“You shouldn’t have done it, you know.”
Sherlock sipped his tea and stared out the window.
“What else was I going to do? Let you die?” The voice was the same, earnest, intense, even laced with a bit of humor.
“Perhaps tried to shove me out of the way?”
“There wasn’t time for that. Bullets are fast. You of all people should know that.”
Sherlock turned finally, blinking, his heart pounding.
“I know. I do too.” Softly.
She rose from John’s chair and came to stand in front of him, reached a hand to brush a curl off his forehead.
Sherlock felt the touch like a breath against his skin, barely there, but real.
“Can you stay?” he whispered, and closed his eyes as the breath caressed his cheekbone, trailed down to his chin.
“I don’t know. I can try.” A small laugh. “I have...other things to attend to here also.”
“God. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t…”
“No, no. It’s all right. Sherlock, none of this is your fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.” Another small laugh. “I’ll be here as much, as long as I can. Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
Her hand on his shoulder was light, just the slightest pressure, and he imagined he could feel warmth - though he didn’t know if that was possible. Maybe it was just...wishful thinking.
“I miss you too. I miss all of you.”
She began fading then, as he knew she must, and something in him broke, and the tears started.
Just before he lost her completely, he heard a whisper: “I’ll be back. I’ll be here with you.”
He smelled her perfume in the room long after she was gone.
