Author's note: Evening all! Here we are with the second addition to our Johnlock creativity with a simple note to say firstly: whilst exams and coursework deadlines are at a head, we'll be updating once a week but afterwards, we won't make you guys wait as long – we're not the BBC. *cough cough* And secondly: a HUGE thank you to our readers, favouriters and followers alike; we love you all. Enjoy!


CHAPTER TWO: Fool For Falling

The sight of John supported by his walking stick was one of which he'd only encountered upon one occasion before, when first meeting John; yet the deterioration of his leg's ability had been apparent as he'd watched over him in the months that had passed the both of them by. He'd been stood at a distance, but he'd been standing present nonetheless. John, evidently, had no knowledge whatsoever of Sherlock's frequent undisclosed observations, but it had been for the best. John had survived without the company and influence of the man he named 'friend' for a year now, in spite of the relapse he'd experienced a couple of days ago; so who was to say after today he wouldn't regain his composure and continue to live how he had done for the 12 months Sherlock had been absent? Albeit melancholy had ruled the majority of said months, but perhaps this meet would be enough to ignite the will inside him once more; and he would be able to live the life he should've, and would've without Sherlock.

As if he never existed. Just as it should have been. Or so Sherlock selfishly hoped. Alas, hoping was a fickle prospect and shockingly irrational — the realisation stirred discomfort within his gut, within his own skin and mind: Sherlock wasn't himself. Something had changed, and it wasn't simply John Watson. The change had rooted itself once John had accepted Sherlock's invitation of a home and an adventure, and in turn, had allowed Sherlock himself to accept John's invitation of companionship and company. Sherlock had always possessed humanity, as all humans ultimately had and did; what he had also done, however, was sever the link between the natural ability to feel emotions and the emotional responses as its counter-part.

A machine, John had once called him; and in a metaphorical sense, he supposed that was exactly how he wanted John to perceive his emotional availability. Yet as evasive as he appeared to others, he knew John could deduce his own interpretation of Sherlock. And that, alone, made him vulnerable. That alone scared him more than anything ever had mastered.

"Good." Sherlock found himself nodding, perhaps in approval of John's reply or of himself. Though, upon his discontinuous mention of tea, Sherlock pressed his lips into a firm line. "Tea tends to do that when you leave it sitting for hours." He was able to do this, able to pretend. "Rules?" He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't believe there are any." The silence that befell each then didn't disconcert Sherlock, but John's sharp, unbelieving yet accusing gaze, did. He swallowed. "You're wrong, John." He snapped. "Whatever you think you believe, you are wrong."


John had been miserable for exactly one year. Three-hundred and sixty-five, no, sixty-six days of darkness, since it was a leapyear, and getting worse with each week passing and only now his mind was clearing up and showing him what had been plain as day the whole time. This wasn't some sort of heaven, some sort of afterlife or a dream. Sherlock also wasn't a hallucination his mind had come up with because he had finally gone mad. This was reality and the whole concept of it was just beginning to unfold in his head. His brain was connecting the bits and pieces and about ten seconds later John knew what had happened.

"I never fell off of that building, right? You knocked me over. That's why I can't remember a single thing about it. You knocked me over and I hit my head and then everything went black." Gritting his teeth, John noticed that he was pointing towards Sherlock with his walking stick. "Why are you back? How did you …" He paused, trying to maintain is composure. Suddenly, standing on both of his legs felt harder than it ever had, harder than on the darkest days of loneliness after his death. Death … the word seemed ridiculous, now that he knew he had never been dead. "How did you do it? How were you able to fake a death like this one? You jumped off of that building, I saw you do it. You told me to." But suddenly, while speaking his mind aloud, a different thought occurred in his mind. "Of course," he murmured, more to himself than towards Sherlock. "Oh, you are brilliant, indeed. And yes, Sherlock, it took me a whole year to figure it out and you know what — I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed because you never took the effort to come back earlier. I was about to kill myself. Is your twisted mind able to catch that? Your only friend decided to kill himself because he felt that miserable."

Breathing in deeply, John tried to calm himself down, but it felt like trying to extinguish a gas stove with your own breath. It was impossible. Taking a few steps towards Sherlock, who was still standing on the same spot as when he had turned towards the window, he looked him right into the eye. "I don't know why you're here now; I don't know why you didn't just lay me down in my bed and left. It's not matching your usual behavior. Why did you stay? Why are you looking at me now like you don't know what to say? The great Sherlock Holmes, who has even faked his own death, doesn't know what to say. That's a premiere." Laughing a short and humorless laugh, John supported himself on his walking stick again when he felt the pain increasing. "I need this again," he continued pointing towards the stick with his free hand. "That should be nice evidence as to how bad I really felt all this time, don't you think?"


From the split second Sherlock's immediate defiance had left his lips, he knew it had been too late to save the reality of the situation from dawning upon John. And once it had, hell apparently hath no fury like a John Watson scorned. Sherlock usually dismissed all thought of hell and heaven as actual destinations, though the belief of hell to be a state of mind, in this instance, the first time in his entire life, Sherlock entertained the possibility of its existence. For the onslaught of utter fury John was exhorting upon him was fuelled by an anger he'd never witnessed from the man in the many months of their living together, of knowing one another; Sherlock had underestimated the affect he'd had over John, and now such loyalty had been tested, Sherlock found himself simply speechless.

