Took a bit until I was finally satisfied with it, but I finally wrote up a sequel to, 'A Fall From Grace' which you can find here on FFN. If you haven't read it yet you probably should since this likely won't make any sense.

I think I have another one-shot in mind to wrap it all up, but I'm not sure yet.

Originally posted on my tumblr blog. Link to it is on my profile.

Read, review, and as always enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

—At Hope's Light—

In a rage, Sherlock took the table and flung it across the room with a roar. Papers and photos rained around him, the noise of their fluttering mingling with his harsh, heavy breathing as they landed scattered among the floor.

A low keening sound broke from his throat. I promised her. He took a shuddering breath, desperate to return to his usual calm rationalization that seemed miles away what with his mind and heart running in tandem down the spiraling path of insanity.

I promised her I wouldn't let anything happen to her…

With an angry shout this time, he kicked out at a nearby chair—it skidded across the floor and slammed loudly against the wall. "I promised!" he yelled to the oppressive silence that crowded him and was anything but quiet. His hands clutched at his head, fingers grasping at the short strands of his hair that were too short to allow him the satisfaction of pulling on them.

"They couldn't find her. No gun, no body. With how much time had passed before CSU got there, if she's still in there they suspect the current swept her away. They'll keep looking, but their expectations aren't high. If we're lu… well, there's a chance her body may show up somewhere on shore, slim as it is."

He remembered how he snapped, shouting at Bell, saying no, if they were lucky they wouldn't find her at all. Not finding her meant there was a chance, a chance she was still alive. And that was a chance that he was holding onto like the desperate, drowning man that he was as if it was a lifeline, despite how thin and frayed it was.

It's my fault—

His shoulders were shaking; his ankle throbbed and there was an ache in his wrists from the force he used to throw the table and one in his chest that had no physical cause.

"We checked the hospitals, just in case she managed to get out, but there were no reports of a woman recently charged with a bullet wound."

—myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault.

The voices. His own and Bell's and Gregson's as they told him words that left no hope played, rewound, and replayed, haunting his conscience. Stop—he wanted them to stop.

Dear God, what would it take for them to stop?

The answer, clear as day and taunting as ever came to him so suddenly in an image of little, white unassuming pills and white powder and needles, so easily that he felt stupid for even wondering.

And oh, how nice it would be to silence the voices and sink into oblivion. How easy it would be to get up and go to the streets and find a dealer. To numb the pain, to forget, if only until the next dose.

But no. Her face flashed in his mind, stern and imploring and pleading and though it sparks an inferno of pain inside him, burning throughout his veins like a spider web of venom, the disappointment that he could only imagine she would feel is enough to discard the tempting idea without another thought.

He couldn't. Not after all she did; not after all that they, that she, went through with him. To do so would make her efforts a waste—it would shame her memory and their relationship to throw away everything that she did, that they did together, and all the hurdles that they climbed over should he choose to slip now. He couldn't. He just couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to. If the drugs didn't kill him from some accidental overdose he was sure he would inevitably take, the guilt and shame surely would.

So he sunk to the floor, legs shaking, and braced himself against the wall. Defeated, he let his arms drop to his sides in a useless heap.

As he did his hand knocked against something soft, supple, and leathery and he glanced at it absently—Joan's purse. The one she used earlier the day before she…

Shutting his eyes, he slammed his fists against the wall at his sides again, and again, and again, and took in a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them again, he saw that he had knocked the purse over, its contents spilling out onto the floor.

It brought him back to another time, to when they were completely different people just meeting for the first time. Joan, professional and carefully inquisitive at first until her introduction and attempt to slide herself into his life quickly derailed into a fumble for even ground as he tested her in his usual disconcerting manner in the TV room.

And then his surprise at her ability to surprise him, to succeed in burrowing under his usual defenses—his surprise to find himself pleased at being surprised. The same surprise that had quickly transformed into a dizzying mix of intrigue, irritation, and excitement upon her refusal to back down, even despite the sabotaging, the jibes, and the bribes. Instead, she had not only called him out on his misgivings but challenged him, kept him on his toes, all while bringing to light a new perspective to investigation…

It opened him up, eased him into the idea of a having a partner. To having a friend. To having someone he could trust implicitly and rely on to pull him back when he'd gone too far and to give him a push when he needed it. To have someone be there for him, support him—that allowed him to reciprocate as such in return.

