Disclaimer: Sherlock was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss based on the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own the rights to Sherlock. This is a work of fanfiction, taking elements from S2, Ep 3 of Sherlock written by Mark Gatissas well as The Sign of Four by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Thus, if you know it, I do not own it.

The Falls…

John Watson met her three times before the morning Sherlock fell off the roof of Bart's.

John was eighteen and home from uni for the summer. She was eight and called Kelia Kensington. His sister Harry had taken part in a local production of The Music Man for the summer. John's attention was caught by the small blonde girl's performance of Amaryllis. There was simply something about the tiny bubbly girl that spoke that while she only had a very minor role in this production, bigger and better roles were in her future.

John had hoped Harry would take up acting, but like many things Harry attempted, she did not stick with it, so John never saw another production with the local talent of Kelia Kensington.

John was approached by Kensington when he was in his last year as a graduate medical student while visiting a coffee shop a few blocks from the hospital he was studying at. While Kensington a popular up and coming actress, John was too busy with school and his studies to pay attention to current pop culture outside his small world of Bond movies and keeping track of which Simpsons episodes he'd all ready seen. When the pretty, yet strikingly plain blonde had introduced herself at Kelia Kensington, though, John remembered immediately his brief introduction to the girl some odd years prior.

While she had not been exactly a beautiful or stunningly cute child, her personality and sweet nature made a lasting impression on John Watson.

"You were a kid last time I saw you! How do you remember me?" he asked, curious. John knew he did not make lasting impressions on people who he'd only met briefly— especially eight year old children.

"Who wouldn't remember being praised by a cute uni student?" she teased, ever the flirty blonde the tabloids played her out to be. Her bright blue eyes sparkled and her smile was almost blinding.

She gave him her number, which he promptly lost. It was only after he'd finally graduated and had a moment to head to the theaters did he realized his grave error in loosing Kelia Kensington's number.

She was a leading actress in an Oscar winning film and was on her way to bigger and larger things.

John joined the army shortly after he completed his degree and became a full fledge surgeon. He had fleeting thoughts about Kensington now and then. Mostly when he'd catch sight of a tabloid or magazine her face graced. He watched through his tours as her star rose higher.

It was on one of his tours that took him to Iraq and not Afghanistan that the American USO brought Kensington, now known as Kensington-Price after her marriage to fellow actor Reid Price, to raise troop moral. John watched from the sidelines as the now aloof and slightly tired looking Hollywood actress worked her way through the crowd of soldiers. He wondered what her life was exactly like that caused her to look similar to his fellow soldiers.

"We've met before," John blurted out one morning when he found her on her own in the mess hall.

Kensington-Price looked at him in a bemused manner till she spotted the name plate. Realization dawned in her bright blue eyes and she scrambled to her feet. She looked at him square in the eye (she was as tall as he was).

"John Watson," she breathed, looking him up and down. "You never called."

"Yeah," John said uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Kind of lost your number in my study materials. Or my flatmate ate it."

They chatted for a few more minutes before Reid Price blew in and dragged his wife away from John, sending the older doctor a glare before they vanished into the blinding, desert sunlight.

Two weeks later Reid Price was found dead, having committed suicide through a combination of drug use and falling off the back porch of their home in the Hollywood Hills.

Kelia Kensington-Price disappeared, leaving no trace behind. She sold her homes, refused to answer her phone and rejected all roles offered to her through a letter stating Kelia Kensington-Price no longer existed.

John Watson read the news a month after it had happened and felt a pang in his chest for the unfortunate young woman. However, he was in a war zone and did not have time to dwell on miss opportunities and what ifs.

When he did have time to dwell on those, he was busy trying to learn to re-use his arm with it's limited motion and walk with a cane.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes.

And life was never the same.

All it took was one choice.

Life was all about choices. She knew this quite well. She chose to take her acting to the next level, she made the choice to move to London at sixteen and follow her dreams. The choice was hers to marry the trouble Reid Price at twenty-two knowing full well she'd never be able to hunt down the demons that plagued the man.

It was her choice to not allow herself to dwell on John Watson too often, even though the image of the sandy haired, adorable uni student haunted her dreams long after he was long gone.

It was just a crush. A crush on an older man that had lasted the last twenty-one years of her life.

It was her decision to shed Kelia Kensington and become Mary Morstan when the world refused to leave her alone.

