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The ground is cold and hard under his back, the raindrops, like millions of icy needles, piercing into his skin. Above him, angry, grey skies, wet, grass-covered rock under his palm. His lashes grew heavy with cold droplets of rain and hot, bitter tears. His clothes stick to his body like a soaked, leaden weighted skin. His left hand lies beside his body, the trembling fingers of his right hand covering the mark the bullet marred into his side.
He lies there, shivering, soaked, body heavy and cold as ice, mind fogged with pain, lost in time.
Blood is seeping through his thick coat, warming his shaking fingers. Breaths leaving as sobs, blue lips form a name like a prayer. Sea-coloured eyes fluttering shut, he subsides to pain. The waves of agony rip moans from his lungs, besides that, the rumble of rain is the only sound in the world.
How did he get here? If only he had been a little more careful, now he wouldn’t have to lie there, fighting off death. It doesn’t matter anyway. The damage is done.
Still, his brilliant mind is working. Through the haze of dread and pain, a voice is whispering to him. John. John is the answer. John is always there when things go wrong. He will make this mess undone, like so many times before. He just has to hold on, John will find him.
He always does.
The rain is cold and cruel, pouring down and stealing away the warmth and blood from his body. He goes numb after some time- minutes, hours, who is able to count?- and the pain subsides too. If only he wasn’t this cold...
His eyes snap open, he almost let the dreams drag him down. Somehow he knows if he falls asleep, there is no coming back up. He can’t say why it would be bad, but one thing he knows: John would be sad. And he cannot let him down. Not again. Never again.
So he lets out a shaky breath, the iron of blood on his tongue, and curls his fingers into the wound. More blood breaks free, but the pain pulls him back.
Time is swirling, soaring, stalling above.
The splatter of water under approaching footsteps. Strong pressure of warm hands on his wound. A pair of blue eyes, capturing his gaze, not letting him fade away. Lips forming his name in a quivering voice, filled with anger and worry and love.
"Sherlock, you bloody idiot! Don’t you dare die on me again, my love."
Maybe he just imagined the last words, who knows. The rain is loud. Sherlock places his shaking hand on the hands of his partner and holds on to them with as much strength he still has. He is exhausted by cold and pain, but it will be all right now.
John is there.