Author's note: Hey guys, Sandra and Jackie here to open up our first collaborated fanfic! Just an added note to say I'll be playing Sherlock, and Sandra will be playing John, and we hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as we're enjoying writing it. Adios, my brilliant shippers.

WE CAN MAKE THE WORLD STOP

CHAPTER ONE: In Light of Darkness

It had been a year exactly since Sherlock had taken his faithful fall from his life as it were and humanity itself, and by means of what others would assume to be sentiment, Sherlock had returned to the scene, not of his presumed demise, but the scene that had represented much of his past life. The life he'd left. He'd visited the building he'd fallen from height and the radar of Moriarty's assassins' more than he cared to admit, in an assumed memorial to the moment. But this building, the building that represented home was one he tended to avoid out of sheer temptation. In spite of his abstract setting of body but not mind, the place within his partner's priority still remained. He hadn't needed to directly communicate with John to realise that; he'd received John's texts, naturally. The phone he never used yet kept. The reason, however, was a loss to the detective. Either a loss, or categorised as irrelevant; the line had begun to blur somewhat. Though as everyone knew, dead men don't speak; so he stood, as a silent observer — watching, just as he had for months now.

The sky was a dull, usual grey; he noted the sight of it within the reflection of puddles formed within the beaten gravel dips of the street. Yet despite the common nature of the night, something was different, off. His eyes scanned a second puddle and it was then that he saw a figure, shady but by some means defined; him. John. Shaking and stumbling; he neared the edge and Sherlock tremored. Within an instant he broke into a dash, drops of rain chilling him from his cheeks to the bone; what little resistance he possessed draining with every stride he took. He would save him. Yes. He had to.

With each day passing John Hamish Watson had gotten worse; slowly but constantly — and he had been fully aware about it, yet, hadn't taken any action to get better besides getting into therapy. It was somehow satisfying feeling the pain, feeling the grief, feeling the misery. On the other hand John had known that he wouldn't be able to go on forever. With the first anniversary of … Sherlock's death arriving, therapy had gone as useless as in any sort possible and three days ago his leg had refused to work properly. It had been a shock — both for him and the woman who should have made him feel better. Feeling his leg blocking with each and every single step had been somehow another clue that his best friend was dead, indeed. The physical pain was endurable; the psychological not so much.

Now John was on top of the house he had been living in for the last few years. It was raining but he wasn't noticing the drops connecting with his skin anymore. He didn't want to feel ever again, just like his friend. For a whole year he had thought miracles were real and not just stories. But not anymore. It was over. Everything was over. Everything had to come to an end finally and with that he took the last few steps towards the edge of the roof, looking down. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he said, trying not to cry but that was tough. "I don't think I can look as good as you jumping off of that building but I'll try. It's the try that counts, right?" Gulping, he took a glance around. He had always loved London but with his friend gone, it had gone dark and uninteresting. A few windows were lit, but he was sure nobody would notice him. It would be over in a few seconds either way.

His heart thumped within its ribbed cage and jumped to his throat; he finally understood the metaphor. The thudding, now deafening as it engulfed every one of his senses; he was panting, no doubt, for he'd never run fast in his entire life-time. Not even for his own life. The life that he had sacrificed for a man of who was wasting his; a man who Sherlock had abandoned out of reasons that were only his own. Reasons that he wouldn't acknowledge for they betrayed everything he stood for. Sherlock Holmes the lone, the wanderer, was running back to his home. He wasn't planning his every movement, he wasn't deducing anything but the time that seemed to stretch out faster than he was able to handle.

Sherlock would've viewed it as paranoia, had he allowed himself to concentrate upon anything but his endgame. But he didn't; instead, he moved in blurs. Until, finally, he was there — the roof, approximately ten feet behind him. There was no time for anything but movement. Risking two paces further, he launched himself forward and into John's body. The two bodies fell to the ground and Sherlock hovered above him for several seconds as he caught his breath and analysed John's state of consciousness. His pupils were erratic, but seeing. Swiftly, he flicked John's skull and set his state to unconscious.

