A/N: This is a short fic I wrote as a request. It's very different from my usual palette of Harry Potter, although I'm a huge fan of the TV show, so please excuse me if the fic doesn't match your expectations. :/

WARNING: Contains spoilers for S02E03 The Reichenbach Fall.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"

You can see him. Oh, god, you can see him.

But you are frozen, rooted to the spot. Your leg begins to hurt again. Psychosomatic limp, he'd said, leaning nonchalantly against the door when you first met. You knew he was right, preferring to keep your lips pressed together in indifference. It was astounding, the pink lady. The first case. Fantastic.

"She said you get off on this– you enjoy it."
"And I said dangerous, and here you are."

Of course you are. The Black Lotus, Moriarty's game, Irene Adler, Baskerville– god, yes. Yes, you wanted to see some more. Yes, you were surprised. Wouldn't he always surprise you– shooting holes in the wall out of boredom? He surprises you now, spreading his arms and looking down at the street. Please, God– you beg– let him live.

He begins to fall. You feel slightly ill, but somehow, you still can't move.

"Listen, what I said before, John– I meant it.
I don't have friends. I've just got one."

And goddammit, you're not colleagues. That is your friend, your best friend, jumped off a hospital. Flailing– he had always been so composed, intimidating, calm. Flailing. The pain begins to worsen and you lean on your left leg, still breathing heavily. You can't believe it. No– your mind is screaming– Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock– but you can't move.

"I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic."
"I'm not his date!"

He continues to fall and suddenly, you aren't trying to catch your breath, no– you're trying bloody hard just to keep breathing. It was never supposed to be like this. You were never supposed to have taken his offer for Baker Street. You were never supposed to have gone to that crime scene, never supposed to have seen that lady in bloody pink.

You were never supposed to – God help you – fall for him, not like this.

You were supposed to be so wary of him that you would never cross paths again. That was the way it was supposed to be. But you don't care, not when he's so close to the ground, now–

And then your best friend disappears behind that building shielding you from the inevitable. You know why he's asked you to stand here, now. You wouldn't see. He thought about it, for you, even then. You laugh at the ridiculous consideration, but you still can't move, not yet.

There is a sickening crunch, soft and menacing.

Suddenly, your legs are carrying you before you think of it. Sherlock, Sherlock, you gasp out.

Please, I'm a doctor, you tell them, pushing through the crowd. Please, he's my friend.

Jesus, no, you moan. Dear god, no.

When you end up begging him, you know you shouldn't. You do anyway.

"Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," you know you're babbling and he's scoffing at your idiocy somewhere. You press on, trying to keep it steady.

"Don't be dead–" you take a deep breath, choking back a sob. "Would you do that?"

You speak in a meek, soft voice, trying to convince him you need him to come back. You won't cry, he would probably scoff at you. You won't.

"Just for me? Just stop it." You're angry, you want to hit him, you want him to apologise, come back now. "Just stop this."

You will deny that the tears are spilling out no matter how desperately you're holding them back. Perhaps, you might tell him someday.

You will, you convince yourself.

It isn't easy, being alone in the flat. The skull atop the mantel, the knife still protruding out of it. The boxes. The mini-laptop is still open, beeping occasionally. You've taken his coat back into the house, hanging it on the door as if he'd just disappeared up to your bedroom, perhaps.

You miss him. Mycroft visits occasionally, but you'll never forgive him for leaving Sherlock to waste.

It's an odd tone that rings in the house when you're about to leave the Baker Street flat. A violin screech. (You've already moved your things– you can't live here, the memories will drive you insane. You'll keep it, of course, until he comes back to you. But you promise you won't step through the door till he returns.)

When your phone slips out of your hands and hits the floor, you don't stoop to pick it up, still frozen in shock. You're not sure you're dreaming, but you never want to wake up.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.

SH
 P.S. The window.

You walk over to the curtains and pull them open ever so slightly, waiting for the disappointment to hit you again. But you drop your cane and your legs are bringing you down the stairs before you think about it.

You can see him. Oh, god, you can see him–