It was much too quiet in John's flat. People normally thought Doctor John Watson a man who enjoyed the peace and quiet, who needed it to function normally-in reality, he hated it. He despised the silence, the stillness of the air, the light colours of a room in which nothing happened. But he put up a good show, pretending that he was a sane man who didn't dream of murders or crime scenes. Pretending that the rush of adrenaline he got when he saw a man with a gun or when someone gave him a calculating look from the corner of their eye didn't exist.

Even Mary, his fiancee, did not know of these little inconsistencies in his heart beat when his pulse spiked. To her, this was how John had always been. Then again, she had only met him after the death of his best friend.

Shaking his head, John shook away unwanted memories, even if they were more exciting than his current situation. This kind of excitement came with a price, one that he wasn't ready to give up just yet. This week.

Clenching his hands on the couch in one quick stress-relief habit, one which Sherlock had pointed out to him long ago, John decided to go out for a walk. There was nothing good on the television. He didn't bother grabbing his coat, hoping the cold would keep at least half his mind preoccupied.

He made it about halfway down the street from his flat when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket, which he answered without checking the number.

"Hello?"

There was no answer. Irritated, John repeated into the line. "Hello?"

Again, there was no answer. Now bordering on royally pissed-off, he went to end the call when he heard a slight muttering on the other end of the line.

"John." The first distinct word. The voice was silky, a rich baritone. Not many people had voices like that, he knew. There was only one he could think of.

"Who is this?" he asked. Another pause. Curious, he held on, listening intently. He ignored the people walking beside his still form; to him, they might as well be in a painting, and he paid them no heed. They weren't important.

A full minute went by before he heard the one final word, followed by the sound of disconnection.

"Sorry."

Unlike a normal person, the adrenaline that shook his body caused him to grip his phone tighter as his heart beat solidly against his chest.

"Wait!" he screamed into the dead line, knowing full well that there was no chance the caller could hear him. But he had to try something.

It took him mere seconds, shocked still on the sidewalk, before he began walking, soon making way into a full-blown run. His cell phone was still in his hand, having no longer any mind to put it into his pocket. His walk was brisk, but perfectly normal in the streets of London. The only ones who would know its purpose were those with a highly observant eye. And perhaps a pink phone.

Pink isn't typically the colour people associated for men with deep, baritone voices so silky they could soothe a woman out of her drawers just as soon as coax a man into giving up his trick of murder. This particular voice did much more of the latter than the former. In fact, the former was much further from his interests than even he would admit to.

Despite this, a man possessing just such a voice stood opposite the sidewalk John Watson occupied, speaking irritably into a phone. His was black, which was much more suitable for a man with a military background. It was professional, as was his current position as doctor. But the man with the pink cell phone had no interest in this, as he spoke into his own. He had long known this specific fact.

But speaking on the phone, the baritone found, was a much more daunting task than he had anticipated. It took some time, and much effort, to be able to speak the only two words that could even be considered words. Instead of dragging out this painful experience, he simply said "sorry", and hung up.

"Wait!"

His head, not the only one he noticed, swung in the direction of the shout. John stood directly across from him now, phone still by the ear, clenched tightly, but only for a moment. In a mere second the man was sprinting down the street, disappearing around the corner. Based on his direction, he knew exactly where John was going. Yet he couldn't repress a sigh, or the hand he placed on his face.

"Oh, John," he mumbled. "It only took two years to make you forget to observe your surroundings first, did it?"

Placing his hands in his pockets, ignoring the sharp pang he felt throughout his chest, Sherlock Holmes followed at a forced-leisurely pace behind his best friend.

"John? What are you-"

"Here."

John tossed his cell phone onto Lestrade's desk, an alarming expression on his face. It had been months since he had come to Scotland Yard, claiming that the smell of the place and the familiar clutter brought him back to times best forgotten. Such reasons were why Lestrade felt an uneasy quiver in the pit of his stomach at the man's sudden appearance.

"Why are you-"

"He called me." John paced around the small office space Lestrade occupied, hand to his face as he tried to keep his composure.

"WHO called you?"

"Sherlock!" He slammed his hands down onto the desk, staring into the inspector's eyes intently. Lestrade felt his heart thump, saddened by his friend's delusions.