"Bloody idiot."

When John awoke, he immediately felt like there was something wrong with that. His mind was clouded and when he tried to raise his head, a pounding ache appeared suddenly, leaving him groan. With furrowed eyebrows he tried to remember what had happened last night — he had been miserable, he had been drowning in memories and finally decided to end it. The last image his brain was able to retrieve was one of him standing on the edge of the roof. Everything that came afterwards was gone. Well, apparently, he hadn't jumped off of that building. The question that was arising now was: why? He had been determined to do so since there was no one left to care about him. The only person who had ever cared — even if it was in a slightly different way than normal people would do — was his best friend. And he was gone.

Trying to swallow in order to make the sore feeling in his throat go away, John took a look around. He was lying in his very own bed with a blanket over his body. It felt warm and somehow comforting, like a caring friend who tried to spend some solace. Next to him on the little nightstand was a steaming cup of tea, so someone must have put it there only minutes ago. With the frown on his forehead growing wider, he tried to sit up a bit but whenever he moved only an inch, his head began pounding again. Mumbling grumpy words to himself, he laid back down, waiting for the person who got him the tea to enter his bedroom.

With the man who had once been his best friend now unconscious, Sherlock had been able to handle the situation as he pleased without the hassle of interrogative questions that would've been approached had he not done so. Sherlock wasn't prepared for any of them, in spite of having endured a year of wondering and wandering; this day was never supposed to come. Yet, it had, and Sherlock's mind was racing. As he pondered his actions for the rest of the night, he'd brought a limp John to his feet and manoeuvred the both of them back down the apartment they'd once shared. Rationality was slowly but surely seeping back into his mind, and he became more and more aware of his surroundings as he entered deeper into his late home.

Mrs Hudson hadn't been in; or if she was, then Sherlock hadn't detected suitable movement from her. He'd switched on the light with his elbow and shuffled John and himself into the living space; it was chaos — far worse than Sherlock had ever kept it. Refusing to acknowledge the guilt he'd force to dormancy, Sherlock pressed onward until he reached John's bedroom. It was there that he laid him to a much-needed slumber.

Leaving would have been the logical solution to avoid any awkward and frankly unwanted socialisation and Sherlock had battled internally with parting ways before John awakened throughout the entirety of the night. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd stayed. The fresh cup of tea by John's bedside had been brewed by Sherlock's hand and as mid-morning arose, Sherlock attempted his leave. His mistake, however, had been returning to retrieve the coat he'd left upon John's armchair. It had taken him a split second to realise his mistake; nonetheless, he said nothing — opening the conversation to John himself.

John wasn't able to determine exactly how long it took until someone entered his bedroom finally — and when it happened, John looked rather confused. There was a tall man walking in hastily, getting his coat and stopping all of a sudden when he realized, John wasn't sleeping anymore. He had dark, curly hair, prominent cheekbones and an unmatched way of pacing and when his mind suddenly got it, a small smile spread across his face. "Of course," John mumbled almost with a blissful grin on his features. "I wouldn't be that lucky."

He had intended to jump off of that building and since he couldn't remember a single thing about it he most probably was dead by now. "I'm in some sort of heaven, am I?" It sounded kind of peculiar vocalizing these words but he couldn't think of another solution. "It's not real. You're not real. You can't be. You died exactly one year ago."

At that, John stopped himself. Maybe he didn't die and his best friend was indeed standing right in front of him — but no, his mind immediately told him otherwise. He had seen him hit the concrete … from a very high building. It wasn't possible. Then what was happening now? Was he wishing for him to be here, making him tea, watching over him while he got better from … whatever it was that he had done? Was it actually Mrs Hudson and John just imagined her to be someone different? Someone special? Someone he missed like hell? He wasn't sure and he had no leads to determine which one of his options was the correct one. "Why are you here?" He asked instead, trying to ignore his pounding heart which almost felt like it wanted to jump out of his ribcage. Maybe this would bring some light into the darkness.

