They say falling body experiments are the most beautiful, for the mass of an object plays no part in the velocity of its descent. This, wonderingly enough to Sherlock, defies mortal expectation. A feather and a hammer, Apollo 15, 1971, Commander David Scott. Humankind loves to watch the impossible occur.

The black latex ball leaves his hand, hits the floor, bounces, hits the cupboard, bounces, and is received.

Again.

Hit, bounce, receive. The ball exerts a force on the floor that is equal in magnitude and opposite in direction to the force the floor exerts on the ball. The bounce is the product of the pressurized air in the ball's chamber; as ball hits floor, it undergoes deformation, exerts a greater force against floor, and accelerates in the opposite direction. The angle of impact directs velocity of ball towards the laboratory cupboards, where ball strikes hard. And rebounds.

Quite simple, really. Newtonian Physics. Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica. Law III: To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction. Striking and restriking. It encompasses everything. He sees, oh he sees. Wings upon air, earth upon shoes soles, finger touch against skin. Oil on water.

Force: Sherlock.

Counterforce: Moriarty.

He breathes laws. He needs them. They make him sick.

The ball kicks the wall sharply and retreats. Bites, retreats. It makes no difference; the wall repels, unfeeling, unflinching.

You need me or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I, except you're boring.

Hit, bounce, receive. Unfeeling. His fingers twitch. He considers the beauty in falling. All objects fall at the same rate, regardless of mass. Weigh is inconsequential. But weightlessness?... If he were empty, would he fall or fly?

Alone is what I have.

Force: Alone.

Counterforce:

Counterforce:

Counterforce:

Equal and opposite reactions.

Force of John on the door, force of door on John, John moves forward, John moves backward. He's trapped in the crystalline, heartbreaking equilibrium of the moment with his hand on the door, his eyes on Sherlock, the deathly force of his eyes on Sherlock. "No. Friends protect people."

Friends protect people. Love protects people from hate. You see, Sherlock? No, love is a thousand black strands stretching out to the long nozzles of black rifles. Alone is what protects people. Love is what kills them.

It kills him. He falls beautifully. Defying expectation.

Because it doesn't matter if he's a feather or a hammer or a man – the distance between the earth and his mass diminishes at a constant acceleration, even when John watches. John can't look away. Sherlock dies even when John can't look away from all the horror of it all.

Because the counterforce was never Moriarty. If it had been Moriarty, Sherlock would have been an action without a reaction, a physical impossibility. He would have been nothing. Nothing is weightless. Nothing can fly.

But Sherlock fell.

It was John. The force of John's eyes riveting Sherlock on the edge, pushing him back, holding him there. For a time. It was John, had always been John, John in his idiosyncrasies, his steadfastness butting and rebutting against the chaos of Sherlock like the coastline and the sea.

John made him real, you see.

The ball rebounds?

No. It's a law. No tricks. All objects fall at the same rate. As John watches Sherlock fall, John is falling as well. They are all falling with him, Sally, Donovon, Mycroft, the corpse of Moriarty, everyone, infinitely, spinning on a planet spinning 465 meters per second, as they watch him fall.


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