This is inspired by the song Falling, by Florence and The Machine. Any words bolded and italicized are the lyrics. Enjoy.

I've fallen out of favour and I've fallen from grace.

Fallen out of trees and I've fallen on my face.

Sherlock had loved tricks as a child. He spent days dreaming them up, scheming and planning what to do. He would spend hours in his room like a disgruntled child, refusing company or afternoon tea. He would make countless scenarios to judge every aspect. When he finally perfected an idea, he would cheer and celebrate with himself. He would emerge from his stupor after weeks and finally take a bath before setting his plans into motion.

Often, the pale boy would sit in his bath, thinking as the water cooled around him. He would get out shivering and walk back to his room, barely noticing the drip of his hair onto the carpeting. His eyes glazed over and his actions set on auto-pilot, he would spend time in his Mind Palace until he decided who he was going to fool. Then he would practice.

He practiced twenty times before he was satisfied that it was realistic. It would fool the most astute. So Mycroft, naturally, was his first victim. When his brother came home from school—Sherlock had been five, Mycroft twelve—Sherlock waved to him from a tree in the back. From the vantage point Mycroft had, his vision of the ground was obstructed. His brother was walking along the pavement; the high fence wouldn't allow him to see until fifteen feet up the tree.

"Mycroft, look at me!" Sherlock would call, doing some little trick that would set Mycroft on edge. Mycroft had stopped where he was and his face scrunched up.

"Get down from there!" Mycroft had called up to him, schooling his voice so Sherlock wouldn't hear the worry. But the detective to be did. He always did. Even if it was difficult to hear through the annoying school-teacher façade Mycroft wore. "You're going to fall, and I'm not going to catch you!" Seeing that Sherlock had no intention of listening, he began walking closer. "I mean it Sherlock-"

But Mycroft hadn't finished before Sherlock's foot slipped off the branch in a practiced move, and the young boy hurtled toward the ground. Sherlock heard Mycroft cry out and drop his things as he ran for the fence gate. Sherlock moved as quickly as he was able, pushing the mattress far out of Mycroft's line of sight. Sherlock had accounted for the rusty gate handle, which proved truly difficult to maneuver. The young boy was able to get in an awkward position before Mycroft hurdled through the gate.

"Sherlock!" The twelve year old had tears in his eyes as he ran for his brother. "Please! Please be okay!"

Mycroft had cradled Sherlock and he had struggled against the impulse to squirm away from his older brother. Mycroft rocked them back and forth and cried for Sherlock to get up. Eventually, Sherlock was unable to keep a straight face. He began to giggle and suddenly sat up, completely laughing with joy.

The look on Mycroft's face was priceless, although looking back; the joke had been quite cruel. Mycroft pushed Sherlock off his lap and into a muddy patch of the ground. The anger in his eyes could not completely mask the fear and despair. Mycroft's bottom lip quivered and he turned away, crying as he ran into the house.

Sherlock knew that Mycroft would get over it soon, so he turned and cleared up his supplies. He would never tell how much the landing had scared him, how he had thought for a moment he had broken his body or that he had died. But the falling was spectacular. He had been free for a small amount of time; he felt like any moment he would have pulled up and flew.

And so, Sherlock developed a taste for tricking people. He planned many other tricks involving snakes and rats, dissected animals, and sensory illusions. He became a neat little magician with his barrage of pranks.

But he never forgot his first, and he had a particular liking for falling.

Fallen out of taxis, out of windows too.

As Sherlock grew into adulthood, his conquest grew from his tricks of childhood. He no longer teased young girls with frogs and sheep brains, but he used his trickery to his advantage. While on a case with a mafia group, he found himself in a situation in a car. In handcuffs. Surrounded by hit men. He was not fazed of course; this was hardly his first close scrape. He faked a sneezed so he could lean down to unlock one hand. (He had filched the key from one of the least observant in the group. Pity, he would have liked a challenge.)

His other hand was free in a matter of seconds. He counted the guns in the car, calculated his chance of gunshot, and took action. He leaned on the door, pulled it open, and tumbled from the cab within seconds. He was up and running away from the taxi's yellow light before any of them could manage to remove their guns from their holsters or various crevices.

Sherlock laughed as he rounded a corner, wiping the blood from his cheek and broken nose. Bit of an unfortunate landing. His feet slapped the pavement as he ran through alleys and back to his motel. He texted the Yard and let them know all he had discovered. He smiled to himself and waited for them to be astounded and put-off by his work. They always were.

He visited his Mind Palace, reviewing a few other daring escapes. It was a favorite pastime of his, to calculate how many times he could pull the wool over someone's eyes. One event in particular always made him chuckle.

The man had pulled a knife and pursued Sherlock—or rather, been led by Sherlock—through the streets of London. Sherlock ducked into an apartment building where there was a small force congregated. The criminal chasing him was a serial rapist who had evolved into a serial murderer. Sherlock had enough evidence to keep him in jail for the rest of his life, and he knew it. Sadly for said criminal, he wasn't very smart and couldn't tell he was being led into an ambush.