Just short of a second was the time it had taken in order for Sherlock to regain his composure; and after he had done so, his eyes zeroed in upon the man entangled within bed sheets and a rather vacant demeanour. His poise was slouched yet tense, the consequence of a shock after slumber; his lips were slack and charred, an evident indication of stress and ill-care toward them. But it wasn't those physical attributes which tested Sherlock's unusual intellect's extent, it was his eyes. It was always the eyes. John's were grey and they were unbelieving; hollow and see-through: John radiated loneliness — a loneliness emanated from grief and loss, and deduction was of no need to detect why. For the object of John's internal eradication was stood before him no form but himself.

The slip of cynicism combined with a poor attempt at humour distracted Sherlock from his analysis, and Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to the words of which he'd uttered. However, his response had been delayed as John was speaking again. Heaven. His grey eyes narrowed into near-slits, not in agitation but in perplexion. John's vocabulary choice had been peculiar; nonetheless, Sherlock had examined it as it had been: a description. A word. Nothing more and nothing less. The usual connotation of heaven did not apply to Sherlock, therefore, his indifference remained. A faint smile touched his lips, one of which breathed normalcy about the once-partners.

"Believe what you will, John. I'm sure a figment would want you to believe their existence as much as a being of reality would." Words were power, and power was a prospect Sherlock tended to pride himself upon; John would call such a tactic unfair and even cruel. But John was the better half of the duo, and John was better off without the worst half. He bent to the chair's back and enveloped his lengthy fingers about the dark fabric; in an instant, he was looking back towards John. "Is this how you imagine heaven, John? With me?" His Adam's apple dipped. "Maybe you should ask yourself why I'm here."

With each second passing, John's assumption became more logical, at least in his weakened, confused mind. He had hit the ground only minutes ago and his soul was in heaven now — although he never had believed in such things like a God or Heaven and Hell, it somehow felt soothing, comforting, good, because his best friend was here with him. The fast movements of his eyes were scanning his posture, like they always had done. At first, John had felt rather uncomfortable when he had noticed it, but it had taken him only a few days to get accustomed to it. That was what he always did and what a flat mate was he if he wouldn't get along with that? It was practically his nature to deduce everything that was surrounding him and everyone who had the pleasure to meet the unmatched genius.

"Where I am?" John finally answered and the smile was still prominent on his features. "That's clear as day, isn't it?" A short laughter escaped his mouth, followed by a cough that sent a painful twinge through his head. Grimacing, he continued. "I jumped because there was nothing left to live for; I hit the ground and died without a single second of pain. Just like you did, Sherlock." At speaking his name, John suddenly paused. Ever since his best friend had left him one year ago, he had refused to say it out loud — the only occasions when he forced himself to do so was when he was talking to his therapist. She wanted him to do so since it was a method of 'getting over his pain' somehow. It hadn't worked at all.

Vocalizing it now felt kind of … relieving? He wasn't quite sure how to categorize it but it was a good feeling and it just reinforced his theory of being in heaven and having the chance of living again. "You're in heaven too, right? Because you're dead, too. How's it here? Any different? You don't look any different to me." At that, John chuckled lightly, trying not to cause another stinging pain in his head. Seeing him standing there in front of his bed nothing could have given him proof that this wasn't the real Sherlock. The same shirt, the same suit pants, the same black shoes. His curls were in the right place and his eyes as wary as always. If this was indeed only a dream and not his afterlife, his mind was creating a very good image of him. Even after moments of silence and observing on John's side, he couldn't find a single detail that wasn't like it had been back then.

"So that was the right decision, then," John mumbled to himself. He had thought about it a lot of times, he had wished for it to be true — that there could be something like a life after death. And it looked like there was. And Sherlock was with him. He had hoped he would be here; it had been the only reason he would have gone through with suicide — and apparently he had been lucky. After one year of grief and misery and pain, he would have the chance to be happy again. "Thanks for the tea, by the way," John said after a while, smiling blissfully for the second time.

