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"Sherlock, where the bloody hell are you?" you called angrily. You turned a corner, then another. You couldn't find him, not anywhere. He left without explanation, running out with a small bag in hand.
"Sherlock!" you called again. "Oh, you idiot." You mumbled insults under your breath. Your phone went off.
"Hello?" you answered, your frantic search still mobile.
"(Y/N)?" John's voice rang through. "What's wrong?"
"God, have you seen Sherlock anywhere?"
"Jesus, he's done it again..."
"Done what, John?" You turned another corner, only to meet the sight of a body on the ground. You didn't catch the words in the phone as it fell out of your fingers and crashed on the pavement.
Sherlock, your Sherlock, was lying face down in a mangled outfit, his fingers slightly twitching.
"Sher..." you tried to speak, but no words came out. You ran to his side, desperate to be sure he wasn't hurt. You pushed him into his back, causing a pained groan to come from his mouth. The bag in his hand was empty, and bits of burned paper clung to his face and palms. He had gone too far this time, doing this. His fingers found your arm and clutched as if his life depended on you and you alone.
"Sherlock?" you breathed, shaking his rigid shoulder lightly.
"(Y/N)..." he muttered in a slur. A tear fell from your eye and onto his battered shirt. He opened his eyes, then closed them quickly to block out the shining rays of the sun. You didn't know why he did this. He had to, for you. He did this for you.