every other time before. The physical pain is barely felt by the detective; there are too many emotions, too much pain inside him that torments him. Thoughts flicker through his mind in a matter of seconds, racing through his consciousness, too quickly for him to grasp them all. But he can feel them. What happens to those he leaves behind? How will Molly react to the news? What will happen to his constantly worried brother Mycroft? His parents?
Who will Gavin turn to in the future if he fails in a case? Who will try to communicate with Eurus? And what will happen to John? What will happen to his best friend? Who will catch him in his grief? The air is leaving Sherlock's lungs, and with great effort, he can inhale again; everything hurts in the process. This tight feeling in his chest is despair. There is so much to say, but not a single word escapes Sherlock's throat. Just one last breath before his thoughts die with him. If only he could say something.
Just one word.
Just. One. Word.
Just
One
Word.
"John."
And then nothing anymore.
His chest sinks as the detective exhales one last time. The gunshots grow louder, besides him someone - John - gasps for air. A bright flash bursts through his closed eyelids, burning red. The noise envelops him, wraps him in a numbing blanket, before his senses blur and the world closes off before him.
Sherlock is glad that he can‘t hear John's desperate scream; it would have shattered his broken heart.
So this is what dying feels like.