Warnings for sadness, some timeline butchering, and Reichenbach feels. Sorry for any OOC. Please review!
Rooftops. Rooftops are dangerous. They are the stuff of nightmares. No matter what John was told, he couldn't change his mind. If Sherlock had taught him anything, it was that, and it wasn't even an intentional lesson. John was sure that if Sherlock knew of John's fear of rooftops, he would be full of scorn and probably tell John he was an idiot. But when one's best friend jumps off a building, can one really be blamed?
John collapsed into his armchair, his mind racing. Rooftops. Sherlock would be appalled, John was sure. He barely tolerated people as a general rule, though he had grown to like John, as much as a "high-functioning sociopath" could. From over a year of living together had grown some measure of friendship that had survived Sherlock's moods and cutting temper. Sherlock's odd habits and ways of bringing body parts into the house. Sherlock's brusque manner and constant insults.
Sherlock's death.
John shook his head hard to clear it. He couldn't think of Sherlock. It hurt too much. It was the start of all his problems, the reason John was terrified of rooftops. He couldn't get the image of Sherlock out of his head, the image of Sherlock standing on the ledge atop St. Bart's, moments before he let himself fall forward, looking almost like an avenging angel before he hit the pavement hard.
John knew full well that he couldn't go his whole life terrified of rooftops. There was absolutely no reason in it, and it wasn't even like Sherlock had fallen off the building. Well, John reflected, technically he had, but he had fallen willingly, fallen by choice. John hated to even think it, but Sherlock had committed suicide.
On the year anniversary of Sherlock's jump, John decided to face his fear. He started simply, on low buildings, just standing in the center of the roof. He slowly inched towards the edge of the roof, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart.
John peered cautiously over the edge of the roof, looking down at the street below. He imagined Sherlock, standing up on the ledge so high above the street. Had he been afraid, or simply resigned? Surely, as brilliant as Sherlock had been, there was no way he could've been under any illusions about what would happen when he slammed into the pavement, traveling from so high up at such a rapid speed.
John backed away from the edge and walked back down the stairs to the ground. Once outside he stood on the sidewalk directly beneath where he had been and started straight up at the roof, ignoring the irritated comments of passerby. Now, instead of imagining Sherlock's perspective, John thought back to his own. Talking to Sherlock on the phone, watching him up there, trying to quite literally talk him off the ledge. John didn't know which he felt worse about—Sherlock's death or John's own inability in convincing Sherlock to come down.
Once back at Baker Street, John looked around himself. There was so much of Sherlock in the flat, but none of it told of who Sherlock had been. Of the man, the person, behind one of the greatest minds John had ever known.
It took John another year of standing on rooftops before he was finally brave enough to approach another roof, the one it would take the most courage to even come near. John had learned a lot in his year of rooftops. He had learned more about himself, and he even thought he understood Sherlock a little more.
John crossed the roof and placed his hands on the ledge that Sherlock had stood on, not yet brave enough to stand up there himself. He looked down at the city, looked down at the place where Sherlock had fallen, as well as where he himself had once stood.
John, after taking one final look down into the abyss, after a fashion, that Sherlock had fallen into, left the rooftop.
John returned to that roof twice a year—once on Sherlock's birthday, once on the anniversary of his fall. John was now over his fear of rooftops. It had only taken visiting the very last place that Sherlock had stood alive to do it.
Several years passed, and slowly the grief faded to a dull throb rather than a sharp pain. John's memories of Sherlock faded as new ones were made as a buffer zone between John and pain.
Ten years to the day after Sherlock's fall, John let himself remember as much as he could of Sherlock. The good and the bad battled as John tried to make sense of everything, all the pain and the hurt, and the remnants of memories and smiles and…Sherlock.
John's phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Not even looking at who was calling him, John snapped his phone open.
"Yes?" he said brusquely, upset that anyone had interrupted his memorial to Sherlock.
"Turn around," said a familiar voice, one that John hadn't heard in far too long.
Turning, John saw him. And so it happened that on the very rooftop John's world had shattered on ten years earlier, he was again made whole.
Finis