AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey! There are BEAUCOUP spoilers in here. Not to mention my hypothesis for the solution to the Reichenbach fall is embedded into this. Also, I am for sure American and talk in inches cuz i feel like it. Yeah! Let me know about any spelling mistakes you see... I'm sure there are some!

Also- any comments... greatly appreciated. :)

John stepped out of the cab, and stood firmly with his feet on the ground. He began walking... one foot and then the other. His body felt heavy. Each step filled with heaviness that made him tired. But he lifted his eyes to the rooftop and squared his shoulders. He looked at it. He stared that rooftop down. It was grey. It was cold. It looked like it would scratch his palm if he ran his hand across it. The windows were tall and thin. He knew that there was no natural light in most of the rooms in the building. He understood that it was flickering fluorescent inside. A light that was designed for the dead.

He could close his eyes and see Sherlock's afterimage... fading and flashing in colors behind his eyelids.

He can still see it. He won't deny that he can see it. He will never forget those last moments before he fell. They inch into forever. While he was begging Sherlock not to jump... he was also shouting at himself.

Remember these moments, John Watson. Burn them into your memory. They are the final moments. These are the last moments that he will be breathing. He is still breaking. Remember everything. It isn't over yet.

And then time stretched from seconds to minutes to hours. And John spent each inch that Sherlock spent falling shouting inside of his head. Remember this. He is still breathing. He is thinking about you. He is looking at you. He is looking at the ground. He is 1, 175 inches away from the ground. He is now 1,080 inches away from the ground. Soon there will only be three digit numbers of inches left between Sherlock and the ground. He is increasing in speed. He is scared right now. He is feeling fear right now.

He could perceive the distance Sherlock was falling minutely... he could almost see Sherlocks heart beating in his chest (faster and faster). He knew that the wind was blowing from the southeast because of Sherlock's hair and scarf. He knew that it was nearing on sunset because of the shadows on Sherlock's face. He knew that Sherlock's left shoe was untied- which led John to deduce how anxious and distracted Sherlock had been in the 40 minutes or so preceding the moment that he jumped from the roof. Sherlock was not the kind of man to let his shoe become untied.

The irony of John's sudden ability to deduce was not lost on him.

For the first time, he began to understand how Sherlock must feel. Did a minute feel like a year to Sherlock? Was this the way he had always felt? Was this why Sherlock was so detached from other people? Was the world always moving in slow motion for Sherlock?

He is still breathing. He is still breathing and all I want is for him to be falling onto the couch at home. This all just being a terrible nightmare he was having but I would know what he had been dreaming and I would sit on him to hold him down and tell him never to leave me. And he would never dare to do something without telling me about it first. At this moment, he could still be that man. At this moment, he is still the man who knows me better than anyone else. Because he is still breathing. As long as he is breathing, there is the possible but highly improbable chance that I can save him somehow. But in 960 inches, this will no longer be a possibility.

And while John Watson was staring with his mouth open, he was actually burning, burning, burning.

He is now 10 inches or less away from the ground.

John now understood what wanting meant. He wanted more than ever in his life. In fact, he knew now that he had never truly wanted anything before. The only thing that he ever wanted was for this beautiful, graceful, troubled genius to be safe. He wanted to remember what it was like to be the John Watson who expected Sherlock to sit on the couch with no shoes on, teasing and smirking. John felt his life ripping as he deduced that he would never be that John Watson ever again. He is a new John Watson who will be scarred forever, and wake screaming in the night. He will regain his limp and his heart will be broken. He will have the rest of his life to get used to this.

There are no more inches left. Sherlock is now on the ground. Now it is highly improbable that he is still breathing. But there is still a chance that he might be.

Now I am running.

Now my fingers are on his wrist.

Maybe his heart is just beating weakly. Maybe I have pressed his wrist in the wrong place.

I try again.

Seconds have passed.

It is impossible. He must be dead.

John looked at Sherlock's face as time began to speed up again. Suddenly he heard all of the screaming and crying around him. John could deduce by the amount of blood that Sherlock's skull was broken enough that when lifted he might leak brain onto the sidewalk. Sherlock's eyes were lifted and open. What had he been looking at? Where had he been looking?