As they reached the end of a hallway, where there was only a window—open, waiting for Sherlock—he had pasted the most sincere look of fear on his face. The serial killer chuckled as he thumbed the blade he carried. A small team of police was creeping up behind him, guns drawn.

"Goodness, and I thought serial killers were supposed to be intelligent." Sherlock quipped. The killer felt a gun pressed to his back, and in a moment of rage threw the knife directly at Sherlock. The detective, however, had already dropped out of the window. He had landed particularly hard on the awning he was aiming for. A tiny miscalculation sent him into a steel girder. His souvenir was three cracked ribs and catching the killer of four teenage girls.

Fell in your opinion when I fell in love with you.

It was unfortunate really, the turn his time with the good doctor had taken. It was unfortunate, unlikely, but unstoppable. The one person who had been able to understand the genius detective and Sherlock had ruined it with feelings. Blasted little buggers that interfered with deductions and controlling oneself. Feelings had begun the moment the doctor had emitted the words "That… was amazing." A connection began straight after the man had used a gun to save his life. Not that he was in danger; Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what he was doing.

His solitary life was soon transformed, conforming to become life with the army doctor. He no longer sat in darkened taxis by himself—at least not quite as often—and he shortened his stride to accommodate the doctor's considerably shorter one. Interacting with people was much less painstaking, with the doctor by his side to share conspiratorial looks with. Sherlock found himself admiring a man who was less than an equal to him in intelligence.

Soon, he realized that the man was not less intelligent, just intelligent in different ways. He despised himself for thinking so, but could not help himself. They became two halves of a whole, two pieces of one instrument. Each had different tools and each lay them out to share with the other.

Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release.

Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief.

Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm in peace.

It's only when I hit the ground, it causes all the grief

As time wore on, Sherlock grew frustrated with himself. He knew where life with Watson was going. He was powerless to stop the feelings he developed. So he threw himself into his work with more enthusiasm. He piled on cases, he went days without eating. He knew digestion would slow his brain and make him think about things he shouldn't.

He became reckless and emphatic about crime. Days without a case meant days of sulking in his room, much like those days in his childhood. He refused to speak unless it was about a case; he barely ate or slept, simply waiting in his room for damned Lestrade to speak to him.

In these times, his flat mate would become most unnerved around him. He would be anxious to speak, even when there was something he wanted to say. Sherlock noticed his pulse would jump when Sherlock entered a room and he would open his mouth and make a light-hearted but pointed comment about his state of dress or his "alone time."

Sherlock knew his flat mate was concerned. So Sherlock simply avoided the subject, tossing out words like "bored." He would return to his room and continue mastering another language or solving algorithms, anything to keep his mind from the man who lived in the other room.

After they would get another case, he would come out of his moods instantly. His mood swings were so drastic even Lestrade had begun to notice them. He had two extremes that he could never stray from.

This is a song for a scribbled out name,

And my love keeps writing again and again.

This is a song for a scribbled out name,

And my love keeps writing again and again

And again

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't help but notice things about Watson: The sandy color of his hair, the soft texture. The numerous jumpers—in fact, Sherlock began cataloging them in the back of his mind—and his favorite kind of tea. The way he smelled like mint when he got out of the shower or the way he slumped over in his chair after staying up too late reading. Sherlock became tuned to his presence and could tell when he entered a room without looking or listening for it.

He knew that Molly had noticed. She didn't say anything, and there was never judgment in her eyes, but she knew. He was surprised and grateful that she never brought it up with him. Surprised that she wouldn't feel the need to make him admit it to himself, grateful because he didn't want to admit it to himself. She did all she could to help the two with their cases and then she would step aside.

He noticed when she had stopped loving him. She had loved him at one point, but now she simply admired him. Once she realized his feelings for John, she had quickly come to terms and left it as such. Sometimes he could still see affection in her eyes.

It was an expression he imagined in Watson's eyes in the latest hours of the day, when he allowed such thoughts to creep though. He had been giving himself such leeway for thirty minutes every night for the past two weeks. In the dark of his bedroom, with the light from the moon or streetlights falling in through slits in his window blinds, he would sit and visit his Mind Palace.

Some nights he would revisit fond memories of Watson's visage. Others would be filled with edits, strings of made-up scenarios of his deepest desires. It was not always in a primal way that Watson came to mind—oh no. Many times it was a domestic life the Sherlock envisioned. He craved stability and Watson was his source.

I'll dance myself up, drunk myself down.

Find people to love, love people to drown.

He had figured out Moriarty's plan. It was a simple but effective one. Or, it would have been if Sherlock were not the man he was. Moriarty would not account for Sherlock riddling it out, he would not know… so Sherlock could plan accordingly.

