Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short, the next one will be longer and have more plot but this bit is kind of necessary, I think. Thanks for the positive feedback!

He shut the door solidly against the autumn winds and collapsed back onto it, relieved. Heavy breaths escaped his lungs although he hadn't been walking faster than usual. His trip to the shop on his way home had been more trouble than he had expected - this was the calm, sensible story he was broadcasting through his mind, anyway. The incident was over, the damage was paid for, and he could forget about it now. He ached all over, but it was 6.12pm. Not time for bed yet.

He put the kettle on, trying to clear his head. The steam rising from the spout fogged his mind - but for less than a minute. Agonisingly, the boiling truth of his memories poured over his rational thought: the fall, the fall, the fall, he's gone. This truth has been melting him for months. Slowly, it has eroded him into a rugged cave where a cliff once stood proud. It burned.

Tea made, he shuffled through to the living room and put on the telly. News, football, quiz show, cartoons. Nothing of interest. Leaving the news on, his mind slid into the past without his conscious consent.

Sherlock is bored. He's jumping about on the furniture and there are body parts on the table. I think that's a human gallbladder... but that's life, with Sherlock. He always seems bored. In need of a new adventure. I think we're similar, in that way - life with the world's only consulting detective is a new adventure, for me. He's standing on the sofa now, exclaiming his knowledge of different types of wool. I'm in my chair reading the paper, pretending not to listen - don't want to inflate his ego. But honestly, it's fascinating. His enthusiasm enraptures me. Oh, look at this. I'm not listening and he needs an audience, so he's trying to grab his skull from the shelf! That thing. I thought Mrs Hudson got rid of it anyw-

Sherlock slips reaching for the skull. Stretching out wildly his elongated limbs scramble for something to save him but John isn't there he's leapt up but he's not quick enough and Sherlock falls he falls and John can't save him and there's the moist heat of blood on his hands on his chest in his heart.

"SHERLOCK!" His heart rebounded off his ribs and slammed backwards into his throat and the cry left his heart and exploded in the air. Screwing up his eyes he crashed his palm into his forehead again and again, he could hit these thoughts from his head, he could, he must.

After 2 minutes and 51 seconds, he dissolved into misery.

The smashed mug pieces on the neat woven rug created a cruel but convenient metaphor for his mind, he thought: in pieces, destroyed, irreparable. He sighed at his tea-soaked hands and body. Unsure when he'd fallen to the floor, he got up stiffly and cleared up the mess.

Changed and dry, he made himself another cup of tea. He closed his eyes to find the realisation that he was unemployed burned under his eyelids. This had never been much of an issue when- in the past. There had always been rewards for solved cases and Mrs Hudson was very flexible with rent and bills if she knew they were hard up. But now... things were different.