Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, or John Watson.

Warning: This fic contains suicidal themes.
This fic is post-"The Reichenbach Fall". Contains spoilers for that episode.

A/N: Alright, so as a first story for an account it's rather dull and poorly written, but I felt in the mood to do something based around how Watson would handle the events at the end of "The Reichenbach Fall", close to around when Sherlock would be revealing it was all a sham (based on timing in the original Conan Doyle novels).
Obviously, this piece has not been critiqued/beta'd at all, so all reviews with improvement-based commentary is welcome. Though reviews, in general, are DEFINITELY encouraged.

I really hope you enjoy, or that this has some effect on you.

Thanks,
Selvine

Silence echoed in the empty bleakness of the London street, though that isn't what a normal passerby would hear. To the many lost souls of England, London was just as noisy and belligerent as ever. To one, however, death had taken hold of the heart of the city and torn it to pieces. Reminders of that day were everywhere around him, and he never even had to look anymore. That man had made more difference in his life than any human ever should, but not enough to feed his cravings for more.

Hollow amber eyes stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the ground below. No emotion clouded their gaze, and yet the steel-hard stare remained distant and unfocused. Without trying, the man on the rooftop could easily tell you that the taxi driver across the street was having relationship problems based on the tilt of his cap and the wrinkles in his tie. The woman approaching the cab worked in a high-end job, but was contemplating quitting, obvious to anyone with a keen eye. Or with that man's voice constantly whispering in his ear, pointing out every detail. The soldier had learned to block out the unnecessary in order to maintain a level of sanity, and so in an otherwise noisy atmosphere, the world was silent.

No blood stains… the soldier grimaced, frowning at the pavement of the sidewalk below him. Of course not, they'd have cleaned by now. Hospitals and the police force were usually fairly efficient about those sorts of things. Not good about the text he'd left sprawled across the building beneath his feet, though. Sherlock was real.

Stiff, unyielding eyes shifted, taking in the roof across the way and cataloguing every nuance Roofers – no telephone company. Flicking between the two buildings, the man continued, the voice of his friend echoing his findings in his ear New phone line. Disgruntled workers, cold environment. Argument about dangerous conditions and unpleasant suicidal scenery. The doctor chuckled dryly at that. Planks set up between roofs to make transportation of supplies and workers simpler. Abandoned toolkits implying workers went to lunch. Cigarette still smoking implies recently. Half and hour to an hour before their return, then. The man nodded, that was more than enough time for what he had to do.

Short dirty blonde hair swept aside as the man looked out, across the sky, taking in the stark white of the cloud-cover around him. It smelt of rain, and the promise of an oncoming storm was ever present. Perfect weather for what he had in mind, perfect weather to keep eyes on the ground and not on the roofs above him. The last thing he wanted was for someone else to see the things he had. They didn't need the doubts. He was real, as real as the man he'd watched die. Sherlock was real.

Tanned thumbs worked their way over keys on the beaten up phone his sister had given him ages ago. A short, concise, and apologetic blog post was released and a contented peace seeped into the man's heart. Now was the time, now was perfect.

Eyes swept over the street in front of him, satisfied to see that as the first drops of rain fell, stragglers made their ways into nearby buildings. No eyes were turned his way, and with the rain coming down, no painful memories would be left behind. A soft sigh escaped thin, pink lips and eyelids closed. Bliss was here, in this moment. Nothing could ruin it, and the only thing to make it better would be if he could know that man was waiting. He had to believe.

Slowly, his feet moved to the edge of Saint Bartholomew's and onto the lip that protected the wary. He could feel his toes hitting the open air as the rain began to trickle around him, its pace slowly increasing. One foot inched forward with purpose, moving at an elegant, but sluggish pace.

John! He knew that voice. It was deep, soothing, and held every bit of pain he'd felt in the past three years. How nice that as he walked toward his salvation, that man would let him know he was waiting, that man would tell him he was still there around him and that as he crossed he wouldn't be alone. Pausing, John waited, praying for more. Sherlock had to be real.

John! No! Ah, encouragement to keep moving. He didn't want John to keep him waiting any longer. A small smile started on the soldier's face as his foot moved again. This time, he could almost hear those lengthy legs and those slender feet making their way across the planks to aid him in his journey.

"No need, Sherlock…" his throat felt scratchy, sore from lack of use, and the words came out nearly inaudible, "I'm on my way." He could hear the pounding across the rooftop of a man determined to help him on his way.

"John, wait!" The doctor shook his head and smiled, breathing deep and leaning forward. He'd waited three years to hear that voice again, and he wasn't going to let a little thing like mortality keep him from getting to the source. He wanted to be with the man again, needed to be with him. Others just didn't understand.

"John!" Watson nearly felt fingers digging into the elbow and back of his jumper and grinned. This was what he wanted. As the sensation became real, tangible, and John could almost feel Sherlock's body heat, could almost smell the soap the detective had always favored, a tear found its way town his face. Lightning crashed, thunder boomed, the torrential curtains came crashing down, and John Watson leaned forward and let his other foot fall. Sherlock was real.

"JOHN!

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the read, and please remember to review! Reviews make the world go 'round~
Thank you, kindly.
-Sel