A/N: Alright, so before this starts, I would like to make a few credits. One goes to, of course, Dalton Trumbo for his wonderful novel which inspired the whole ordeal. I do not claim credit for any of the genius that may or may not transpire. Second, I credit the wonderful poet Shane Koyczan, whose brilliant poem serves as the title of this piece. Third, to my beta, Emily, because she's absolutely lovely and smart and talented and puts up with all of this crap.

The installments will be made every week, as this story is nearly all written down in my handy-dandy notebook.

When Sherlock wakes up, he hears the phone ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Why won't anyone pick up that damn phone? He's in the flat, solving a case from the comfort of his bed sheets (the beauty of technology) and the phone is ringing? Maybe the doorbell? Who knows, and he's half asleep, sedated, and the sound is incessant, that god forsaken noise. Why won't people just leave him alone? The sound crowds his head and makes it hot, makes all of his thoughts flounder wildly about, trying to find space, peace, comfort, solitude, but they can't and these crowded thoughts get angry and they create more thoughts, his head is spinning, everything is warm so warm and he's on fire and

Ring. Ring.

Sherlock is on the roof of the hospital, and he's holding his mobile to his ear.

Ring. Ring. Ring. So calculated. Calm. Indifferent. The noise holds absolutely no tinges of urgency or panic or guilt or defeat or

"Sherlock?"

John. John, John, John. John's voice is a cold sweep of air that subdues all of the fire in Sherlock's brain.

He doesn't feel anything when he says the words, he only feels his façade break and the rivulets of tears inch down from his eyes.

"I guess this is my note."

Sherlock has lived one million years in this scene, feeling it tear him apart while he watches it from one hundred miles up.

An out of body experience. Interesting.

And John is shaking his head; he doesn't believe it, doesn't believe that this can happen to him again, not after everything he's lived through, please god, not this and –

Won't someone please pick up the goddamn phone?

Sherlock falls. He falls, and he thinks, this is all for you, John, for us. The whistle in the wind is the last thing he hears before it, before the Big Bang, the end of the world.

Crack. Well, that can't be good. But what comes after the Fall? He thinks. Everything is cold and black, and he can't see anything, can't see the white light, the holy angels welcoming him to Heaven. Alternatively, the fiery gates to Hell aren't anywhere in sight, either, so that's a good sign.

Then what?

You're the genius here, Sherlock, a nagging voice in his head says. The voice sounds suspiciously like Mycroft, and he cringes.

Make a deduction, Sherlock.

The detective sucks in an exasperated breath of air, feels it fill up his lungs as his mind gets ready for the charge.

Wait a minute – he feels it. Yes. So, not dead then. Dead men do not feel, and they definitely do not think, either. Then what is he? Where is he? Gears start turning and clicking and sparking in his head, and the not knowing is what kills him but it's what keeps him going all at the same time – the chase, the hunt, the heat, and eventually the kill.

He feels the air through his lungs. Good, still has those. He stretches the feeling, then, carefully, as if thin fingers of light reaching towards the edge of the shadows, to the end of the world, or perhaps just to the end of his toes.

There's something there, covering him. A sheet? Thin fabric, cool, the cover extending all along his body except where it's stopped at the middle of his torso. Yes, a sheet, obviously.

Sherlock sighs again. He's in a hospital, why didn't he figure that out sooner?

He tries to move his fingers, and realizes that he can't. He pushes harder and harder against the boundaries of his feeble consciousness, wills the small phalanges to move, to twitch, to do anything. He remains still, though, deathly still, but he's not dead, right? No, he can't be, he still has fingers. Fingers that can't move, that he can feel but not move, how utterly ridiculous, he thinks, and the shrill panic begins to set in, a film of sweat forming on his brow. This sheet is too hot now, he says to himself, and he tries to kick it off, to flail and yell and punch the air, but he can't, he can't move anything, not even an inch, which means that he's –

Paralyzed. Is this a joke? He thinks angrily, some kind of mind trick? Goodness knows that his mind has been tricked once before (once, count it, once only) so therefore the possibility of it happening again is…

"Wrong, Sherlock. You're wrong."

What?
"You're wrong and I'm right."

