Oneshots Part One

Right to a Phone Call (Johnlock)

He knew it was going it happen. He knew he was going to die. He knew it was too much blood, too much. It spilled through his hands, leaking over his fingers. He coughed, and pulled out his phone, shaky fingers dialling. He didn't care that he was dying, he expected it, and he just wanted to hear his voice again. It rang. And rang. And rang. He worried that he wouldn't pick up. Sherlock coughed again, blood flecking into his hand. He could feel himself slipping away. "Hello?" John's voice came through the receiver and Sherlock almost forgot what he was doing.

"What did you fall and couldn't get up?" he finally laughed, supressing a wheezing cough.

"Very funny," he faked a laugh, "What's up?"

"Can't I just call you, hear your voice? How was your day?"

"Eh, not bad, didn't see you today, though," he sounded put out. "Is that rain?"

"Yeah, I'm outside," Sherlock laughed.

"What are you doing? Come home, you'll catch a cold," he scolded, concern rising in his voice. Sherlock chuckled.

"I love you, do you know that? So much," he smiled.

"I know... I love you, too. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he laughed, pain shooting through his abdomen, "I just wanted to make sure you knew"

"Do you want to go out on Thursday? We can go to that nice Chinese 'round the block"

"That'll be great," Sherlock smiled, tears forming in his eyes.

"Perfect, it's a date," he could hear John's returning smile.

"See you when you get home?" he laughed, and Sherlock's tears spilled over.

"Sure, I love you," he smiled again. He'd never tire of saying it.

"You too," replied, "Bye-"

"No, say it. Please," he interrupted, desperate.

"I love you, Sherlock"

"I love you, John"

"Come home, yeah?"

"Okay. I'll see you then," he smiled again.

"Bye," John laughed and hung up. Sherlock let the phone fall from his ear, the last of his strength pressed into the receiver. He was cold. His back was icy against the wet concrete. He didn't want to be another body in the morgue. Just another statistic, a number, nothing. He could imagine the headline. "Detective stabbed in alley" it would read. He could imagine, in a few months, the news would say. "36% of deaths in the UK are murders"He would be grouped with that percentage, no name, just a face in the crowd. "Sherlock Holmes was fatally wounded yesterday at 10:37pm; he seems to now be one of the apparent serial killer's latest victims."He hoped John would be okay, he hoped he would forgive him for dying. He hoped he wouldn't be waiting for him to come back from the dead again. He hoped that he would get on with his life, and live until he was old, fat and bald. Blood seemed to be spilling from his mouth, and he was struck with the reality that- this was it. No coming back. This was when he was going to die. He was going to die in an alley, and everything he was would disappear. Forever. His entire existence would fade away, like warm breath on a chilled mirror. He was going to die alone. This isn't how it's supposed to go. He's meant to live. Be with John. Have children. Grandchildren.

That'll never happen. He would never know what that would feel like.

All he could feel was the cold. He couldn't feel the pain any longer, it overwhelmed him, and he was numb. The wind was biting at his skin, piercing into the wound; his blood soaked dress shirt choked him. He knew it was going to happen. He knew that he was going to die.

A/N: Guys love me