It also opened him up to becoming hurt.

Willing the memories away, he allowed himself to scan over the strewn items before he had to wrench his eyes from the sight of her keys, her cosmetics, her phone, all the things he'd never see her use again.

And then he froze, and slowly turned, and settled his eyes onto three bottles of medication; two of which that certainly weren't over the counter and the other that was nondescript but familiar nonetheless. Reaching with a shaking hand, he grabbed the two prescription bottles, eyes flickering over the labels as his mind raced to pull up the information of what they were used for.

Joan hadn't been sick. She hadn't been taking any medication, so why did she have prescription bottles in her purse? It didn't make sense…

He froze once again, and then in a wild, rapid move he all but tore off the cap of one of the bottles, dumping the contents on the floor, eyes flickering rapidly to count them. Half were missing. He grabbed the other bottle and did the same. Again, half were missing.

Mind racing even faster he grabbed the unmarked bottle and popped it open despite knowing what it was, looking at its contents. Shaking it, three large, dark liquid-gel pills dropped into his palm.

He stared.

And then he laughed.

It bubbled out of him and he couldn't help himself and if anyone could have heard it and the hysterical but nonetheless relieved noise that broke from his lips they would be hard pressed not to call in for some psychiatric help.

Cookie crumbs.

Grabbing Joan's purse, he dumped it all, still laughing and shaking his head in clear disbelief. Papers slid out—one in particular caught his attention: a receipt.

His lips twitched when he read it. Through it, he could see something written on the back, dark ink bleeding through it. He flipped it and started laughing once again, though this time it was a low, disbelieving chuckle.

Watson, my dear, dear Watson, you've left me cookie crumbs…

Dear God, Joan Watson deserved a medal.

Letting the receipt slip from his fingertips, Sherlock let himself have a moment as he took the information in, his head tilted back to rest against the wall. And when he was done not even a minute later, he jumped up and went to get his coat.

He had an empire to dismantle.

But first, and more importantly, he had a Watson to find.

Lights shut off, the door slammed. In the living room, where the street light peeked through the curtains and shone throughout the space, the neat, elegant script on the back of the receipt could be seen to read three words.

Just in case.

o.O.o

As much trouble I had with writing this, (seriously, working out the how Joan faked her death was tricky, since, y'know, I'd like it to be somewhat believable so if it isn't, do me the gracious favor of suspending your belief for the sake of the story? i tried, really, lol.) I really enjoyed trying to step into Sherlock's mindset, of how he would feel and think and react, writing as if I was a completely different person—it's honestly one of my favorite parts of writing.

There was this discussion on tumblr about what if a role-reversal of the ever famous 'fall' took place, with Joan faking her death instead of Sherlock. And then, of course, the would she do it? the how? the why? and then Sherlock's reaction to it all. Some people say she wouldn't take the fall, fake her death, and then pretend to be dead for three years, because it's just not in her personality to do that to Sherlock, bc she would think of the repercussions of it all. And at length, I agreed with that.

She wouldn't pretend to dead for three years. At least, I'd like to think that she wouldn't-that not only would she be aware of the possible repercussions—like, what if this triggered a relapse? never mind that some part of me argued that she would trust that Sherlock wouldn't throw away all his hard work that had come from his struggle in sobriety—but that, she just wouldn't be able to do that to Sherlock of all people. She just couldn't.

But naturally, if put in the position of 'dying' to save the people she loved, she would be willing to take that fall if there was no other choice, but damn it, she wouldn't hide her survival. She would at the very least leave a clue for Sherlock to find, so that he would know. And so that they could work together to take down Moriarty once and for all.

And yeah, I'll stop there, sorry haha. What do you guys think? I hope you enjoyed reading this!

RainLily^^