Mycroft again. He's shorter now. Taller than Sherlock, though, and the younger Holmes has to squint the sun out of his eyes to be able to see his brother properly. The light surrounds Mycroft like a halo, like a damned holy thing, and Sherlock swells with an infantile frustration.

"No! You're stupid, Mycroft!" Infantile. Child-like. Yes, Sherlock is a child now, just a little boy, and Big Brother has offered to help him with his coursework after finding him sitting on the lawn, banging his head against the ground in a steady rhythm.

"Sherlock, you've got this wrong because the Earth revolves around the sun, we're not the center of the solar system."

The younger boy groans loudly, "No, no, no, that doesn't make any sense, why would that be true if people always say that the sun 'rises' or 'sets'?" Mycroft laughs, attempting to mask the tension in his voice.

"I…that's just a figure of speech, I mean, it's not actually true…"

Sherlock yells, then, his thin voice piercing the air, perforating the frail bubble of normalcy that had surrounded them. He was always like this as a child in school, always tortured by the things he couldn't grasp, the little social things that always seeped into the educational material, contaminated all that was once pure and scientific, making it questions of ethics rather than of x and y, of what do you think instead of a surefire this is the answer.

Sherlock hates astronomy the most, because the universe seems so big. Gigantic. Gargantuan. He can think of ten thousand ways to list how big the universe is, but no matter what, he will never know its exact measurements. He will never know how many stars there are or how many planets or if there are other forms of life.

The yelling escalates. The light becomes brighter, a malicious yellow rather than benevolent white, ripping into his pupils, stabbing his brain. His head pulsates and if there are 982,732,935 stars in the universe, how many years, approximately, would it take for them all to burn out? If it takes one rocket ship to fly to the moon, how many for three moons, or five or ten? If space is measured in light years rather than in miles, how many billions of miles away is Mars? Most importantly, though, why the bloody hell would people say that the sun rises or sets when it doesn't, actually, and it's just the Earth rotating around it at the rate of _ per second?

Sherlock shrieks "Why would people say it if it isn't true?"

The boy can barely hear his brother outside of the cacophony of his own mind, and Mycroft is shouting, "Help mummy help Sherlock's having an episode Daddy Mum I can't stop him please help". The neighbors come to watch but they don't offer anything, never offer anything because oh that Holmes family oh those young boys they're geniuses aren't they well the older one see he's going to grow up big and strong and successful but the younger well he's a bit odd you know, a bit strange in the head. They all whisper among themselves, vultures, spreading an ominous shadow all over the street where Sherlock would walk, he has tantrums, you know, suffering under the weight of that big brain of his. How big is it? The children would ask each other, pointing, staring, laughing, is it bigger than the whole universe?

Sherlock feels water, feels it drench his skin and mat his hair. He hears the sizzle of his steaming thoughts as they begin to slow down, to become a little less loud; manageable, even. He blinks several times, his chest heaving, and the daylight looks much kinder now, friendly, and the exuberant greenery upon which he lay seems to shimmer, the droplets on the grass winking slowly as if to say it's alright now, child, the threat is gone.

He looks up at Mycroft holding half a pail of water, and Mycroft is crying, holding his brother's hand and saying I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry Sherlock I shouldn't have said anything please forgive me please be alright.

It's only then that Sherlock notices the blood timidly trickling down his temple and it feels nice, pleasantly warm, and perhaps he had hit his head a little too hard on the ground while trying to find the answer, the answer to the ultimate question Mummy how big is the universe? It doesn't matter Sherlock dearest, nothing else matters except that you're here right now on Earth and not out there in the universe however big it may be now hush darling save your strength they're coming soon now and you're going to be alright I promise…

And Sherlock hears the ambulance bell ringing, ringing…

And then nothing. Everything is silent, and although Sherlock strains to listen, all he can grasp is a muffled buzzing, the loudest kind of silence. He still can't move his fingers, his toes, can't open his eyes or stretch his tired limbs.

But he can't hear, either. Not the shuffling of feet or the lights above him or the beeping of the monitors. He can't hear anything, and that is enough to send his brain right back to where it had started, in the eye of a vicious internal storm.

The darkness in which he is engulfed dims impossibly, and the detective figures that he is still alert enough to realize that he is passing out.