This all started when I was reading a very powerful description of falling that made me feel like I was dropping through the air, and one line really got to me, apparently, because somehow this happened. Anything to do with falling usually reminds me of Sherlock, so I'm not all that surprised.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. If not, oh well. To each their own.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with BBC's Sherlock.

Falling

Falling, as it turned out, was not at all like flying. Standing on the edge of St Bart's the dead man walking sucked in a shaky breath, limbs vibrating with fear of the oncoming plunge into eternity. Moriarty was an idiot. Treacherous wind plummeted Sherlock's draped curls, feeling not much different than a normal windy London day. Except that today his feet were planted on the edge of a tall building and these last few seconds were to be his last.

He suddenly wondered if it would hurt. Sure, it was a long fall, but would Sherlock die on impact, skull crushed, brain matter, blood, and miscellaneous tissues oozing out onto the concrete below? Or would he twitch and internally scream in excruciating agony for minutes or hours to come as he slowly wasted away into a broken shell of what he once was? His heavy gaze fell to John and his dastardly heart decided to break before the rest of him.

John.

Captain Watson would soon be forced to watch yet another friend, a comrade on the battlefield, succumb to a horrible, unbefitting death. Sherlock knew his friend became a doctor to help people, protect them from the dangers of the world as much he could, even if that were often not possible. When something horrible happened that John couldn't control, couldn't fix, the man was always heartbroken. This was one of those times and it was all Sherlock's fault.

What felt like minutes had passed. Sherlock's brain, still faster than most, thought all of these painful things within fractions of a second. Too bad his Mind Palace couldn't survive this, Sherlock fleetingly thought, huffing internally. All that information gone to waste. What a pity. No hard disk or thumb drive could record the brilliance that this man was.

John was frozen on the street, whole body portraying disbelief, unacceptance. He could almost hear John screaming his name. Time stood still.

Off in the distance, Sherlock heard the usual London traffic and endless chatter. It was so painfully normal. The world would go on without him.

His eyes flicked momentarily to the sky, knowing he would never see the sun or clouds or beautiful changing blues again. He stole another breath.

It was time.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let his body sway forward, his organs seemingly changing places inside his ribcage while his center of gravity became off-balanced. No turning back now. Five or six seconds were all he had, Sherlock calculated quickly. Not too bad, all things considered. It would almost be over as soon as it began.

His body began to fall.

Regret instantly filled his whole self. It wasn't like flying at all. There was no rush of excited adrenalin, no feeling of great power or a gush of animalistic satisfaction. Only the rush of wind around his ears like a locomotive, a scream caught forever in his throat, and quickly approaching concrete calling his name, mocking him, about to rip his whole world into pieces. Lanky arms flailed, attempting to slow the fall to no avail. There was no stopping it, this stupid move he'd made. There were so many things not done, words unspoken, penitence not shown. But the worst feeling of all was that there would never, ever be the chance to do any of those things, to make everything right.

Just twenty more feet and that would be it. Sherlock never thought he'd go out like this. Arms flapped against empty air. Lungs exploded in agony. Tears stung wind-whipped eyes. A beating heart constricted so painfully it almost burst. Breathing and pleading harder than ever before, and Sherlock knew it wasn't fair. A gunshot wound was befitting, a knife to the back, a last breath drawn with white hair and wrinkles with his faithful doctor by his side. But not this. Never this.

Ten feet to go and he took his last breath. There would never be another. The unwanted thought was too much to bear. A tear slipped off his cheek. This man, amazing to few, agitating to most, would go down in history not as the Reichenbach hero but a fraud. Such a waste, they'd all say; not worth the ink used to print his name on paper.

Before the pavement tore apart his vessel, leaving his soul homeless, Sherlock clamped his eyes shut, too frightened of the unknown awaiting him.

Seven feet.

Just as his body was about to shatter from the unfair natural law of gravity, Sherlock could only hear five words ring through his ears, barely heard over the screaming of his mind, in a voice so familiar it hurt: "Please, God, let me live."

And then... there was nothing.

XXOXX

A freight train roared through the darkness. Sherlock startled, entire body rigid, utterly destroyed. He was sweating, clothes stuck to his body like a constricting cobra, the ringing in his ears no longer resembling wind and shaky pleas. He couldn't move. There was no air. He gasped and gasped for something, anything. Torn apart from the inside out and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Gut-wrenching sobs fled from his mouth. The pain was unbearable; his lungs on fire, head a cracked eggshell. The bloodcurdling scream could likely be heard a mile away. Blood flowed strong as the mighty Amazon River through too-small veins. His brain became worthless gelatin wiggling around his pained bowl of a skull. Everything hurt, but none more than his bleeding heart.