Mary Morstan made millions of choices a day, tiny ones, big ones, ones that she put a lot of thought into, ones she put no thought into. Mary Morstan lived her life from choice to choice.

On a brilliant June morning, she chose to go for a walk. She grabbed a light coat and buttoned it up to her throat. She arranged her nondescript brown hair at the back of her head and made sure she'd put the dark brown contacts in before she left the dingy flat she rented in Hackney.

Since Reid's death four years prior, she'd shed the dyed blonde hair and her trademark bright blue eyes. She'd added almost twenty pounds to her formally waif like figure.

The weight hid Kelia Kensington the best, better than the bland brown hair or basic brown eyes. With the twenty pounds, she no longer resembled anything close to the actress everyone knew.

Staring at herself in the grimy mirror hanging near the flat's front door, she smiled at the reflection, as she had the past two years since she'd been greeted with the rounded face, brown eyes and brown hair.

Stepping out of the flat, it felt freeing to be in such a large city and having no one know who she used to be. She walked a few blocks to a Tube station and road the train for a while till she was in the heart of London.

She made a choice to get off at Barbican. The decision was made randomly and without thought. It felt right.

She made a choice to walk down Long Lane towards St. Bart's. Her mind wandered as she walked along on the chilly, yet sunny morning to the time before she had met Reid, before she had gone to LA, before she had taken the role in that movie that changed her life so dramatically.

She almost missed those days, when she had been young and foolish. She stared at her surroundings as she walked around the hospital building. The area looked wonderful and oh so British.

Why had she stayed out of England for so long? She had been frightened to return home, to the city that had been her home before her life had taken on a quality of a bad film.

There was nothing here except ordinary people living their lives and none of them cared what Mary Morstan happened to be doing. She doubted many even cared what Kelia Kensington was doing these days. She was a wash up, has been. She hadn't been heard from for almost five years now. In a word that had the latest news before it happened, Kelia Kensington wasn't even the butt of lame jokes any longer.

Mary turned and walked down another street, rounding the building when she noticed a man looking skyward. Following his line of sight, she felt her blood run cold.

There was another man standing on the roof of the hospital.

"SHERLOCK!"

Her attention snapped to the other man, eyes going wide.

She knew what would happen next. Every inch of her was overcome with frosty cold. She felt frozen, scared and out of her element. Aching familiar panic welled within and squeezed her heart muscle tightly.

The man on the ground dropped his mobile. It fell in slow motion, tumbling over itself till it landed on the ground. It did not shatter, crack or look otherwise damaged from where Mary was standing five feet away.

She heard the noise— the sicking thud of a body landing on pavement, the gasps, shouts, screams. Her eyes remained on the fallen mobile, not bothering to notice the fact the other man was on the move till she heard another body thud.

Suddenly, the movement her body was capably of registered within her mind and the world began to move again. She ran forward and scooped up the fallen mobile. She turned to find the man on the ground had been hit by a bicycle and was getting to his feet while the biker moved on as if nothing had happened. The Man on the Ground began stumbling across the street to the body of the Fallen Man.

Mary made a decision. It was one she made without thought. It was as easy as breathing.

She followed the Man on the Ground, watching him as he made his way to his fallen friend.

"I'm a doctor, let me through," he said in an achingly familiar voice, stumbling a bit into the people who had gathered around the fallen body. "Let me through, please."

His voice was like nails on a chalk board to Mary's ears.

She knew the voice. It haunted her, even if it was missing the kindness, warmth and usual ease her memory has assigned to it.

The people gathered around the fallen body attempted to keep the other man away, but he managed to grab the body's wrist. His fingers wrapped around the pale, thin wrist.

The man broke into a million pieces.

"Nggg, Jesus, no…God, no…"

Mary watched him shatter over the body of his dead friend, whose light-colored blank eyes stare endlessly into the blue sky.

There was movement from behind Mary. She moved aside and allowed people to rush forward with a stretcher. The other man crumbled into a heap, an older woman holding onto him while he morned in public.

The world stopped spinning again as Mary took a good look at the man's face.

She knew him.

He was older, had more lines and wrinkles, and his hair was beginning to grey a bit, but she knew him.

John Watson.

The body was loaded onto a stretcher and whisked away in an efficient manner. So much so, Mary half wondered if it was planned somehow.