"Listen, John-"

"No! No," the doctor cut him off, anticipating the accusations that he was simply disillusioned. He got that enough from his therapist, years ago, when she had told him that Sherlock was dead. "I am NOT crazy, Greg! I know his voice when I hear it-he called me, not ten minutes ago-just trace the damned thing, will you!?"

Lestrade hesitated before speaking calmly to his friend. "You know that we can't trace a call unless we're hooked up at the time of the call."

"Bullshit! I watched you do it for Sherlock a million times!"

"That was when we were tracing calls for murder! I can't just do it for you because you think you heard a deadman talking."

"But if he's-" John paused, covering his face with his hand to calm himself. This was easier said than done, as his heart still beat rapidly beneath his button-up shirt. Between the shock of the call and his sprint to see Lestrade, John could easily call this one of the more difficult things of his day. Or week. Possibly month.

Lestrade's phone buzzed from its position on top of his desk. He picked it up, thankful for the distraction, checking the text quickly before setting it down and looking John in the eyes. He sighed.

"All right. We'll trace the call. In the meantime, why don't you go get some coffee or something? No, scratch that. The last thing you need is more caffeine. Just, just go and take a breather, alright?"

John nodded, seeing no point in arguing. He could do with a drink. Preferably something strong. "How long until you get something?" he asked.

"We'll phone Mary when we're finished."

John shook his head. "No, don't worry her. She finally started thinking I wasn't crazy."

I finally started thinking I was sane again, too. I guess that's when he'd finally decide to ruin my mental health again, isn't it?

"I'll just come back by later." It was only noon, so he'd go get a drink and come back in a couple hours. He just had to make sure he didn't get too wasted before that happened and he'd be good. How long could it take to trace a call, anyway?

"John." He turned his head back towards Lestrade before walking out the office. Lestrade gave him a pointed look. "Just don't get your hopes up too high."

John nodded like this was obvious, leaving only the scuff of his shoes on the carpet.

Sherlock ducked into an alley as his phone buzzed him, forewarning him to John's departure from the building. He peeked around for just a moment to see which direction he was off to now, settling his back to the wall when he went in the opposite direction.

Several minutes passed before Sherlock turned his head up at the scuffing of the gravel at the end of the alley. Silhouetted against the dim London light appeared Inspector Detective Greg Lestrade, aggravation creating a swagger in his step as he marched up to Sherlock.

"How long is this going to go on for, Sherlock?" was his opening line.

"Calm down, Lestrade," he chastised. Sherlock glanced down at his watch, mentally calculating how far John could have gotten off to. Lestrade shook his head.

"First you had me make that video. I gave it to him like you asked me to so you could give him a message. So, what, are you just trying to fuck with his head now?"

"You didn't exactly make that video, Lestrade. I was the one doing the hard work."

"Yeah, well who was it who had to wait for you to beat down your feelings long enough to create a proper video?"

Sherlock looked the inspector detective up and down, perplexed at his idiocy. Personal stupidity rang throughout his own head, however, when he thought of how badly he hesitated on the phone earlier. Even though his pride kept reassuring him that he hadn't, his logical mind proved that he had, in fact, simply not been prepared. The sound of John's voice on the other side of the phone had sent his stomach into a flurry, and he-though he now presumed he imagined it-had, for the first time in his life, gotten sweaty palms. Like some pathetic schoolgirl talking to her crush, he had lost his tongue over the phone and become a mute. But how were you supposed to talk to someone whose voice you hadn't heard in two years?

And people had actually called him emotionally inept.

He took solace in the fact that he still wasn't as emotionally dexterous as other people, including John and Lestrade.

This time he took out his phone-his actual phone, which he had procured somewhere in the Netherlands-and sent a text out to someone. Noticing this, Lestrade commented.

"Are you really going to have me trace the call?" he asked, referring to the text that had shown up on his phone while John was in his office.

Trace it. -SH

"I never joke when it comes to John." His eyes caught the doubt in Lestrade's face and he rolled his eyes at the unspoken accusation of idiocy. "Relax. The call can't be traced back to me." He pulled out the pink phone and showed it to him.

"Is that-is that the phone from 'A Study in Pink'!?" Sherlock rolled his eyes once more.

In the silence that ensued, Sherlock couldn't help but rake his eyes across his friend's appearance. It was one habit which could never be beaten out of him, though God knows how many had tried.