Sherlock sucked in breath after painful breath until finally he had some semblance of self-control. He looked around the dark area. There were his things scattered around the room as usual. Whatever he was lying on was soft and comfortable. It took an embarrassing moment to realize it was his own bed. And, after a cautionary movement with his hand he realized it wasn't actually broken in multiple places. He felt fine. At least, not beaten and mangled like a throw rug. The pain was subsiding quickly, feeling more like a fable than reality. Feeling foolish, a quick pat-down revealed that nothing was actually broken, bleeding or in any state of disarray. He was fine. Completely unharmed. But how?

He didn't get much of a chance to react before light attacked his room and a short, yelling man barreled in like he owned the place.

"Sherlock?! What's wrong?"

Still catching his breath, and now possibly permanently blinded from the sudden light, Sherlock rubbed at his red, tired eyes. When he opened them several seconds later he almost smiled at the sight. John, bless him, was standing just inside his doorway, clad only in light blue boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, clutching a frying pan, confused as he'd ever seen him.

"What did you intend to do, John? Blind my attacker then make them an omelet?" The dark-haired man rubbed an oncoming storm from his unsettled temples. "Where's your gun?"

"I couldn't find my gun and I wasn't risking it if you were in danger, you git. This is the first thing I saw," John explained, annoyed and slightly embarrassed that there was, indeed, no intruder attempting to murder his flatmate as he stood in his underwear.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched as John looked him over, checking for signs of distress or some unknown ailment. Always a doctor. There was a thin sheen of sweat covering his face from worry, his stance still portrayed readiness to fight any unknown threat entering Sherlock's bedroom, and those dark eyes of his gave away raw concern. If Sherlock had the courage he would have asked John to come closer and... well, Sherlock wasn't really sure. Reassure him, definitely. Comfort him, perhaps. Squeeze his hand, maybe. Kiss him, most likely. Argh! There it was again, always that feeling, the one he ignored as much as possible, jabbing at him to do something that would surely be deemed foolish. It was just friendship, Sherlock kept forcing on himself. Yet he knew that was a blatant lie. Somewhere, buried deep inside a dusty part of himself he knew that.

"Are. You. Okay?" John stressed again, wanting an actual answer this time. Now the pan hung loosely by his side, swaying a little with time, much like a pendulum. Sherlock still detected fear, concern, relief, and pumping adrenalin much like his own. If he knew what exactly his flatmate was thinking at the moment, embarrassment would have been added to the list.

"I'm fine. Just a bad dream. Go back to bed, John."

"Are you sure? Because I've heard you have nightmares before but I never thought you were actually dying in them."

"Nor did I, before now," Sherlock whispered under his breath, still uncertain why this dream felt more real than all others before it combined.

"What was that?" a curious John asked, head tilting, glad his friend wasn't in grave danger but curious about what was muttered.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock evaded. As much as company could be nice –John's especially– right now he needed time to think, figure out what had happened and why. His friend seemed a little hurt yet left without further explanation. Sherlock watched as John padded out of his room, chiding himself for his body's reaction to his barely-dressed flatmate. Dammit, that was the last thing he needed on his mind.

Once his biggest distraction was gone, Sherlock got to work. Arms circled his knees and pulled them against his chest while his head dropped between them, turning himself into a makeshift ball. Grateful again for his supreme intellect and vast Mind Palace, the detective calmed his battered mind and got to work. Every detail was scrutinized, every pain, every thought, ever fear. It had been so intense. That feeling of falling toward ones death in dreamland was common, but surely it couldn't feel so realistic you woke up feeling like a train had crushed your entire being.