The whole thing moved like a perfectly orchestrated scene. Something prickled at the back of Mary's mind, but her attention snapped from the problem to the fact it was John Watson who was broken in a similar manner to how Kelia Kensington had broken four years prior.

The crowd broke up, leaving the grieving John Watson behind. An all too familiar feeling crept into Mary's heart seeing the man staring blankly ahead and at a loss.

That was her four years ago when she watched Reid tumble over the railing. She had been helpless to stop him, as he'd locked her in the house in order to fall to his death on his own.

He had wanted to die. He had planned for her to watch him, to see him end his own life.

Mary still did not understand why Reid had done what he'd done, died how he had chosen and took the drugs he did when he had so much to offer the world.

He had not seen it that way. To Reid the world was empty, pointless and cruel. To Reid, he had nothing to offer, nothing to live for. He had spent years drinking himself to a slow death. There had been car crashes, probation and rehab. Then the cocaine began. He slowly spiraled out of control and there was nothing she said or did changed his mind.

Reid Price knew what he wanted. When he wanted it, he got it. That was how his life had worked since he was a child. Reid Price had wanted death, so death he got.

She loved him. Or she thought she did. Did she love him or the idea of him and what the press saw in him?

She didn't know any longer.

For a second, Mary was scared her emotions would get the best of her and she'd start crying all over again and be unable to stop.

Instead, her acting chops took over and she went into protector mode. John Watson was unsteady and needed help.

John Watson, the man she'd had a crush on in some form since she was eight.

Memories flashed in her mind.

…his blue-blue eyes lighting up when he smiled down at her eight year old self and praised her performance. He was the first person to do so without assessing how plain her appearance was or making a suggestion on how to physically change herself.

…him throwing his sandy blonde hair out of his those same blue eyes some eight years later when she came across him in a coffee shop. The shy blush that crept into his cheeks when she scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and said, "Call me maybe?" She had winked and him and swung her hips as she exited.

…the rugged smile that broke across the man's face when she leapt to her feet and had scolded him for not calling her all those years ago.

Those same blue eyes and mouth were lost in pain, grief and confusion.

He likely has a concussion of some sort from his run in with the bike, Mary thought as she slowly walked towards the man, careful not to step into the blood staining the concrete.

She did not look at the blood. Unlike most blood she had been faced with, this stuff was real. She was not on a set.

She only looked at John, taking in how the years had aged him since she'd last saw him. She likely looked different, between her heart ache, years and weight gain.

"Sir?" she asked, her voice firm and loud. "I have your phone."

The man blinked, turning to look at her.

They were the same height. He took her in, the brown hair and eyes. The round, but plain features of her face.

He had no clue who she was. There was nothing familiar about her in the state he was currently in.

She was relieved and depressed by this fact.

"John Watson?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

The man nodded, not surprised she knew who he was even if he did not know her. She reached up and put a hand on his arm. He looked back at her, his eyes still rather unfocused. She pulled out her keys, where she kept a flashlight just in case she ever needed light in a dark place. Remembering a time she played a doctor, she used the flash light to check his pupils. She was unable to remember exactly what she was looking for, but from the dialogue she remembered, if the pupils did not dilate like normal, it was highly likely there was something wrong.

The man's pupils did not react like normal.

"I played a doctor on TV once," she offered rather lamely as he stared at her with a look that told her he was confused at what she was doing. "Granted, you are one, but in my unprofessional opinion, I think you've got a concussion."

"Sherlock—"

"There happens to be a hospital right here," Mary went on, talking over him. "How about we go in and sort you out?"

He nodded.

"He's dead," John whispered. "He's dead."

"You'll be okay," Mary stated flatly. "It might take awhile, but you'll be fine."

She knew it was rather heartless to say and she had hated when people told her that after Reid had thrown himself over the railing of their patio, but it was the truth.

She was okay. It took awhile, but she was fine.

Or at least that was what she told herself daily. She's really believed till a few minutes ago when the memories rushed back into her head.

She was less than fine. She had moved on, moved passed her romantic feelings for Reid and accepted the fact he was dead and had refused to live, yet at the same time she still did not understand.

She would never understand. The therapist she'd seen in New Zealand told her she never would and the faster she accepted it, the faster she'd be able to live her life again.

