I know, I know I shold be updating my story but I am stuck. So you will have to deal with the fact that I wrote about Sherlock instead. Its plotless and has mindless whump but whatchya gonna do? I hope you enjoy it.
Sherlock sighed, he was bored, bored, bored. He was lacking in entertainment, he had no John or case, heck not even Mycroft. His violin was at the shop and Mrs. Hudson, well, she was at a bridge tournament. He had nothing to do except listen t his mind run rampant, analyzing, sorting, making everything make brilliant sense. Then, something in his mind clicked. An experiment, he could design an algorithm, but he needed a base. The algorithm of broken bones. How height would affect what you broke and where. He figured their building would work, with balconies providing equal increments of height. So Sherlock ran outside and calculated the height between the balconies. They were exactly 20 meters apart that would work brilliantly.
Sherlock knew that John would have stopped him had he been there but he was looking for a car. John said that it would be worth having a car instead of paying a cab fair and taking sketchy black cars to places. So Sherlock just pushed the voice that sounded oddly like John to the back of his head and shrugged on one of John's jumpers. What? He was cold and he didn't want to get blood on his own royal blue jumper. Sherlock climbed up the red fire escape to the first balcony. He took a deep breath and leaped over the railing.
Sherlock realized that he liked the feel of falling, like he had all the time in the world to think. It was freeing, knowing that he was racing through the air. The wind flew through John's jumper and Sherlock liked the bite of cold that tingled through his body. It was new, exciting. Oh how much he liked this. But what he realized was that he liked the landing better. The solid thump he made upon impact and how a simple roll kept him from injuring himself even at 20 meters. He liked the abrupt stop. So he recorded his first data (nothing broken) and tried again from another balcony this time at 40 meters. He expected to feel to the same thing. But this time was better, the wind was faster fuller. And he could see John strolling up in the distance. John was engrossed in something in his mobile and Sherlock scowled, he wanted to see the awe on John's face when he saw what Sherlock was doing. That was one of his favorite parts about John, how he never said anything but he didn't have to, his face said it all. Sherlock loved to see the mixes of thoughts, horror and amusement, disappointment and pleasure. But his favorite, was anger and awe. He wanted to see that.
But the ground met Sherlock before John did and it did not feel better than last time. Instead of a thump, it was more of a smack. His bones were jumbled and Sherlock felt pain. Something was broken, but he couldn't tell what. Not with the pounding in his head and the black vision fading in and out. H wanted John more than ever. He wanted John to hold his hand, to say encouraging things. But Sherlock did not get the pleasure, because he was locked away in his mind palace too soon, lost into the deep inky blackness of his mind. A place where there was no John, which was ruled by Mycroft and Anderson and Donovan. Of his abusive childhood and how even though he didn't show it, Anderson and Donovan hurt sometimes. Their words were swords and sometimes Sherlock was resistant but other times he was cut. The worst times were when he had to distract himself or bleed out. It was cold in his mind palace and he screamed out for John, but John wasn't there and Sherlock sulked.
But then there was a hand, warm and familiar. There were sirens and voices infiltrating his palace. Sherlock would have shut them out, had one of them not been him. So he listened to them, to the whine of the machines and the incredulous voice of John. He felt the hand at his side grow tighter and tighter, as if grounding him to this life. He felt the ground move underneath him, or perhaps it was himself. But most importantly, he felt the smile on his face, the one that stretched underneath the mask, which was pointed at John; make John's tight hand relax. He heard the sigh from his lips and a disbelieving laugh. He felt the best thing he ever could, comforting John even when he was worried for Sherlock himself. Because no matter what, Sherlock wasn't leaving John that easily, not for the world.
I hoped you liked it, it's my first Sherlock fic, so I am sorry if it's not perfect. I would very much enjoy if you reviewed. Have a wonderous day.