Had he actually been dreaming? Was it even possible that he hadn't been? Maybe he was dreaming right now. Or dead. Could this be an alternate universe, and, if so, in which did he belong? What if he was given a second chance to make things right? But why? Sherlock squeezed his legs even tighter, rocking himself back and forth. What he was about to do was going to hurt. He thought of all his past mistakes, going over every one painstakingly: The time he left the back gate open and Redbeard went missing for the entire week, his first day at University when he accidentally started a fire in the lab and everyone laughed at him, the time he outed himself and lost his only friend, all the hurtful things he'd said over the years to get a reaction, and on and on until all the mistakes –big and small– suddenly resurfaced. A panic gripped at his chest, forcing him to lose breath once more. It was excruciating. First physical pain and now this. It was turning into a horrible evening, and all too much for the detective to handle. Just how many people had he hurt, made a fool of, or even gotten killed because he had made a mistake? Brushing over his past forced him to look at the present, and his future, knowing now he must do something about his life choices, about the people he cared about, especially one in particular. Even if it was only a dream – and Sherlock just paranoid– he vowed in that moment not to waste the opportunity. Time was precious. He knew that now. And he knew just where to start.

Sherlock changed positions, something a bit more relaxed, less protective, while his mind drifted to John. All those heated glances, brief touches and heartfelt looks had to mean something. Sherlock was far from an idiot and he knew John wasn't either. There was something they were both hiding, from each other and themselves. It was eating him up inside. The question was, were either of them ready to admit it? Long fingers pulled painfully at dark curls attempting to shut his haggling brain off. His eyes clamped impossibly shut, a growl moving from diaphragm to larynx. His heels pushed against the bed beneath him repeatedly in a jerky motion, slipping a little while Sherlock had what he was too proud to call a temper tantrum.

Something had to be done about this. Sherlock was likely going insane. His last thought before hitting the pavement had been John's pleading face and tormented voice. That had to be significant. Sherlock sighed, then sighed again when that wasn't enough. He had to get off this bed. It was suffocating him just by staying in the room.

"John!" Sherlock called, attempting to get out of the blankets and failing. The bed sheets wrapped around him like ivy, not letting go. He fought and won the battle, though barely. His body felt like it'd ran a marathon. Dreams, if that's what that catastrophe had been, were certainly powerful and very strange occurrences.

"Yeah?" answered John who almost bumped into the tipsy Sherlock. He was about to enter his flatmate's room just as Sherlock came barreling out. John still hadn't gone back upstairs, deciding to watch television instead so he could be close by if something did occur, Sherlock deduced by the faint murmuring in the next room and John's troubled expression. Thinking about the warmth in the gesture sent dozens of butterflies to his stomach. That precious feeling urged him on.

"Are you dating anyone right now?" he asked urgently, grabbing ahold of John's shoulders as they stood in their hallway.

Blue-green eyes sliced into John's whole being, making his body stutter with confusion for several reasons. He blinked before speaking, composing himself. Ignoring his thoughts around Sherlock almost came naturally now.

"Don't you ever listen to me, Sherlock? You should know if I'm with someone."

Sherlock looked over his friend, observing his behavior. Single. Right. Yes. For more than- Wait, is he? His pupils had dilated when they'd made physical contact. Telltale sign that either he hadn't been touched by someone for quite a long time or he was attracted to Sherlock. Ignoring the later for a moment, that meant longer than a few weeks for him if he was that desperate for a shag. He'd learned his friend's sex drive by now; it had been impossible not to, annoyingly enough. John was getting older, so said sex drive was naturally diminishing. So, either he just didn't care much for shagging anymore –unlikely– or –just as unlikely– he was tired of relationships. Neither were very possible with John, so he discarded them. That left two options: he was interested in someone who didn't know his feelings or he was dating someone without getting sex. Sherlock looked him over again, needing more evidence. His stance was guarded, legs together more than usual. Still, that could mean several things, and not all of them sexual. Sherlock moved on, discarding that piece of information for the time being. Recalling the last few months, Sherlock couldn't remember a time when John had claimed he was going out- not that he always noticed. If he'd remembered all the times John had left without him in their eight year acquaintance it would drive him mad. Yet they did seem few and far between over the last few months. Had something changed? Sherlock surveyed the rugged terrain that was John's face. A couple more wrinkles, a few pounds added to his waist, otherwise he was the same John Watson he'd always known. So, what was new? Sherlock narrowed his eyes, coming up blank. Blast! Which option is it? He hated when that happened. There were too many personal emotions getting in the way. This was exactly why he never let himself get attached. Too much overanalyzing.