John had changed. Or perhaps, the John Watson of who was presented before him now was the John who existed without Sherlock Holmes. Even the simplest of deductions was able to conclude the above thought as correct, and from an outsider's view, Sherlock would've known exactly how to handle the situation; but he wasn't a case, and he wasn't an abstract stranger Sherlock had been brought to psycho-analyse. He was John Watson, his only friend. An odd pang of what could only be sentiment struck within him and for a moment, just for the slightest of moments, Sherlock broke eye-contact with John and directed his gaze to the headboard. Granted, it was a slight moment that John was unlikely to catch via the assistance of his sane mind, let alone an erratic mind that thrived upon second-hand guesses and lived within fables of folklore make-believe.

However, the odd behaviour John was delivering somewhat eased Sherlock into a distant and unrelated sense of mind within himself. Nostalgia was said to be one of the most prominent catalysts in the downfall of control, especially concerning those once of importance to the affected party; and like this, no nostalgia but the sight of him was able to emit from the desperate man's frame unto Sherlock. His relentless ramblings similar to that of a mad man, were durable to the extent of Sherlock's ability to suppress whatever emotion attempted to overtake him…but the direct personalisation of his name drew a strange feeling within Sherlock; this feeling, though, was uncomprehendable. It was a name he hadn't been labelled in a year, said by the same mouth, the same voice of who he'd heard the word from last.

And it shook his mind and body to complete attention. He shouldn't be affected in such a way; John believed him to be dead and just a figment. He was free to leave — yet he couldn't instruct the command to his legs. He was acting irrationally, and it was a weakness he never believed himself to have. He resented it.

"Tea?" Sherlock repeated, then cleared whatever matter had clogged within his throat. He took in the white swirls of warm smoke espied within the corner of his eye and his lip twitched. "Tea. You're welcome." Sherlock raised his coat and threaded each of his arms through each of the sleeves. "You would never go out without it." His eyebrows knitted into one as he paced about the right side of his bed and towards the door. He halted with his palm upon the handle and chuckled lowly, though it betrayed no humour. "You don't regret it. I'm glad. Living in a state of limbo must be agonising." It was then that he opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

The next morning, John awoke when the sun was shining through the window of his bedroom and on his face, warming it with its beams. Even the weather seemed to be in a better mood, John thought, when he made a first attempt to raise his head — and succeeded. His skull was still hurting a little but not as nearly as bad as the previous day. The cup of tea was on the nightstand like it had been the evening beforehand but it had cooled down during the night. However, it was still reminding him of his friend being back and at this, John swung his legs out of the bed and got up. His first destination was the bathroom. Body care was important.

But he wouldn't make it. Maybe he would have been prepared for the storm that was evolving in his mind in a few seconds, if he had realized that all of this wasn't some sort of afterlife; maybe it would have been less painful coming to the conclusion that his vision of his best friend had just been a dream and he had blacked out for some unknown reason on that roof. Perhaps he had been in such a weak mental state that his mind was blocking out the rest of the night since it had been borderline traumatic.

When he fell onto the floor, however, it was like falling out of all the clouds he had been on. His leg refused to work. In heaven, this surely wouldn't have been the case, so it could only mean one thing: he was still one of the living. He was still lonely John Hamish Watson, waiting for his best friend to return somehow and the cup of tea hadn't been made by his hands.

The concrete was cold against his hands; the piece of carpet his face was lying on rather coarse and scratching his left cheek. John's heart was racing wildly while he was trying to figure out what had happened the previous night and why he had this weird feeling in his stomach. After a few seconds of lying on the ground, feeling embarrassed and weak and exposed, John made an attempt to get up. With effort, he stood on his feet moments later and looked for his walking stick. Strangely, he found it at the end of his bed and with a furrow of his brows and a few limped steps, he reached for it, still trying to remember, what had happened only hours ago.

