Memorandum.

There's a kind of loneliness when you're staring death in the face. Everyone dies alone. John knows this.

There's also clarity. The ripples in the pool seem endlessly absorbing; the echoing scent of chlorine brings back his childhood in one humid second. But that was eons ago, and now there are guns and madmen and brilliant, beautiful people that aren't supposed to die.

John sees it in his eyes. He doesn't want to go. There's too much left to do and they haven't said what they need to.

Everyone dies alone. And John wants to die next to Sherlock Holmes.

The Other Name For Peace

As far as potential last moments go, this one's beautiful. Even he knows that. The reflection of the water moves across the ceiling and if it weren't for these jiggling red dots on them, he imagines it might almost be peaceful.

Moriarty was right: he's got a heart. It's slamming against his throat when he thinks about John, who's crouching against the wall in one of his innumerable cardigans.

Those damn cardigans and that blog and the solar system...

When Sherlock looks at him, he's home. 221b.

Because if this is it, that's alright. It's a lovely way to go.