I do not own BBC Sherlock.

I started listening to some really sad movie OSTs, mainly that of Revenge of the Sith, specifically "Padme's Ruminations" and "Padme's Destiny" and I thought, "Why not make a Reichenbach Fall one-shot?" And I did. (I also don't own Revenge of the Sith or any of the songs I listed, but I can't help my love for John Williams!)

Enjoy.

-A Random Person With a Pen

In John's mind, which had been laden with distant memories, guilt over his own incapability to prevent a fall that could have been prevented, and regret over decisions made in an era that ended far too soon, the worst feeling a human could ever experience occurred in the torso. It wrapped itself around one's lungs, causing the very action of inhaling and exhaling to be tedious, even though the victim was not in respiratory distress and was still breathing subconsciously. It filled the ventricles of one's heart, creating the sensation of having a gaping, bleeding hole in one's chest, even though all of the flesh on the victim of the feeling was still in tact. It even went as far as to consume one's stomach and intestines and filled them with lead, so that walking became a nuisance and eating an impossible chore. The rest of the body was numb, especially the limbs, which made one wonder if they were still attached to one's body. And, in John's mind, this feeling can creep its way into the soul of anyone and can be brought about by anything.

He first experienced it in Afghanistan, and especially during the first few months back in London. In the middle of the boiling sun, the rapid gunfire, and the bloody victims of that gunfire, he knew he had to swallow whatever bile rose up into his throat and press on for the men who needed his medical aid. He saved all of his emotions for the time after the war, which could be defined as the first time he had ever felt the "feeling," which went by many names: sadness, depression, post-traumatic stress, and even anxiety. John lived everyday of that era of his life in darkness, and there were many nights when John contemplated the reasons upon which he was still among the living, another side-effect of the feeling of sadness.

And then Sherlock came, and he changed everything. The night terrors slowly slipped away, and during the day, he finally found some stimulant in finding stimulant for his new flatmate. Even though Sherlock dealt with death being an amateur detective and constantly boasted his sociopath ways, John could honestly say that Sherlock made him feel alive again, and the feeling went away.

But now, it was back, and it was stronger than before. Now, as he sat on the stairs with his head in his hands, his grief loomed over him like the shadow of the Devil himself, for that was the only evil that John could have thought of that would dare to take his brave Sherlock away. Apparently, that Devil had manifested himself inside Jim Moriarty, the only suitable transport in the whole of London. It was a reminder of the dangerous game his flatmate dared to play, and how everyone was either calling Sherlock a liar or mourning over his soul. John wished that the shadow would simply swallow him up, and perhaps maybe then he would see his flatmate again, and then order would be restored, because the two men that needed each other to stay alive would have connected again.

John knew sadness all too well, and, according to the events of the day, so did Sherlock, deep within the walls of his Mind Palace. It lets one sit and wallow in their own cursed existence. There are only three escapes: tell someone how you feel, push it away in the hopes of conquering it another time, or making a drastic decision that will end all of the curses that have been afflicted on the escapee. Sherlock chose one, and he inevitably chose the other, and that was why John had felt the strongest bout of sadness in his life.

"Goodbye, John." Those words rang in his ears, getting louder every time they repeated themselves.

"Sherlock, NO!" John knew he should have insisted that Sherlock stay on the phone with him; he should have begged! Maybe then he would have been able to talk him off of the the roof. Perhaps they could have hurried back to the flat, spent a lonely evening with cups of tea, and came up with a plan of action for whatever crisis was really happening in Sherlock's mind?

He spread out his arms and jumped. The bottom of his coat flew open as gravity pulled him towards his inevitable doom. Sherlock pressed his lips together in a thin line, and his eyes were in flinch position, open just enough so that he could see the ground meet his body. His arms were up in the air, as though he was surrendering to all that weighed upon his brilliant mind.

John promised himself he would show more self-control than his sister and his father. Liquid happiness, and some called it, was calling his name, if only he could muster the strength to rise from the stairs.

Red is often referred to as a color of fire, of the passion that exists in love and within a person's heart. Sherlock's transport's "passion liquid" was now covering the concrete and had begun to seep into the very grains of the stone. John's hand was shaking as he checked Sherlock's pulse. Reality whispered into John's ear, telling him there was no hope that his friend could have survived that jump, and that he was a fool for hanging on to the hope that Sherlock could have hung on to life. After all, his flatmate had lost his little passion for life, and the fuel of his life was beginning to get everywhere.

His Sherlock had been stolen from him, and John also lost the piece of his soul he tied with his flatmate. Sherlock was his strength, his reason, his life. The world was still rotating around the sun, but John's was crashing and burning all around him, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. People were walking down the sidewalk outside, going about their normal routine (something Sherlock always frowned upon), yet John was sitting still, watching one part of his life slip from his grasp and the other being planned out. He was certain he was facing years of alcohol, late-night reminiscing, and being followed by the shadow.

"I was the only one he trusted." John could not believe that was his one voice. After all of this time with Sherlock, he had learned to add a little more, oh, assertiveness, perhaps? "He let me inside his life, and I failed miserably, because I could not save him. And now, my friend is... dead."

He started to cry. It was silent; the only indication that he was crying was the shuddering of his shoulders.