A/N: (F/N) - First Name (h/l) - hair length (h/c) - hair color (L/N) - Last Name (e/c) - eye color

~Somebody Loves You~

It was cold. Bitterly frozen winds wiped about the streets of London, accurately marking the time of year as the dead of winter. And yet, it wasn't because of the January weather that you felt cold. But rather what was currently happening to you on the inside.

Too much pain, too much confusion. . . Too much life.

You stood silently on the edge of a large bridge- which one it was you couldn't say- and felt the wind rapidly gush through your (h/l) hair. You had come here mainly to think- as you usually did when things in your life got rough- but tonight was different than usual. Because tonight, you were tired of fighting.

"Long way to fall," a deep voice assessed from several feet behind you. "An instant recipe for death, for someone of your respectable body mass."

Your head immediately snapped up at the well-known voice, and if you hadn't had good footing on the iron grating where you were standing, you would have easily plummeted to the traffic below with the shock.

You knew who the voice belonged to without looking, so you didn't turn around as you answered. But you were shaken by the man's undeniable, larger than life presence.

"I- . . . I suppose so."

The voice was surprisingly calm in reply. "Are you going to jump?"

Finally, you turned your head to look at the detective who was now only a foot or so away, and the sight made you exhale a shaky breath. Dark curly hair, sharp cheek bones, lovely coat with the collar turned up, and piercing iceberg eyes. He could have passed for an angel . . . or a demon simply posing as one.

A single tear traced its way down your face as you met the familiar gaze of Sherlock Holmes'- the current flat mate of one of your oldest friends- and shook your head. You had known the strange detective for almost two years now, and you still felt out of place around him.

"I don't know. . ." you finally stuttered anxiously. "I-I honestly don't know-"

"Then why stand on the ledge?" He immediately wanted to know. "Why not go do something productive while you decide?"

You laughed- a choked, mirthless sound- as you shifted on the grating where you stood, your (e/c) eyes misty and emotional.

"Not all of us can think so rationally, Sherlock."

The man was keenly watching you, and ever so slightly cocked his head to the side with an almost invisible smile.

"You're deflecting."

You were silent for several long moments- knowing that he was quite correct- before you returned his smile with a broken version of your own. Then- losing all your normally shy restraints- your lips formed a question that had been eating at the back of your mind since you had first met the man standing behind you. If you were going to leave this world behind, you might as well have the answer.

"Do you ever get tired of seeing what you see?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

You fought your numb brain for another explanation and finally fumbled through the words.

"You always observe so much, Sherlock. You know things that others will never know or even imagine, due to your foresight and talented brain. . . You can pinpoint stuff before it's happened. There are no surprises for you. . . No true mysteries. And yet, somehow you're still here."

The detective nodded once- biding for you to continue to the actual question- acknowledging your words without speaking any of his own.

"How-. . ." you started, and as several more tears leaked from your eyes, you had to begin again. "D-Do you ever wish you didn't see so much? That you could erase your mind and start fresh? . . . A clean slate for all the horrible things you've seen or experienced . . . Do you ever wish you were normal?"

Sherlock's light blue eyes were locked onto your face, and you felt as though your very soul was being read. Nothing escaped those astute eyes. And though this fact usually disconcerted you, you now returned the intensity full force. You wanted an answer. . . You needed to hear him admit it- though you weren't sure what it was he'd be admitting. Just so long as he said something.

Slowly, the detective moved to stand on the grate beside you, though he made no move to forcefully pull you away from the edge. And as his shoulder came to rest nearly close enough to bump yours, he spoke. His tone was soft and as rich and deep as exotic chocolate, though he only said one word.

"No."

You sighed in alleviation and hung your head; your shoulders slumped and more tears ran from your eyes, though a sincere smile crept to your lips.

"I'm glad, Sherlock . . . I'm relieved that your gift doesn't drive you insane."

From the way his eyes were once more searching you as if you were a puzzle piece; you could tell that he was concerned. Which was strange . . . You'd never seen Sherlock Holmes worried about anything . . . you'd never thought that would be something he'd let you see. And yet . . . now he did.

