It was the first time going back to the hospital. He'd called Lestrade himself and asked for a case. He should have known it would come to this sooner or later. Now he was dying all over again. As the cab drew nearer, he heard Sherlock's voice in his head, felt the cell phone at his ear.

Felt the fear and the unbearable moment of suspension when he realized what was happening, and was unable to move.

Stuttering, he gave the cabbie his fee and stumbled getting out of the car. Damn this cane, he thought, looking at the stick that held him up because he was too weak to do it himself, and for a moment, he forgot.

Memories that stabbed in his heart like knives flashed in front of his eyes, superimposed upon the scene before him, like a nightmare slide projected on top of another; one bright with sunlight, the other carrying harsh whispers of the day he was torn apart. John walked forwards across the street, unable to tear his eyes from the sky, from the roof where he stood those few long months ago. Such a sudden boundary between the security of metal and wood and the emptiness of deadly space seemed wrong, seemed too sharp in John's hazy world.

The agony of remembering crashed in his head, pounding out the tears and gasping breaths. A long coat fluttering like ink-stained broken wings snapped in the wind and a cry passed between John's lips. His name. Sherlock's name. All the way down he was alive, but it happened so quickly, the moment could have passed and been gone forever. And for anyone in the world who wasn't John, that's exactly what it did. A second – just a second –when he fell, when his beautiful mind held thoughts and his lungs held air, exchanged for an eternity when they didn't. An irrevocable eternity without what made John's life worthwhile.

John couldn't breathe but he pressed on, through throngs of people and between cars and the noise just got louder and louder. The air seemed to press in on him.

The crowd thinned as he neared the door and he tried to run towards it. He reached out a hand and, pushing with his legs, his arms, his mind trying to push past the memories.

And then he was through. The world was silent again but for the quiet sounds of a hospital and the ache in his heart was bitter sweet, and bore memories of John's former life.