He looks a hundred years old. No, older than that -- he looks a million years old, and his not-quite-green eyes lock on her face with an intensity that's one of the few things left unchanged about him.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry."

He smiles, and it's such a pathetic mockery of his real smile that it's all she can do to keep from glancing away in revulsion. "Not...your fault," he wheezes breathlessly. He reaches out a shaking hand to grasp hers. She makes the mistake of looking down at it. The skin is thin and wrinkled like tissue paper and dark blue veins spiderweb just beneath the surface. Tears well up and she looks back at his eyes because they're the only thing left that still looks like him.

"Eliz...abeth," he whispers.

"I'm here, John." She gently squeezes his hand. It feels feather-light and fragile in her grip and she's afraid of breaking it, breaking him, but she shouldn't be because he's already broken. It's over and done. Nothing she can do will make it worse.

He smiles again, but it never reaches his eyes. "Kill me," he says softly.

The tears overflow. She knew he was going to ask. She saw it in his eyes and she can't kill him and she can't leave him like this. She doesn't know what to do.

"Elizabeth," he says again. "Please. Please..."

She releases his hand and steps away. The pistol is cold in her grip. She still can't believe she is doing this, but she can't not do this, and she has to do it right. "Goodbye, John," she says, andplaces the pistol oh so carefully against his temple and pulls the trigger.

She cries afterward, bitterly. She did what she had to do.

She'll never forgive herself.