Sherlock stared through John's whole being as he deduced, those piercing eyes shaking John to the core. Sherlock knew the effect he could have on John when he looked at him like this, and it was always quadrupled when mixed with physical contact. Before now Sherlock hadn't given that longing look much thought, more to keep his sanity than to brush it off as a platonic glance between mates. But in this instant, Sherlock wanted to do no such thing. To hell with his fears of rejection. Subconscious or otherwise, his dream meant something, and he wasn't about to ignore the message received. Deep inside himself he knew his feelings for John were strong and true. And, if his deductions were sound, then John could possibly feel the same. It was wishful thinking, but what more did he have to cling to? If he didn't do something now would he ever have the courage again, once the euphoric feeling of the nightmare had worn off? Decidedly not. There was so much to lose, yet so much more to gain. Now was the time to do something stupid and reckless before he came to his senses.

John sighed then, eyes leaving Sherlock's and wondering to his shoulder, in their depth looking sad and distant.

"No, I'm not dating anyone right now. Why do you ask?"

"Would you like to be?" The words barely came out, choked and rushed as they were before a filter could be placed. John had been spending more time in the shower, if Sherlock recalled correctly. At least now he knew for certain that it could only be one option. No matter how much his brain told him he was correct there still remained doubt. Am I right? Could I be the one he's interested in? It was a growing possibility but… was it true?

John's gaze snapped back to Sherlock's, only wavering slightly, worries and shock written in his expression. But also…something else; something Sherlock recognized. Or so he hoped. There had been two ways to take his sentence. John's initial reaction was what Sherlock had hoped for. That was a good sign. Sherlock took a deep breath. He needed to know for sure. Now or never.

"Wha-?" John started but never finished as his eyes followed his friend's mouth in shock, Sherlock's pink tongue darting out to lick quickly-approaching lips.

Sherlock leaned his head down further, hands still pressing tightly into John's shoulders. John looked up frightened, confused, not breathing, and not daring to move a centimeter. Sherlock had very little experience with kissing and little to no experience with anything that came after that, but he had to try. He didn't even close his eyes as his plump lips rested against John's, barely even a touch. It felt wonderful, smooth, wet, warm. Natural. A cornucopia of feelings bubbled inside him, flowing from every pore. Each crack in his strongly built walls widened and crumbled until there was nothing left but Sherlock, raw and real, standing vulnerable before his blogger, waiting. John's eyes were on his, riddled with more emotion than even Sherlock could decipher properly. They were the dark blue waves that crashed over Sherlock's frantic heart. And they almost drowned the detective where he stood. Sherlock removed his lips from John's and tried again, becoming fearful and frantic when there was no response from the doctor.

No. Please. It had been so perfect. Please, let me be right.

He kissed him over and over, several seconds between each, little kisses that were barely more than a soft touch. Nothing happened. Emotions poured from his lips like a waterfall but there was no fairytale rush of beautiful emotions emanating from John, no reciprocated kiss from his Prince Charming. John's eyes were still opened but now were devastatingly blank. No. NO. He couldn't be denying him now. Not after everything. He had destroyed their friendship all over a stupid dream that probably meant nothing.

Wetness prickled behind Sherlock's eyes but he ignored it; panic came like bile up his throat but it was pushed down. There was no time for tears or heartache. He had to fix this. He had to make it right. John was King at ignoring romantic moments between them. He could sweep this under the rug of homosexuality as well.

Sherlock took a pained step back, letting limp hands fall to his sides where they apparently belonged. Clearing his throat, his face settled in a neutral expression and he hoped his eyes stopped feeling like a storm raged inside them and did the same: followed his orders, listened to his pleas. John was blinking frantically now, looking through Sherlock, his breathing almost like tiny gasps. It was unsettling to say the least. Oh god. He'd broken him.

"John? John, can you hear me?" Sherlock could have slapped himself. Of course he can hear you, he's just in shock because you kissed him!

"I'm sorry. What I did was uncalled for and I'd like it if we could just move on and pretend this never happened."

Stormy eyes locked onto Sherlock's; a sniper shooting him down.

"I..." Sherlock started but stopped. What could he even say to fix his mistake? Where do you even begin?

"Sorry," came a meek voice. It was so fragile, so broken. The same voice Sherlock had heard repeating "Please, God, let me live" right before his body had been mangled. It broke his heart all over again.

"Why are you the one apologizing?" Sherlock said, barely over a whisper himself. The flat was so quiet. It was deafening.

