Bonjour. So yeah, I do realize that this is like my third or fourth post Reichenbach fic. I'm really sorry but at the same time I'm not! I keep getting ideas and like Sherlock said in Reichenbach: you can't delete and idea once it's taken a place in your mind. I'm kind of apprehensive about this one because I've never really written an angsty fanfic. Like I have stories where people die and they have emotional turmoil and stuff but never before have I written one where someone attempts suicide (Sherlock's does not count). So yeah, I hope this is ok. The song that kind of inspired me was Skinny Love by Birdy (covered from Bon Iver). I strongly suggest that you listen, because it's a beautiful song. Anyway, I'm done my ranting, just read the fic and if you want, tell me what you think.

Je ne possède pas Sherlock. (oooh French, what now?!)

John fell.

He was done. He didn't want to fight anymore. He couldn't fight anymore. He was just too tired. He wanted to fall into an endless sleep. And what a more fitting way then the same way his flatmate had gone.

Almost a year had passed since his best friend had died. An entire effing year. John didn't know how he had managed to exist. But he did just that; exist. He went about life, getting up in the morning, eating three meals a day, and going to bed. But he was a soulless robot, incapable of anymore then that.

Every day was a greyish blurr. Each second felt like an hour and every hour felt like a second. Every step that he took was a reminder of his pain. Every breath stung like a thousand knives. Because Sherlock wasn't there to breathe alongside him.

Night was his only solace, but even there, John was bombarded with images of the fall. The fall that took everything from him. In his dreams, it was so clear and sharp, like he was looking up at the roof once again. He would always stand there and watch Sherlock fall. He would wake up with a start right before Sherlock hit the pavement, and succumb to sobs. It was torture, worse than his dreams after the war.

So John had decided that he was done. He didn't even remember how he had found himself on the roof of Bart's hospital. But he wasn't complaining. There couldn't be a more perfect place. He had walked up to the ledge and looked down at the street.

Even though he knew it, the realization hit him like a lightning bolt. Sherlock had been standing exactly here, a year ago. Sherlock had died here, while John watched from the streets below. John felt the pain tear through him. Tears began to fall from his face and he did nothing to stop them. They would stop soon enough. And then in his last moments, he mumbled one word.

- "Sherlock."

And then he fell.

Or at least meant to. Just as he began to lean forward, strong arms wrapped around his middle and pulled him away from the ledge, as quickly as humanly possible. John thought at first that maybe it was an angel. But then the weight of the combined bodies, caused John and his saviour to topple to the roof floor. John heard a deep grunt that was clearly a man's. However he made no move to see who it was. He was doubled over, sobs wracking his entire body. The unknown man hesitated but then took John into his arms. For some reason, John let him. He was passed the point of caring. They remained like that for a couple minutes while John attempted to regain his voice.

- "Who are you? Why did you stop me?" he finally choked through sobs.

The man's mouth came close to John's ear and an unmistakable voice whispered into it.

- "I couldn't let you, John. I'd be lost without my blogger."