12 seconds was the amount of time it would have taken Sherlock to leave John's room and the apartment itself; 12 minutes would have been the amount of time it would've taken Sherlock to beckon a taxi and to be a far way from said apartment; 12 hours was the amount of time he had fought inwardly over the thought of leaving. And 24 hours was the amount of time he had stayed. He had never stayed for anyone in his entire life, yet the idea of leaving John as weak and feeble as he was, even as a mere concept held minus appeal for the detective. For what loyalty still lurked amidst their bond, Sherlock displayed behind actions. Or rather, behind lack of actions. Today, however, he would leave. He had decided; the risk of John successfully accessing their physical, alive states was far too high for him to stay any longer.

Sherlock hadn't achieved sleep status that night, either; unlike his friend. Although, what did differ from the night prior was how he had spent the duration of it. He hadn't watched over a sleeping John, eyes bound by logic assuring him of John's steady breathing and lack of severe injury; no, instead, he'd invested himself further into the emotional gate-way of John's mind. A mind that he had not been present to deduce. But one his ghost had been present to impinge. The prose filling John's blog post accompanied the selection of texts he'd received via identical fingers; they were fragments of a fractured, fumbling mind — yet a mind that proved undoubtedly human, for his mind still hoped. After all of this time, John Watson had remained human, and that, in itself, was bewildering.

As night evolved into morning, Sherlock had barely registered the difference in light and temperature due to the intense occupation of his mind; John's way with words was extraordinary and deeply involving. But he'd known that from the day they'd met one another. No other had ever appreciated the capacity and verses of his mind so completely and positively, not like John Watson had. The unmistakeable thud from John's bedroom had captured his attention before emotion had inveigled its capture of it, and Sherlock immediately rose to his feet. Though, contrasting to his rash, unthinking movements of rescuing John before, Sherlock paced carefully. Cautiously, he opened the door to reveal John, walking stick in hand and an expression of budding realisation upon his features.

"Good morning, John. Sleep well?"

Just when John was standing on both feet again, someone entered his bedroom — and the sight of the person that was walking towards him was telling him he wasn't prepared for any of this. His incomparable, deep voice rang out in his mind, was forcing him to remember a lot of the one and a half years they had spent together and was causing an uncomfortable pain in his chest. John was staring into his eyes, his intense, piercing blue eyes with the hints of green and gray, just like a snowstorm approaching an untouched piece of nature, bringing an impenetrable layer of clouds with it. He wasn't able to deduce what he was thinking but his counterpart surely could — he was the master of deduction after all.

His posture was rigid, almost motionless and for a few moments they were opposing each other in silence while John's mind was racing. So this was heaven after all but his leg was still not working? Well, he could live with that, he thought suddenly. As long as … as long as he would be able to talk to his best friend again, that would be okay. Maybe he wouldn't need it at some point. It had happened one time, it could a second, couldn't it?

"Good morning to you, too. And yes, like a baby." It was still completely odd talking to him again. "The tea got cold." Frowning, John briefly wondered why he was referring to the cup on his nightstand another time. It had been addressed enough now, he thought by himself, however, he ran out of topics to talk about. "So you … this … how does this work?" What were the rules in heaven? Would they work on cases again or would the live a normal life like a— like normal flat mates would do? John couldn't think of either scenario in detail, his head was still hurting and his mind had a lot going on to adjust to everything that was going on.

Since standing in front of each other and eyeing the counterpart felt a little awkward after a few moments, John decided to walk towards his window, taking a look and drawing in the nice weather and the sunbeams. If this was his personal heaven, it wasn't any different to reality with the exception of his best friend being alive and with him again. Using the walking stick still felt somehow unfamiliar but what was he going to think? That he would get accustomed to it two seconds after his leg had decided to not work properly again? When he had made it to the window finally, he took a long look and suddenly, when he was looking at the windows of the building on the other side of the street, an image flashed through his mind. It was him, standing on the roof in the rain, feeling dull and empty and hopeless and when he almost jumped he was knocked out. He remembered his head hitting the hard floor and then everything went black.

Turning around to face his friend, he only voiced a silent "This can't be".