John needed to know what Sherlock was thinking those last moments. Was he thinking about John? John NEEDED to know.

What happens when you don't get what you need?

You suffocate. So hard that your lungs begin to burn.

First he tried to deny it. He tried to heal those burns. He tried to forget he had been burned, ever. He never came within a mile of St. Bart's. If perchance while out on a date or running errands he passed upon a cross-street... his throat would begin to close up and rising cold fear would fill his chest. The tightness would take him if he got too close to remembering WHY he didn't want to walk down those streets.

More often than not, he was able to perform his daily tasks with the tenacity of a person with only part of their mind left.

But now, here he was. Not only actively accessing his memories of the fall... he was standing in the exact same spot where it happened. But he was breathing. The seconds were ticking by as usual. He had no outstanding appreciation for these minutes. And it hurt him less simply because the parts of him that were broken that day had withered and died already. The sharp pain was gone. It was now a blurry and numb ghost pain that came like a phantom limb.

It had been three years. Three years precisely, in exactly five minutes. The afternoon light began to resemble the light that had been on Sherlock's face. But the wind was blowing from the north, this time.

He came here because Mary had asked him to. He had met Mary during the very short period of time when he had tried to continue Sherlock's consulting clients. Even though Sherlock had died, there was such a long backlog of people who were still interested. Some people had actually believed that they had been a team. People seemed to think John had been doing more than lovingly following Sherlock anywhere he wanted.

The moments (the slow montion forever moments) that happened during Sherlock's fall led John to believe maybe he could access those powers again. Now that he had experienced the focus required to deduce... he understood how to do it when time was passing normally. Of course, he wasn't good at it. But he was better than before. He was nowhere near Sherlock. But he realized that many of the cases that Sherlock had deemed "too boring", were just up John's alley.

He wished he had known he could do this when John was alive. When Sherlock was alive. When John was alive. When they were a "we". A "together'. An "us".

These were the kind of thoughts that made John scared to take any staircase higher than the second floor in any building, for fear he might be tempted to follow Sherlock to wherever he had gone.

But Mary had asked him to solve a case. She was a governess, and John had recovered the six pearls that had been stolen from her employer's safety deposit box. She thanked him by taking him to dinner. Then she thanked him by taking him to bed. He had cried the entire time, but she had not noticed. Silently tears streamed down from his face, and he managed to never let his wet face touch any part of her until he had first wiped it on the pillow. He made love to her in the dark for a many months before she discovered why he kept the lights off.

She had taken her time with him. She was so kind. Not only was she kind, but miraculous. Almost unreal. Because she had the capacity to love this broken down doctor. She loved him, and the parts of him that were broken. She wanted to help him heal.

She went with him to Bart's on the first year anniversary of Sherlock's death.

John had stood in the exact spot where Sherlock had died, while Mary stood in the exact spot where John had been watching- with her back turned. John kept his mouth set in a firm line while he lowered himself onto the ground. When he finally opened it it was to let out an quiet sobbing moan. He was laying and looking up slightly, just as Sherlock had done.

Now he knew what Sherlock had seen. The last thing he had seen. He had seen John- standing so very far away.

He can't remember how Mary took him home that day. He remembers the next day. He remembers the next year.

And the memories start to bleed into each other as he settles into the monotony of 'normalcy'. He only did detective work for a few months while he had obsessively thought he would feel less lonely if he could become Sherlock. He was not able to. Now he is at peace. He is peaceful. He is calm. He feels like there is a flat ocean inside of him. The parts of him that were capable of hurting don t feel real anymore.

And so John asks Mary if she would like to be his wife. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and John sees what Mary looks like when she is elated. She has never done this. There had not ever been a moment of deep passion between them. There was no fire. John had nothing left to burn. But it became clear when her eyes crinkled up and her smile broke her face apart... John made her happy.

And even though it was not his deepest desire... he was thankful. That he could make someone happy. Turns out, that was the best part about Sherlock. John truly made him happy. John had also been happy. But John knows he will never feel that way again.

He will never feel obsession and passion like that ever again. The wanting, the waiting... the need and unspoken promises of loyalty. John is able to turn his memories into forever moments. He takes himself to his mind palace and plays his memories in slow motion. He watches Sherlock's eyes widen, or mouth quirk up on one side.