"(F/n)-" he began, but you quickly interrupted him- suddenly wanting him to understand as you felt a wave of panic flood over you. You had to explain. You needed to get it out.

"I wish that my gift was like yours, Sherlock. I really do." You had been on the verge of a mental breakdown all day, and now it was finally overwhelming you. Causing your voice to rise in tone and pitch until it was a cry. "Cause my special talent doesn't help solve cases or make me smarter. Mine just makes my life harder than it already would be normally. And I'm left trying to pick up the pieces, time and time again. Mourning for people I hardly even know."

You took a shuddering breath, and after a moment Sherlock broke the silence.

"Empathy."

The one defining word spoken from the man who you secretly admired, felt like a tidal wave as you stared off into the distance. Once again, Sherlock Holmes was one step ahead, but you had to wonder if he truly saw it all.

The winter wind was blowing harder now, and you had to speak loud over the storm, anxiously trying to let your pent up emotions out in your words.

"I'm always the one holding the bag!" You cried out wistfully. "The one who gets forgotten or is left behind! Because I'm always the person who lends a shoulder to cry on, or makes the sacrifice! And I'm sick of it!

"And when I need help, or don't know what to do, no ones' there for me! No one gives a damn, and in the end I'm on my own!"

You were truly sobbing now, though the wind hid most of the unflattering noises you were making. But at this point you didn't care, because you were past such petty thoughts. You were in the moment with your emotions and the anger and hurt you were feeling, and nothing else mattered. And by this time your rant had reached its climatic point.

"I don't matter! I could just fall off this damn bridge right now, and it wouldn't make the slightest difference!"

And that was when you felt the firm hand wrap around your wrist. Your unfocused gaze snapped back to your companion, and you instantly cringed. From the look he was giving you, you'd thought you'd been slapped. Sherlock's already vibrant eyes were icy infernos as his long fingers held you in place.

"What about John and the rest of your family? Are you really so selfish as to believe no one would care?"

"I'm not close with my family," you contradicted sadly. "And John. . . well he has you now. . . He'd-He'd manage. Because in the end it wouldn't matter, Sherlock. I don't contribute anything special to anyone. I'm a waste of space."

"You are empathetic of those around you -unquestionably so- to perhaps the length where it would be considered unwise," Sherlock stated, adamantly. "But someone would miss you."

You locked eyes with the world's greatest detective and fought to see the truth, and you gasped as it stared you right back in the face. Sherlock's expression had softened- more so than you had ever seen- and a small smile drew his lips up at the corners. His blue eyes saying things his mouth never could or would.

"Somebody loves you, (F/n). And they always will."

Sherlock gave your wrist another squeeze, his eyes roaming over your face slowly, before he let go altogether. Then, without another word, the great detective turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you all alone once more.

He had wanted you to reconsider your life, though in the end he had left the final decision up to you.

The winter wind ripped past your sedentary form, screeching for you to jump to the fatal embrace of death. But you merely stood, facing the skyline of the great city of London with tears freezing to your face.

In that moment, as Sherlock had spoken his final words to you, it had seemed like an open statement. But it had been so much more. . . It had been an admission . . . a declaration of feelings that were foreign and most likely suppressed.

The simple words had been a love letter that you would never forget.

Slowly, as the wind cackled maniacally at your back, you moved away from the edge of the bridge, and began the long walk back to 221B Baker Street. Praying that perhaps someday the pain would cease to exist, and that you one day, might have the courage to act upon your own feelings.

A/N: I originally posted this over on deviantart and decided to post it here as well. The format of the story is very different for me (personal reader insert sort of deal) but I am very pleased with how intimate the story feels because of it.

Having dealt with suicidal tendencies and thoughts in the past, I figured this story should be shared. Plus, we all love Sherly so why wouldn't I post? ;)

If you enjoyed the story please throw me a review. I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts. Thank you so much!

~Lyn