Chapter Text
It was cold for a summer evening. The wind was biting, bringing with it the sour smell of garbage from the skip further down the alley where the police were gathered. The orange glow of a flickering streetlight cast long, jittery shadows over the brick walls.
Sally Donovan stood rigid a few meters away, her back to the scene, eyes fixed on the unconscious murder suspect at her feet. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. She told herself she was doing her job, that looking away was professionalism, but the sound of John Watson’s voice—raw, breaking—kept cutting through her like broken glass.
Greg Lestrade paced at the mouth of the alley, phone pressed to his ear, free hand dragging through his greying hair again and again. He spoke in clipped, urgent bursts, every instinct screaming at him to turn around, to intervene, to do something more than wait.
And John Watson was on his knees in a spreading pool of Sherlock Holmes’ blood.
“We were supposed to have forever.”
The words tore themselves from John’s throat as he pressed both hands to the stab wound in Sherlock’s abdomen, as though sheer willpower could force the blood back where it belonged. It was warm and slick beneath his palms, soaking into his sleeves, into his skin, into him.
“W-what?” Sherlock gasped.
The light above them flickered again, buzzing weakly. John leaned forward, his weight bearing down as he pressed harder, desperately.
“I always thought there’d come a time when you’d have to give in to your transport,” John said, his voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “You wouldn’t be able to chase around London forever.” A wry smile tried—and failed—to form. “You’d complain about the stairs at Baker Street. Say they were beneath you.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched faintly.
“And we’d move to the country,” John went on, breath hitching. “Sussex, maybe. Somewhere quiet. You’d raise bees. I’d tend a garden and pretend I could taste the difference between all the ridiculous honeys you’d make.” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It can’t end like this. We always make it. We were supposed to have forever.”
John sucked in a shuddering breath and scrubbed at his face with his shoulder, smearing tears across his cheek, never once easing the pressure on Sherlock’s wound.
“Oh god,” Sherlock croaked, tears spilling over at last. “I want that.” His voice was barely more than air. “I want Sussex. A cottage. The bees. You.”
He lifted a trembling hand, fingers slick with blood, and brushed them across John’s face, wiping away tears and leaving behind a dark red smear. “You could write a book,” he whispered.
Then his arm fell, heavy and useless, against the pavement.
His breathing grew shallow, uneven. His eyes fluttered, struggling, and then the fight drained from them entirely as the darkness finally pulled him under.
“S-Sherlock?” John’s voice pitched upward in panic. “No—no, no, stay with me. Sherlock!” He leaned closer, almost folding over him, hands still pressed tight as if refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. “Hold on. Please hold on.”
Sally’s vision blurred. Silent tears slipped down her face as she stood guard, feeling like a trespasser in something unbearably private.
“Oh, God,” John whispered as the distant wail of sirens finally reached them. “Please, please, please, please—” Each word was a prayer, a bargain, a plea, tumbling out of him as footsteps thundered into the alley.
Greg ended his call and turned just in time to see the medics descend, voices sharp and efficient. John barely noticed them at first, flinching when hands touched his arms.
“Sir, we need to take over.”
“No,” John said hoarsely, shaking his head. “I’ve got him. I’ve got him.”
“John,” Greg said gently but firmly, gripping his shoulders and pulling him back. “Let them help him.”
John resisted for a heartbeat longer, then his strength gave out all at once. He staggered backward as the medics worked, watching helplessly as they cut away Sherlock’s shirt, as oxygen was fitted, as hands moved where his had been.
The stretcher seemed to appear out of nowhere. Sherlock was lifted onto it, impossibly still, his face already too pale.
The ambulance doors slammed shut with a finality that made John flinch.
For a split second, he surged forward, hand outstretched, as if he could still stop them, still climb inside and keep watch. The vehicle pulled away before he could take another step, siren cutting through the night like a wound ripped open.
“Sherlock—” John breathed, the word useless and far too late.
Greg’s hand closed around his arm, firm, grounding. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ll follow. They’ve got him.”
John nodded numbly, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. His legs felt detached from the rest of him as Greg guided him toward the car. The world narrowed to a dull ringing in his ears and the echo of sirens disappearing into the distance.