John uses his newfound powers of deduction to investigate the faces that Sherlock used to make. He finally understood those furtive glances in the mirror when he was putting on his jacket. He understood why he played his violin at two in the morning. The way that Sherlock froze under his touch when John steadied a hand on his shoulder while handing him a hot cup of tea. He reached deep into his memories and unraveled the mystery of Sherlock s overwhelming desire for the good doctor.

Why had he said nothing? Why hadn t Sherlock ever made a move? Had John never made it clear that he jumped when asked to? Hadn t he run into danger with only so much as a flick of Sherlock s wrist? Sherlock s powers of deduction must of noticed that John wouldn t have minded a kiss or two here or there. Or perhaps everywhere..

John realized on the second anniversary that he had been in love with Sherlock. This was a very simple thing. it came with no amount of drama or theatrics. He didn't cry. He just stood still as a stone and finally identified the way they had been together. It had been love. John felt a flash of regret, and then let it go. He let it fly away into the air. He could do this now.

He knew that he didn t love Mary in the same way. Mary knew this, too. John loved her more for never holding it against him.

Now here he was getting married to Mary. It had a bit of a ring to it.

Two shots, ring out in the dark. And then a third. It echoes across the fields, through the night. A thud. A grown. A whimper. And then a breath. A gasp. A gasp gasped with the urgency only felt by the dying. The last rush of oxygen into the lungs. The death rattle. The desperate attempt to continue to breathe air. Only to fail.

Only after this sound evaporates does Sherlock take a breath of his own. He has been holding his breath for three years. Suddenly, air fills him. His cells rejoice in the oxygen. He feels the act of breathing inside of every bone in his body. His pinky fingers are breathing. His eyes are breathing. Suddenly, with a roar- his blood begins to pump again. He feels the ice melt out of his veins.

He reaches down and slips his hand into the pocket of the now-dead-man. He pulls out his various licences and identifications... and lastly... a faded and folded picture of John Watson. This is it. Finally. He finally found him. He had finally tracked down John s personal assassin.

He opens his mouth and feels compelled to scream and beat his chest and shoot his gun into the ceiling. Instead he opens the container of gas and begins to douse the body as well as all of the curtains in this old farmhouse.

He lights the fires and watches them burn for a few moments. The antique wallpaper browns and begins to peel. Tiny flakes of ash begin to rise with the heat. It looks like snow running backwards in time. He feels his body rushing backwards with time. He can actually feel the heat. It has been years since he has regarded physical sensations as worthy of processing and thinking about.

Now he focuses his mind on the sensations of his body.

Because this is the new Sherlock Holmes. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Not only was John's assassin dead, but Sherlock had methodically exterminated every single spider that had access to Moriarty's web. He had killed them all. Dripping with years worth of blood, Sherlock finally felt exonerated.

He finally felt like he could become the man he wanted to be. Perhaps he could become the man who lives in London with John Watson... and whose daring adventures and danger never stole one from the other.

He did not feel like that Sherlock, yet. He still felt like the Sherlock who laid still on the sidewalk of Bart's, with a rubber ball held between his arm and chest to cut off the blood flow to his right arm. He still felt his broken arm and ribs from the fall into the laundry truck. He felt like he was still holding still. His face still sticky from the pigs blood that Molly had shakily poured on him. He still felt those sedatives slowing his heart rate. He still breathed the slowest breaths of his life.

When John had checked his pulse, time grinded to a halt. It was not an intimate touch. It was a doctor trying to see if his patient had died. But Sherlock was always shaken when John touched him. No person had ever touched him with the familiarity that John did. Sherlock lived for these moments, and did a very good job hiding that fact from John. A passing hand on the elbow. A punch on the shoulder. A hand held out and grasping his arm for need of balance. The adrenaline rush when their thighs pressed together on too-small benches or cab seats.

Perhaps he would never be able to assure John's safety enough to come home again. It was highly likely that one of Moriarty's spiders would kill him first. He had an intricate plan in place- but if it failed... this moment would be the final touch. This might be the only farewell he would get. Not a hug, handshake... or barely hoped for kiss. Only these calloused fingertips touching his wrist. John's eyelashes. His furrowed brow. His shirt opening enough for chest hair to peek out- tempting and embarrassingly intimate.

