John H. Watson

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He gasps, reaching for air as the impact hits.

"Fuck."

He is falling and he is dying.

He knows it.

On the floor, he sees the two legs leave.

Hands shaking, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his little phone.

A, B, C, D, E, F, G,H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R,S-

Sherlock.

He presses the button, and winces, as the pain shoots up his arm and into his chest.

"John, I really can't talk right now. I'm busy."

It takes him everything not to cry, at hearing that damn voice.

"I know, I know Sherlock, but I need to tell you something important."

A dramatic sigh. He's always been a drama queen.

"Yes, John?"

He chokes on his words as his breath shortens.

"The shopping list is on the table, under the toe. Remember the milk."

There's no way Sherlock'll ever get his own shopping.

"John, that's hardly a pressing matter."

"It really is. I love you."

He hangs up.

His hand goes limp and falls to his side, the phone slipping out.


A single tear falls down his cheek as he falls asleep.

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