"It's all I have left," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself, his voice incredibly low. His mind was wandering into the cut in his hand as John worked, imagining maggots squirming out of it, and he could nearly see them.

He wondered if the capitol let his body decompose, when it died.

(Or if they just used the pieces to make him up again.)

"... Please, John. I know that you dislike discussing it, but I would be infinitely more comfortable if I knew that you would be alright if worse came to worse."