"Because I didn't know what to do and I hurt you. You… you kissed me. It… I don't…" Words didn't seem to work properly for John and it obviously aggravated him. Anger rose in his voice, though whether he was mad at himself or his flatmate, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"John?" Sherlock asked, sounding so unsure it resembled pleas for forgiveness.

The doctor's face was tight, pained. He drew in a steadying breath and spoke again, mostly composed this time, looking more like the man Sherlock knew him to be. Except this time there wasn't a shield around his emotional center; John let him see the feelings inside without a filter, without denial. It was both refreshing and mortifying.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was a horrible way to react. I just stood there like an imbecile." John's hands wrung into fists, silently cursing himself for hurting the man standing barely a foot away. John bit at his own lip.

"It's fine. I'm fine."

John shook his head in argument.

"No, it isn't," started John. "I wasn't expecting that to happen and I panicked."

"A perfectly normal reaction to a flatmate attempting to snog you, I'm sure," Sherlock attempted.

"Normal, yes, but uncalled for."

There was a long pause filled with nothing but the sound of rushing blood through ears. Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to do, so he said nothing.

John took another steadying breath, eyes closing momentarily before speaking.

"Sherlock..." He looked down again, toward Sherlock's robe-clad shoulder, not daring to look into Sherlock's eyes, both men afraid of what they might see.

Time stood still as Sherlock watched every movement John made, every breath, every blink, every fearful expression. It hurt Sherlock more than anything he could imagine. Whatever John said next would decide his fate. God, how his heart ached.

"Yes?" came his resonant voice, usually so powerful, yet now so soft.

"Wanna give it another go? I…" John cleared his throat, looking like he'd been ran over by the roundabout confession and expected repercussions for his acceptance of kissing another man. "I think I'm okay now. Promise I won't stand there like an idiot this time."

Finally, John sheepishly looked up, their eyes meeting for the first time in everlasting seconds. All semblance of time was gone. Sherlock took one final breath before a dam broke inside him, spilling toward John as he pushed their lips together almost too excitedly. John jumped from the suddenness of it, yet his lips curled into a smile. Deceptively strong arms wrapped around Sherlock's torso, keeping his middle warm and tingling. Laughter bubbled up through John which Sherlock was surprised to feel through their connection. This kiss was infinitely better, reciprocated and loving, a cherishing of each other and what this seemingly colossal step meant for them. If Mrs. Hudson had seen she would have clapped.

Finally, Sherlock inwardly sighed. Weight lifted off his shoulders after almost a decade of imitating a workhorse. He didn't have to worry anymore. Sherlock felt free, like he could sprout wings. If he'd known it would have felt this good he would have done it ages ago.

When their lips ceased to touch a smile broke over both their faces. Their eyes opened and they stared at one another. Nothing else needed to be said. Not yet. All they could do was grin like madmen. If they weren't so close and hadn't just shared something so intimate it would have been just like old times. Some things never change. Sometimes they never need to.

"Must you always do everything suddenly, without warning me?" John playfully chided, breath warm against Sherlock's wet mouth.

"Go big or go home," Sherlock breathed cheerfully, eyes alight with blissful fire.

Sherlock cupped John's neck, feeling the warmth and fragility there, happy to find John didn't mind in the slightest. All he did was smile up at him, happy. It twisted at Sherlock's heartstrings, did things to him he never thought possible before meeting John. He trusted him; that was a welcomed salve to Sherlock's bruised heart. And, even more importantly, John had kissed him back. Of all the people in the world, John wanted him. The thought caused prickles behind Sherlock's eyes. He tried to hide the emotion. He wasn't the only one. John was smiling, a bittersweet look on his face mimicking Sherlock's own. There were tears behind those beautiful dark eyes, refusing to fall, denying their own existence. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's and took a deep breath, not wanting to close his eyes as he felt like he was falling. Except this time they were falling together. Perhaps the Irishman was right after all: it felt just like flying.

Random rambles: If you've ever had a dream as powerful as the one he had (if it was a dream; I'll let you decide what way you want to take it since this is slightly AU) you know that it can really stay with you for the rest of the day, and sometimes even longer. One time I had a dream I was falling, and though they say you're supposed to wake up before you hit the ground, I didn't. Let me tell you, I woke up and I felt a strong, odd pain for the rest of the day after that, like my body had been broken when it hit. So that's what I based some of this on.

Well, I digress. If you let me I'll talk (type) your ear off. Leave a review if you'd like. I thank you for your feedback. Have a wonderful day.