Fall.
T: Apparently writing fic became my form of grief counciling as far as 'the fall' went! Warnings of: Drabble nature; Series 2 Episode 3 spoilers; slashy undertones; angst; semi theorising on my part! I own nothing you see here other than the raw heart ache that was as my inspiration!
X
A sting there at his palm tells that he's clenched his hands hard enough for his finger nails to bite into his skin. Still it's better that then giving into the impulse to have again short, stocky, fingers tangled amid his own longer digits.
The impulse is the final reminder of just how human he truly is, of how easily his mighty brain had been defeated by the tattered, withered, remains his heart.
It is also a sign that he should leave London, distance himself from the ever present temptation to give John his 'miracle' and yet…
From the moment on the roof when he'd found his hand stretching to somehow bridge the vast distance between them…such irrational, illogical, thoughts and yet…he'd known himself entirely lost.
It had been why he'd jumped, why he'd risked so very much just for the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, Moriaty had spoken some shade of truth in his last, flurried, moments….
…why he'd ended out in the graveyard despite the risk of being so very exposed, all for the hope of seeing him even if only for the briefest moments.
For a moment, a single fraction of second in which not even a breath can be drawn, John's eyes level in his direction and again his body is soaring through the air.
Again he is falling
X
T: I did originally write this with a companion Moriaty drabble but some of the theorising behind that's potentially spinning into a proper fic so…