Years of practise in schooling his reactions appeared to have equated to great worth, due to the lack of emotion betraying to the surface John's desperation was persistently attempting to break through. His words were cutting and choosy, yet he left no room for a mental barrier concerning his own self; he was open to emotion, a vulnerability that Sherlock was slowly starting to realise he was beginning to lack. As John gained a closer proximity, Sherlock's breath hitched; a clear sign of a glitch within his nervous system — he could feel his pulse pounding within his neck and wrist. It had been easier to tame his thoughts and functions with John at a distance, though now he was directly before him, resolve was losing reason.

Pupils dilated at a wider circumference than usual, they searched everywhere within his frontal vision, but always landed on John. There was nowhere else to look and nothing left to deduce. John's agony had transformed into something stronger and more potent, his accusations growing darker and cruel — a John Watson Sherlock had never received privy of knowing. Yet, essentially, a John Watson his own, callous deceit had created.

"You didn't kill yourself." Sherlock stated, his grey orbs flecked with sparks of soft determination exerting no power of anger, but of assurance. "Neither did I. We were both fools." A mock smile curved half of his mouth. "But as for the leg, how interesting." His eyes shot to the ground, eyeing his crippled leg, then back towards him; in a motion too fast to be stopped, Sherlock wrenched the walking stick from John's grasp and tossed it across the room. His features remained solemn and staring as he watched his friend with nothing short of expectation. "Let's test the theory: walk to me."


If John would have been a little calmer, a little more collected, he surely would have noticed the anomalies within Sherlock's behavior. Usually, he would have had prepared a witty comment already, there wasn't a single moment John could recall, where his best friend had been speechless. Sherlock made conversation while thinking about their current case; he would only devote a few percents of the capacity of his mind for talking. However, John wasn't able to notice all of the small hints Sherlock was showing right now. His heart was pounding way too frantically; his mind was racing way too fast; his teeth were gritted way too tightly and the latter was the reason why he wasn't able to react on his friend's words.

One second later, his walking stick was gone. Simply staring at Sherlock, John didn't know what to do. It wasn't like he couldn't walk at all without it but there was a real chance he would fall within the process. "What are you doing?" He finally asked with a confused undertone while he tried to read something out of his opponent's eyes, like he had always done. "What is this? Some kind of sick joke? You know, I won't be able to walk." John waited for a response, two seconds, three, six — nothing. Eyeing the distance with a pounding heart, he gulped heavily, feeling the lump in his throat grow bigger with each second passing. Then he straightened and reminded himself discipline being one of the most important virtues in order to be a good soldier. Sherlock wouldn't get him his walking stick in an eternity, so the most reasonable thing was to get it over and done with. He would manage those few meters, he surely would.

The first step was good, also the second one, although he could feel the pain increasing already. Gritting his teeth even tighter, John took the third step and managed to pass half of the way with it. His leg was getting more rigid with each moment passing and at the fourth step he was failing finally. He felt the pain rushing through his muscles, his balance making his farewells and a moment later he had to support himself with his own arms. As soon as he felt the soft carpet beneath his hands, the feeling of being exposed he had endured the previous day returned. John wasn't able to define why Sherlock would do such a thing. "I told you so," he growled. "There's a different reason as to why it worked back then." John indeed knew what it had been that had freed him from being dependant on that damn stick but there was no chance in hell he would ever tell him.


Thankfully John was, or at least played oblivious to the affected undertones of Sherlock's out of character behaviour and for that he was grateful. His eyes and exterior was calm and collected now, focused wholly upon John as echoes of the man he knew protruded to the surface of he representation. Slowly but surely, his rage was dispersing, whether John realised it or not. Sherlock undeniably did. In fact, his retort had been nothing short of predictable. His words were by no means pleasantries, but the ghost of a smile that now occupied his lips was one of mental reassurance toward himself. John had never been difficult to deduce, but the familiarity heading toward their damaged dynamic was making its eventual return, and Sherlock was eager.

The detective had persuaded his best efforts into keeping a complacent expression for the duration of time John took in deliberating whether or not to obey the command Sherlock had provided him, and for the most part he had managed it. Lack of verbal communication had helped, naturally. But as John took his first stumbling strides toward Sherlock, his gaze narrowed and he peered through his eye lids in an act of severe concentration. Each step he achieved was a step more than Sherlock had presumed credit for, though a credit that he'd always reserved for John; he was unlike any other he'd met, and only continued to prove that. As eerie as the concept sounded, Sherlock was almost proud of John. Albeit, the moment he fell, despite the truth of his theory, Sherlock's expression dropped with him.

Sherlock's eyes were locked upon John's sprawled figure upon the ground; weakened by his own inability to function without necessary support. The support, of course, wasn't physical — it originated deeper than that. The support John craved, Sherlock had invoked, thus John's denial of the walking stick's assistance a brief time after they'd encountered each other. They had been mere strangers, and yet, John had needed Sherlock, whether he desired for Sherlock to know or not; he did. Had he granted himself permission to, he would've wondered similarly regarding John's perception of him, but he hadn't, so a mystery it remained. In spite of John's expected protests, Sherlock had bent in order to help John from the ground. His body motion had been lithe, his arms secure and his fingers steadfast in helping his friend to his feet and for several seconds he had said nothing.

Sensing John's need for privacy, Sherlock turned and walked toward the door. And in an almost exact mirror of the day before, he had stopped and looked back to John.

"Your leg will work again, but you need to put your faith in me." He wet his lower lip. "You said you never believed I lied to you. So, I ask you: do you believe me?"