"I'm Mary, by the way," she said, tugging on his arm to get him to walk. He stumbled forward. Using her other arm, she steadied him. Together they began walking, careful to not step in the pool of blood.

"Oh," he muttered. "Sherlock…I…no…"

He tried to turn to go back to the scene, but using her strength, she managed to steer John into the hospital. She decided to write a letter of thanks to the idiot who convinced her she ought to continue to do yoga daily.

Mary studied John Watson's mobile. He had not taken it when she'd offered it, so she still had it whilst she sat in the waiting room. John had been swept off by a crew of nurses who knew him before Mary could even state what she believed was wrong with him.

Per the phone, her guess that this was the same John Watson she'd known of for years, Mary put in a call to the contact named HARRY WATSON, assuming it was his sister.

She was correct.

Harry Watson was indeed Harriet Watson. Harry was also an alcoholic, judging by the slur in her voice when she answered the phone. It was clear within minutes Harry wouldn't be dropping everything and appearing at the hospital to care for her brother by the fact Mary had told her three times the events of the morning, and the information did not sink into the alcohol soaked brain of Harriet Watson. Mary deduced John didn't have the best relationship with his alcoholic sister. After hanging up on the soon to be blacked out woman, Mary flipped the phone in her hand and stared at the charging port. Sure enough, there were the tell tale tiny scratches one always found on a drunks phone.

The phone was clearly Harry's before she gave it to John. More than likely upon his return from service. She must have broken up with this Clara person, who must have been her partner judging by the three kisses following the Love, Clara. Not wanting to look at the engraving, Harriet gave the phone to John. Maybe because she hoped he'd actually call if he owned a phone?

Going back into recent calls, she noticed Lestrade. She checked the text messages the two had traded and figured out they were friends of some sort. Or colleagues. They texted about bodies and crime scenes. And Sherlock.

She called him next.

"John? Where are you?" the man asked the moment he answered.

"John is in the hospital," Mary answered. "I'm Mary Morstan. I picked up his mobile when he dropped it. There's…well, there's been an accident."

She felt odd. Should she tell this man about Sherlock? If the texts were anything to go by, this man knew Sherlock.

What an odd name. Oh, who was she to judge. Her mother named her Kelia and pronounced it KEL-Lee-AH.

"Mary Morstan? Do I know you?"

"No, I doubt you do, seeing as I was just walking passed when…" She trailed off remembering what had happened, even if she hadn't seen it. She had heard it.

No one should jump like that to end their life. And he'd called John before he jumped, as that was the last call the phone had answered.

Mary was pretty sure she was going to need to go back to seeing a therapist.

"A man jumped off the roof of St. Bart's," Mary forced herself to finish.

"What are you—" the man paused, someone talking to him in the background. "Sherlock?"

"I take it you knew him?" Mary asked.

"Wait. Sherlock is dead? He's the one who jumped off the roof?"

"I believe so. I'm not sure. John was hit by a bicycle after the man…"

"You witnessed it?"

"No. I was watching…." Mary trailed off again, unable to admit she had been staring at the mobile falling to the ground. "I called his sister, but from his text messages, you seem to be closer to family or friend than her."

John messaged Sherlock more than anyone else, the guy who tossed himself off the roof. Mary wasn't an idiot. She had spent most of her life watching people, reading people and trying to figure out without speaking to them what their life stories happened to be. It helped her acting. From John's reaction to Sherlock's fall in combination with the text messages the pair traded daily, they were best friends, if not something more.

Sherlock was likely John Watson's emergency contact at the end of the day, not this Lestrade character.

"Oh. I'll…who are you?" Lestrade asked.

"Mary Morstan," she repeated. "And you are?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," came the flat reply. "For the time being."

She had no idea what he meant by that. She could hear someone talking to him in the background.

"I'm still going, Sally," he snapped. "I don't care."

The Sally person said something, which made DI Lestrade snap yet again. Mary imagined the man storming off through the vague, grey, windowless halls of Scotland Yard.

Well, what Scotland Yard looked like in Mary's head. She'd never actually been in Scotland Yard and all TV shows and movies made it look rather different than it actually looked. Or so she assumed based on the varying interiors.

"I'm on my way. Traffic. Might take me awhile. Don't move."

He hung up before Mary could point out he didn't actually know where she was.