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My legs begin to tremble, and my ears ring from the loud, hollow clap of thunder that echoes through the tunnel. I look at the gun in my hand, as I feel Sherlock and Mycroft lower me to the ground. As the ringing in my ears subside, my brother's cries of terror and panic begin to resonate with me.
'Oh god Enola-'
'You didn't check him for weapons?!'
'I- I was. I thought-'
'She's bleeding heavily.'
'We need Watson- or any doctor.'
'I'm not leaving-'
'If you don't she'll DIE.'
Die? That word echoes in my mind
I look down and see that where the bullet pierced my abdomen, a large stream of dark red blood spills out of me. If this nightgown hadn't already been torn and cut, I'd be seriously worried about the staining. I study the gun in my hand. I identify it as the Colt M1892 revolver before Sherlock takes it from me. It's a fairly popular model in the States. It can't be too hard for someone like Lord Nigh to get their hands on. I don't want to die...
Concentrate, Enola.
In a second the searing pain will kick in, so before that happens I should do my best to prevent myself from dying. The bullet entered the left of my stomach, around where my large intestine should be. That's not good. There's nothing I can do for the organ failure, but I can try to prevent my bleeding to death. The blood spilling from my wound sends a chilling warmth through me.
I look up at Sherlock and see his usual calm and level-headed expression replaced by unbridled fear; his eyes wide, darting back and forth as he goes between looking at my face, the bullet wound and our surroundings. 'Sherlock, please calm down.' My hoarse voice is barely loud enough for him to hear me.
'You will be fine. You will be alright, I swear.' He mutters as he frantically looks around. I'm not sure if he's saying this to me, or himself.
I look at the fear ridin man panicking over me, and I am flooded with anger... I don't need my brother Sherlock, right now.
'Will you please concentrate, Sherlock Holmes!' I scold him.
He stares at me in shock, before the meaning of my scolding dawns on him. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, I am greeted with the familiar face of the great detective Sherlock Holmes.
I sigh in relief, although this feeling is quickly replaced with the searing pain I referred to earlier. I swallow hard, as if trying to swallow my pain, before I talk to the detective. 'He used a Colt M1892 revolver. I don't know if the bullet is still in me.'
'There was no exit wound.' He takes a hanky from his pocket and begins to hold it to my stomach, applying considerable pressure. I whimper as he presses down, pain rippling through me like a rock disturbing calm waters. He winces at the sound, but doesn't stop. 'We need to stop the blood loss.'
We stay like this in silence for a few minutes.
'I love you.' These words hang in the air, and although Sherlock's expression doesn't change, I know these words sting. The message itself doesn't hurt him, but the context behind them.
My final goodbye.
The cold stones turn to warm water as I lay my head down. My entire body, that has ached for so long, demands me to sink into the soothing depths of the inky black; and I let it.