Sherlock had never before been afraid of heights, but he thought about how most others are, was it the fear of falling, or the fear that no one would catch them that set it off. That he would never know for certain, the only thing he knew for certain now, was that he was afraid of heights. Not because he would have to hit the ground- No, he knew what would come from that, shattered ribs, skull cracked, internal bleeding, ultimately, death. That wasn't the problem, the problem is, he wouldn't die upon hitting that pavement. His heart would still beat as it was protected by another, under soldier surveillance. Of course, his heart, which he had only discovered he possessed a short while ago would still beat a steady pace. His heart was safe, he had nothing to lose. He had no friends, no family, no one. Surely no one would care if he fell, but there was a feeling, a deep sickening feeling inside his chest. If only he had known, his chest wasn't- in fact empty. There was another in there, a heart, but it wasn't his, and he didn't sense it, for the heart wandered there without even knowing where it had ended up.
"Goodbye, John" Sherlock looked down at his friend, the only one who would had ever held the title, and the only one who would ever hold it again. But little did he know, he wasn't alone on that rooftop. He took a final glance to John, as he heard his own name ring through his ears.
"SHERLOCK!"
He moved to step off, but hesitated a moment.
Stepping back on the ledge, he noticed a surge of hope pass John's eyes, even from his height, the small sense of relief was evident on his face.
Relief, was the last thing to grace that face.
In an instant, before Sherlock had time to carry out his plan, a bang echoed, hitting off the buildings, and causing a ring in his ears. He turned to see where it had come from-..another rooftop. Looking down to his chest, he expected to see a bullet, right through his heart-..but there was nothing. The realization dawned on him and he turned back with panic and confusion evident on his face, he let a yell of "JOHN!" die upon his lips as he watched John still, and drop his phone, only to follow after it, collapsing to the ground.
Almost as quick as John's breathing slowed, Sherlock felt pain surge through his chest, the kind of pain to bring him to his knees and beg for no more, and he knew what had happened. He was alive.
Moriarty had won, he had stopped Sherlock's heart, in the brutalist of ways.
Oh, how cruel it must be, for a man to live past his soul.