A/N: This fic was actually written months and months ago but I totally forgotten I'd written in until I found it deep within my tumblr archives. So I'm posting it now because I'm actually weirdly proud of how well this turned out.

This was written for the prompt given in the summary, although I'm sure this is the exact opposite of what the prompter was looking for lmao.

Please leave a review if you have a second! Your kind words make my unkind life slightly more bearable. Happy reading!

Swan Song

Even in his anguish, Sherlock can't help but appreciate the irony that the first time the realization strikes him is the last time he has a chance to do anything about it. In hindsight, though, it shouldn't really surprise him. His life has run like this from the very start, an amalgamation of missed chances and stolen opportunities.

They're chasing a criminal through the side streets and back alleys of London, rather par for the course, and by Sherlock's estimations they'll have the man in custody in time to pick up some takeout on their way back to the flat. Another three blocks, sharp right, immediate left veering down an angled back route, split at the fork, and the criminal should be cornered.

John lags slightly behind Sherlock, trying and failing to keep up with the taller man's longer legs, and Sherlock glances behind himself every so often to check that John is still there. They've reached the fork in the road and he's glancing over at John to tell him "Take the right!" when his breath stops and he nearly stumbles over his own two feet.

John is silhouetted against the moonlight like an angel of vengeance, half of his body gleaming brilliant pearly white and half nestled deep within the shadows. His jaw is set in a determined scowl, his brows are furrowed slightly, and he's got his gun out and cocked, ready to fire at a moment's notice.

He's beautiful.

But Sherlock doesn't have time for this, not right now, and so he shakes his head and continues running, focusing on taking the bastard down. He's bearing down on the man, a wiry little fellow, and calculations race through his mind as he tries to figure out the optimal time to attack. Three… Two… One… And he pounces, bringing the man to the gravel with a heavy thump. They scuffle in the dust for several moments. Then Sherlock feels a sharp pain in his abdomen. As his vision blurs, he spares a moment to think, oh. He had a knife.

"Sherlock!" comes John's voice, and Sherlock pries his eyes open to see short, stocky, dependable John coming to his rescue. John takes precisely half a second to assess the situation before firing his gun just once. The criminal collapses with a cry to nurse his shattered knee, and John rushes to Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what happened? Are you alright?" John asks frantically, his hands running over Sherlock's body to find the wound. Had he been lucid, Sherlock might have thoroughly enjoyed the attention. As it is, Sherlock lets John's warmth penetrate the haze fogging his mind and soothe him. He hums in response.

"Sherlock, no, you bloody bastard, keep your eyes open!" John shouts, slapping Sherlock harshly across the cheek. Sherlock's eyes jerk open; he wishes his mouth would work properly so he could tell John to stop that. Instead, all that comes out of his mouth is "Stomach. Probably…fatal. Lo–" He's cut off by a fit of violent coughing, and his eyes close again of their own accord.

He feels John's hand fall into his hair, stroking gently, while John also pushes at his stomach to keep him from bleeding to death. But he doesn't tell Sherlock to open his eyes again, and Sherlock knows John understands the most probable outcome of this scenario.

The sounds of the city are becoming muffled, but Sherlock can't let them fade completely without telling John what he's only just figured out. He can't let this last great deduction remain unheard. With a great effort, he cracks his eyes open and catches John's gaze.

"I…love…you," he whispers, over-enunciating each word to make sure John is left with no doubt. He closes his eyes again so he doesn't have to see John's undoubtedly stricken expression, and his lips fall into a small smile.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail.

FIN