The scuffs on the tips of his shoes and the light mud on the heels told him the current problems with family life, while the increasing number of wrinkles in his forehead indicated not only that, but also the frustration that went with working with a bunch of imbeciles at New Scotland Yard. There were several other things that he noticed, but it all added up to one thing: Greg Lestrade was absolutely exhausted.

"Not sleeping well, I see. It's got nothing to do with me, has it?" The question was a formality, as he honestly didn't care about the obvious row that had occurred between Lestrade and his wife the previous night, based on the evidence that he had slept on his sofa as opposed to his bed. He was relieved when the man glared.

"No, it hasn't."

"Well, in that case." Sherlock clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation. He was also checking them for possible sweat stains, as he had his wrists earlier, but found none obvious. "I'll be off. Lots to do before the big reveal, you know."

"Sherlock." He didn't stop, leaving Lestrade to yell at his fleeting form. "Don't with his head!"

Mess with his head? What could that possibly mean? Sherlock honestly had no idea as to what Lestrade meant by this.

It still hadn't crossed his mind that John Watson was missing him much more than he appeared to be. He didn't know you could miss someone more than Sherlock had missed his companion over the past two years.

John swigged the whiskey down, the burning sensation in his throat a light comfort to his beating heart. He had calmed down considerably from earlier, but was still left to his thoughts.

He was sure that he could tell his best friend's voice from any other voice in the entire world, no matter how crazy this sounded. The voice on the phone had been the same one that plagued his dreams, and commented in his head when John would "observe" the substantial amount of make-up on a woman or a man's upturned collar. You didn't just mistake a voice like that.

If there was anything that could possibly make John doubt who it was on the other side of the phone, it was that there was so much hesitation. Sherlock had always been very curt and to the point, even when he had to act. Especially when he had to act, actually, as otherwise the man would just text.

Also, it had sounded thick, like ones does when they're about to cry. But John knew this was imagined, because he had only seen the man cry once.

Right before he jumped.

John gazed to the top of St Bartholomew's Hospital, watching his friend with panicked eyes. They swayed back and forth across the form on the edge, seeming so tiny despite being less than a hundred metres away.

"This is my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

Despite the daunting distance, their gazes connected. So many emotions were communicated in this contact, and John noticed something that made him stop. A glint shone on Sherlock's cheek, just for a moment. It had taken him days-days in which he remembered every detail, every feeling-every fall-to realise that in his final moments, Sherlock had been crying.

And he wasn't crying for his life, like a normal man would. No, he would do something a normal man wouldn't.

He was crying for John.

John swung back another shot of whiskey, banging the glass down on the table with a new force.

"Damnit, Sherlock," he muttered to himself.

"Oi, no loitering! If you're not going to buy anything, get out!"

At the commotion, several heads turned to where the bartender was yelling. The verbally-abused man had turn immediately at the order, making his way swiftly out the door. But John stopped, mind working clearly despite the new alcohol.

"Wait!" he yelled. He took a bill out of his wallet, leaving it on the counter as he chased after the form. Two runs in one day. Wouldn't Mary be so proud?

The form didn't slow down, and by the time John made it outside he watched it disappear around a corner. Undaunted (or perhaps desperate), he continued to chase after the man. His pea coat was swaying in the distance, catching the wind in its unbuttoned state. John supposed there hadn't been much time to button it, but didn't dwell on it, following him onto yet another street.

"Stop!" he attempted again. Whether or not they heard him, he didn't know or care.

Watching the figure turn onto the third new street, John was beginning to slow down, not having done so much exercise for a long time. But he forced himself onto the next street. Then stopped.

The street was empty except for a couple of people, and there was nowhere to hide. He glanced around hastily, hoping to catch some glimpse of that dark curly hair or a flash of a pea coat. When he had stood at the end of the street analysing every spot, trying to find somewhere they may have disappeared to, for about ten minutes, he found his knees weakening.

Backing up to a solid wall, John put his back against it to brace himself. There was no doubt about it, he had exhausted himself. His knees continued to wobble beneath him until he was forced to sit down. His breathing was ragged, though he was no longer tired from the chase. These were the after effects. This was anxiety.

For the first time in a long time, he relived that moment. Over. And over. And over again. His breathing became increasing in space, soon becoming hyperventilation. He saw something more traumatising than all his time in Afghanistan.

He watched his best friend fall from the building. Again. And again. And again. Finally slumping to the ground, he had what passer-bys recognised as an anxiety attack.

But he kept seeing the Reichenbach Fall.