One.

Two.

Three…

Whether there had been a third hit? Was the knife hit him the third time?

That bitch…

He couldn't say, couldn't think because the pain in his back, and in his lungs, and he was tired because the blood loss and he was trembling, and he just tried to walk forward.

Slowly.

So slowly because his feet barely hold him up anymore.

Sherlock.

The alley was dark and his fingers scratch the cold walls, trying to keep him up and go.

Forward.

Go forward.

Always forward.

Don't look back.

Sherlock, where are you?

God he was tired and he stopped and the knees bend and he fell forward, always forward, and his fingers left the bloodline to the wall. He leaned against it, seeking its coldness against his too hot skin.

There was iron in his mouth and it was hard to breathe.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But he just cough, leaning forward, falling forward, until his forehead was against the dirty ground.

His eyes closed.

The blood dripped from his mouth to the ground.

There was nothing put pain in his entire body.

Burning pain.

He cried.

"Sher… lock…"

He hoped.

He prayed.

"Go..d… let him be safe…"

He fell on his side and the pain was too bright light behind his eyes and he gasped to breathe, but he couldn't.

He couldn't breathe anymore.

And he opened the eyes, turned his head and watched the stars above the dark alley of London City.

Trembling stopped.

He stopped fighting.

His eyes stared the stars and the neon lights.

And he let himself go.

Go under the deep water, into the darkness where didn't had pain, no heart beats, nothing.