Disclaimer: All credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This was written for the purpose of entertainment, no money is gained from it.

A/N: Just a short experimental oneshot.

The pain was overwhelming.

Broken glass dug into John's arm, embedding in his skin. Pain spiked through his head.

Each breath was ragged, painful. A struggle just to draw in oxygen.

Was it worth the effort, struggling?

He couldn't see, very well; the knock to his head must have effected his vision. Black spots danced at the edges of his eyes, intermingling with clouds of sparkles and out-of-place flashes of light.

Everything hurt.

The sharp agony of broken ribs against punctured lung, the excruciating throb of a shattered limb, and the undefinable pain of a bullet lodged in his shoulder.

If he held on now, he knew, there was still a chance he could live. A very small chance, but a chance.

It shocked him a bit to realize he wasn't sure he wanted that chance.

When he squinted through the chaos in his vision, he could make out the shape of his phone, next to him, just out of reach.

If he could grab it, he could call someone... Maybe even survive.

Closer to him was his gun, right where he'd dropped it.

Through the dim haze of pain, he remembered Sherlock. His genius, his voice, his violin, his moods. The long dramatic coat, blue scarf, and curly black hair accented by those eyes that seemed to change from grey to blue and back again. The way his whole face lit up when he deduced something, and how his normally baritone voice would rise a bit in excitement as his words sped up to try to keep pace with his thinking. The way he laughed, the way he moved, the way he glared.

The way he fell.

John's eyes flicked to the phone, briefly, then back to his gun.

Yes.

He hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be the one to find him. She had lived through enough horror, lately.

Mrs. Hudson would be okay without him, though. Mycroft would take care of her. Harry had a new spouse to look after her. Lestrade had his job, and his family.

He didn't really have any other friends; not since Sherlock.

Everyone would be fine without him.

He could finally let go.

It took some effort, but he had just enough strength to wrap his fingers around the gun.

There was a moment of blinding pain, and then he let the darkness take him.

Dawn wasn't too far away, but by the time it arrived, he had been gone for an hour or so.

He didn't see the tall, pale form of the man with the wild black curls enter his flat, or the horrified grey eyes that looked down at him.

He never felt the thin, shaking hand that touched his wrist, searching for a pulse that wasn't there. Never heard the choked gasp by his ear, or the broken sob that followed.

Perhaps it was better that way.