And after the storm

I run and run as the rains come

And I look up, I look up

On my knees and out of luck

I look up

He senses it, the second the rain is about to start. He is in the flat, their flat, doing absolutely nothing—not even thinking. He sits in his chair, not even letting his mind wander for fear of it wandering in the direction of…well, him. But it's as if he can smell it, the change in the air, the drop in pressure, something tells him. And so he runs. He rises from the chair, cane clattering to the floor—he walks past it without even a glance—clumsily pulls on his shoes, and is out the door. He runs and he runs, his muscles aching in a way they hadn't in a long time. He's pushing himself too hard, because he wants—needs to get there before the rain. And he almost manages it. But the second he's in the square outside, déjà vu brings him to a stop and he feels the rain begin to fall. He'd stood here, mere hours ago, and watched Sherlock jump. But he won't let himself stop, he can't, he needs to get there. There's still crime scene tape, and a pair of uniforms chatting several feet away, but they notice the rain and head for the coverage of their car. He continues, making straight for the very spot, the blood-soaked concrete where Sherlock's head surely broke against the pavement. He hastily ducks beneath the tape and falls to his knees, just inches from the scarlet spatter. The rainfall increases, coming down harder and faster, fighting the foreign substance off the pavement, eroding it, and John watches as the last trace of his best friend is washed away by the rain.

And then he looks up.

And night has always pushed up day

You must know life to see decay

But I won't rot, I won't rot

Not this mind and not this heart

I won't rot

He looks up into the slowly changing sky, against the seemingly gentle fall of rain. It patters against his skin, cold and wet, but he doesn't care. What's caught his eye is infinitely more important—a flash of jet black on the roof. He keeps watching, waiting for it again, hoping and praying it wasn't his imagination, wasn't the trick of a grieving mind. But it doesn't show again. He waits there until the rain stops, and the uniforms climb out of the car and clamber over to him. One of them asks questions that he ignores and the other shushes him, murmurs something that sounds like his name and Sherlock's, and the first one shuts up quick. The one who recognized him nods gently and John turns away without acknowledging him, already plotting a route to the roof. He knows it's not a good idea, and that likely someone else is waiting up there to make sure no one else tries to dive off in the same day. He decides he doesn't care, that he needs to see. To see what Sherlock saw, in his last moments.

And he decides to take the stairs.

And I took you by the hand and we stood tall

And remembered our own land, what we live for

There is, in fact, another uniform on the top level. Fortunately this one recognizes him, too, and lets him through. John pretends not to notice as he discreetly phones Lestrade to let him know John is here, and that his eyes stay on John constantly. John really has no intention of jumping, but he's unsure his mind won't change with what he finds. What he does find is more blood, not Sherlock's. He pauses only a second to revel in it, and is then on his way again. He chances a look back at the officer, who seems braced for something. He continues to the edge of the building and looks down. He briefly questions if he should climb on the ledge for a better look, but doesn't really fancy giving the poor guard a heart attack. He looks down, to where he had been standing when it happened. It doesn't look so small from his vantage point as he expected. When he looks back again, the uniform is gone. So he turns back and takes the opportunity to climb up, very carefully. He looks out into the young night, not even fully dark yet, and still smelling like dust after the rain. He shifts his foot and it slips, and before he's even tipped forward, there's a hand on the back of his jacket to steady him. "Who's there?" he asks, not daring to move again in case he pulls them both down. "John," the voice whispers.

And his heart stops.

And now I cling to what I knew

I saw exactly what was true, but oh, no more

That's why I hold, that's why I hold

With all I have, that's why I hold

He turns and bounds down from the edge, but when he looks up he doesn't see those ocean blue eyes looking back at him, but warm brown ones. Lestrade. "John, what the hell are you doing?" he asks. John straightens himself, tugging his jacket into place and avoiding eye contact. "Nothing," he murmurs. "Nothing?" Lestrade asks, "You damn near bloody killed yourself!" John shakes his head, "No, I didn't, I just—" Lestrade cuts in, "You just what?" John sighs, heavily. "I just wanted to see what he saw." Lestrade deflates, watching John carefully. "Well, you don't need be stupid about it, mate. It's dangerous up here." "I know," John replies. Lestrade nods. "Let's go have a pint, eh?"

And John says, "Okay."

And I will die alone and be left there

Well I guess I'll just go home to God knows where

Because death is just so full and man so small

Well, I'm scared of what's behind and what's before

So he follows Lestrade to a local pub, not really in the mood for drinking but wholeheartedly in the mood for getting blindingly drunk. Greg orders them a round, but John adds on a whiskey double. He orders three more before they leave, Lestrade insisting on paying the tab and John too easily giving in. He drives John to Baker Street, where he mumbles a "Thanks," and stumbles out of the car and up to the door. He's inside before he hears the car start to pull away, and ambling up the stairs. He hears Mrs. Hudson tinkering about, but pays it no mind. He's too bleeding drunk to care about anything at that particular moment, even himself. Especially himself. So he collapses back into his chair. His best friend dead and his rational mind pushed too deep to function for the night, a tear rolls down his cheeks and he lets his head fall back. He's out within moments.

And somewhere on the other side of London, Sherlock is glad John didn't jump.

A/N: Too many ideas, too little time. Or computer space. Either way, I apologize for my crap ability to update in a timely manner. I am working on my other stories, I swear, but some need major editing and others are stuck and some just don't get as much time as they need. I just started my senior year, so I don't know how much free time I'll have to work. I am trying, though.

Reviews would be lovely. Thanks.