And although Sherlock was sure that his faked death was enough to fool anyone... he secretly hoped that John would notice how improbable it was. He shouted and begged with his thoughts for John to notice that none of the people picking him up were real doctors. He begged John to remember that no medical professional would ever lift a patient with a possible spinal injury onto a stretcher without a neck brace unless he was confirmed dead by an on-duty professional... which John currently was not.

If John had understood all of these things than perhaps he would look Sherlock in the eye, and wink. Then he would play along, and cry out with grief. And he would act convincingly... and the assassin would believe it. And then John would wait and behave himself and understand that Sherlock was going to come home soon. And his heart wouldn t break... instead he would live in happy anticipation. And then Sherlock would come home and slide John into his arms and then give him tea and things would be normal again.

Of course, Sherlock understood that his fantasy was completely illogical. But for the first time, Sherlock desired something that made so little sense it was completely impossible. John would never figure it out, and even if he did- he was a terrible liar and a terrible actor. Only John's real grief and sorrow would convince the assassin not to shoot his sweet and ernest blond head.

Waves of unrealistic disappointment washed over Sherlock as he felt John s hand loosen it's grip on his arm. It took everything Sherlock had in him (and the sedatives he had taken) to hold completely still instead of taking that hand and kissing each finger. When Sherlock saw John's knees buckle in grief, he could hear Moriarty's mocking laughter echo through his body. Even though Sherlock was alive, Moriarty had won. Moriarty had won. As the stretcher began to roll him away, tears began pouring out of his eyes. His face did not contort. His chest did not shake with sobs. He could not risk this. But he could not stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes.

Then he was in darkness. He felt the pop of his skin when Molly inserted the syringe of steroids back into his arm. The pain of his arm and chest came into full understanding as he began to take full breaths again. The sedatives began to wear off, and he was no longer in the dangerous chemical state of his heart stopping.

Molly perhaps tried to hold him, or offer condolence when she saw the tears on his face. He does not remember what happened. He has deleted those memories out of shame.

Sherlock had gone to the roof after Molly had taken him to the morgue. He knew it wasn't safe, but he was good at hiding in plain sight. And he didn't want to tell Molly what he was going to do to Moriarty until he had already done it. He needed to be sure that he was dead.

He went to the roof with a stolen bone saw and removed Moriarty's head from his body. The sawing was difficult and messy. Sherlock used his left arm, for his right was possibly broken and still numb from the rubber ball trick.

He knew that Jim was dead, actually, when he arrived on the roof. But he was feeling a new feeling. It was not something he had felt before, and he found he could not control it. Rage. Shaking and aching rage. Wetness came out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he continued to saw into Moriarty's spine. He knew that these were tears- indicating deep loss and sorrow. But all he felt was the need to remove that grinning head from his evil body.

He could already feel the time spent away from John Watson. He could already feel his betrayal shaking him to his bones. He had wondered if he really should just kill himself... because he was not sure if he would ever be able to exterminate Moriarty's network thoroughly enough to ensure John's safety. He also wasn t sure John would ever forgive him for this deception.

Sherlock could only calculate a 50% or less possibility of success for his task at hand. For a feat of this nature, he would need the good doctor by his side. He never felt this need more sharply than this moment. He was not sure that he could do this alone.

But he had.

Moriarty's head was buried deep in the ground, and John's assassin was burning and Sherlock pulled out his phone and began to do something he had been fantasizing about for years. The possibility of this moment, no matter how improbable, kept him fiercely hunting for 1,095 days. 13,140 hours.

This moment had been the one thing that had kept him from other rooftops on other buildings.

He knew it would be precisely one hour until he could reach the train platform. Then it would take him exactly 1.75 hours for the train to take him to London. He would sleep for one night (because John would want him to. He hadn't slept in four days), and then he would walk slowly to 221b baker street. He did not want to run, because he wanted to be calm and un-sweaty for John. He would wear his coat again. He found that he wanted to look... presentable.

He sent John Watson a text message.

Tomorrow. 12pm. Meet me at Baker Street. SH

END OF CHAPTER ONE.