Sherlock did as he used to as a child. He shut himself away in his room and he schemed. He planned and he prodded and he paced until he came up with his idea. He began blueprinting, plotting out every little detail. He spent so much time on the minor detail with one thought forefront in his mind. This was one stunt he would not be able to practice beforehand.

It was all up to planning and precision to succeed in this trick. That and the help of one pathologist by the name of Molly Hooper.

She had seen him in more ways than one. She had seen both things he had hidden when he thought no one could see.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead—no sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area.

"When he was—dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once, he looked sad—"

"Molly—" Sherlock had tried to interrupt.

After a pulse, she continued. "You look sad when you think he can't see you." His head slowly turned towards her.

"You okay?" He started to answer, "And don't just say you are. Because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me."

She looked away and shook her head as she said, "I don't count. What I'm trying to say is—if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all—you can have me. No—I just mean—I mean, if there's anything you need… it's fine…" she lost confidence it what she was saying and trailed off.

"What more could I need from you?"

"Nothing… I dunno."

She had walked away from the conversation because of something stupid Sherlock had said. He had been thinking about the conversation and what she had said for a while. He realized quickly it was not what she said, but what she meant. When she said I don't count. It had struck something he couldn't explain.

Only someone who had a history of self loathing would have said what she did. She had told him I know what it means, looking sad when you think on one can see you. He quickly surmised her history of depression and possible self harm as an adolescent. But this deduction brought him no pride, like they usually did. This one made him feel hollow. It was an abnormal feeling, and one he did not enjoy in the least bit.

The realization of her pain hit him so wholly it was hard to breathe for a moment. In panic, he went back to scheming. His plan to find her and fix things. Because that's what Sherlock does. He plans and he solves and he translates languages to keep any feelings at bay.

Now that he knew Moriarty's plan, he came for her help. He needed her, but it was more than that. He needed to prove her wrong. He was waiting in her lab, sitting in his normal place. She walked through the darkened room, not noticing and grabbed the handle of the door.

"You were wrong, Molly." She gasped and jerked towards him with a start. He stared straight ahead, struggling to keep the words going. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right." He continued, "I'm not okay."

She looked at him intently and stepped in place. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." He walked to where she stood at the door, stopping a few feet from her.

She stared at him, as if waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she asked desperately. "What d'you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that I think I am—would you still want to help me?" He asked her gravely, he advanced another step. This was important; he needed to know the answer from at least one person.

Again she asked, "What d'you need?"

Taking that as her completely yes, he took another step towards her. "You."

When words failed her, he went on and told her the story of a boy who liked to play tricks.

I'm not scared to jump; I'm not scared to fall.

If there was nowhere to land, I wouldn't be scared

At all

And so, as he stood on the ledge and looked down, he wasn't afraid of jumping. He was confident in the homeless network he had gathered to help him. And Molly, he was confident in her. He looked down and saw that everyone is in place, which meant he also saw the taxi pull up. He dialed John's number, knowing before he heard the answering ring, that it was John below him.

"Hello?" Came the short answer he had been waiting for.

"John." Relief dripped in his words, but he didn't care.

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" John was sprinting towards the building.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came." This was carefully constructed; if he was in the wrong place, he could ruin everything.

"No, I'm coming in." John said belligerently. He did not understand and Sherlock could not explain it to him.

"Just—do as I ask." Sherlock said it desperately, his voice breaking with strain. "Please."

"Where?" John said, turning and walking determinedly.

"Stop there." Sherlock was speaking too loudly, why hadn't John noticed?

"Sherlock?" Maybe he had noticed.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

There was a pause as John did as he was told. Then, "Oh god."

"I—I... I can't come down, so we'll—we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" John asked softly.

"An apology." Sherlock answered him. "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

There was a pause as the horror hit John. "Why are you saying this?" There was urgency in his voice.

"I'm a fake." His voice broke.

"Sherlock."

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty… for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock smiled sadly.

"You could."

Sherlock laughed unhappily. That comment sent a red-hot stake into his stomach. This was proving more difficult than he had thought it would. He needed to get John to hate him, he couldn't believe in Sherlock. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered every single thing that I could to impress you." He paused. "It's a trick. It's a magic trick."

"No. Alright, stop it now." John was beginning to get angry. He walked forward toward the building again.

"No, stay exactly where you are!"Sherlock warned. "Don't move."

"Alright." John said, backing up.

Sherlock was panting now, "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call… it's my note." He stopped as he set the final phrase into action. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." The last was a statement more than a question.

John's refusal of the situation was peaking. "Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't—"

John stepped in place, trying to figure out what to do. Sherlock hung up the phone and threw it to the side.

He heard a yell of Sherlock! before he raised his arms and tipped himself off the side of the building.

Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release.

Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief.

Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm in peace.

It's only when I hit the ground, it causes all the grief.

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero… um.. there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man, the most human… human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

John began to walk away, but turned back saying, "Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"