"Lestrade, go left and cut him off!" Sherlock yelled to the Detective Inspector trailing after him as they chased the suspect.

Sherlock's vast intellect was plotting various routes that the suspect could take and the probability of him turning straight into Lestrade was high. It was towards his usual stomping grounds meaning heightened familiarity. It was downhill slightly so he could conserve energy. Logic dictated he would go left. Sherlock watched as the suspect veered right and headed towards Millennium Bridge. Swearing hotly under his breath, he pumped his legs harder feeling his ankle twinge at the abuse as he surged up the incline. Sprinting across the street and dodging evening traffic, he followed the suspect onto the bridge. Sherlock was in better shape and slowly closed the distance until he was close enough to dive for the suspect's legs. The two went tumbling to the walkway but before Sherlock could get vertical the suspect's foot lashed out, kicking him in the face. Pushing past the initial sharp burst of pain, Sherlock grabbed at the man's legs and both struggled to their feet using the other as a prop. The initial blow disoriented him but he could still avoid anything coming at him. Sherlock was on the defensive, steadily being pushed back towards the railing. Landing a few punches of his own was satisfying, but it wasn't helping him any. One sharp blow to his diaphragm had him doubled over gasping for breath, just hoping that the suspect was going to leave him there with what little dignity he had left. That hope was dashed when he felt himself being lifted. Realizing there was only one place he could be going, Sherlock grabbed at anything he could and pulled. If he was going into the river, then the man who put him there was coming with him. Hearing the choked off cry prompted a surge of satisfaction as he watched the bridge fall away from them. Bracing for the impact with the river, his eyes popped open with a gasp when he felt a hand grab the neck of his Belstaff firmly, jerking him back. A flash of something cream colored skirted around his peripheral vision and instead of crashing into the water he hit something much firmer.

Blinking at the night sky above him in confusion, he spread his fingers and pressed down, expecting to feel water but instead he felt metal. Rolling over and pushing himself up, he found he was still atop the bridge. The same location where he went over the edge. Looking in both directions, he saw Lestrade come running up one side of the bridge with a profound look of relief on his face.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay?" Lestrade asked as the detective gently felt his face.

He could feel severe tenderness but no sharp pains, so nothing broken. Punches to chest and torso would just leave bruising as well as tenderness. Scrambling suddenly to the side of the bridge, he peered through the railings and down into the water to look for the suspect. A few yards downstream he saw a body floating in the water. Lestrade put in a call to the Marine Policing Unit to come and retrieve the body. Sherlock watched its slow progression down the river before sitting back and slumping against one of the beams.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and felt his jaw open and close a few times as he tried to make sense of everything. Looking up and down along the bridge, there was no one near enough who might have pulled him back.

"I...I think I'm losing my mind Lestrade," he muttered before he looked away.

"Wha-"

"I went over the edge with that suspect. I know I did. I felt us go over the edge. I watched the bridge fall away from me as we grappled. But then I blinked, something grabbed my coat and jerked...all of a sudden I was here on the bridge. I think I'm losing my mind."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before speaking. "I thought I saw you go over the edge but I was a ways away and didn't have a good angle. We both must have been wrong."

Sherlock shook his head and climbed to his feet, swaying again. Okay, maybe the blow to his face did affect him a bit. "No, no, I went over the edge. I know I did."

"Well obviously not, because here you are and the suspect is down there," Lestrade replied as he gripped Sherlock's biceps to help keep him vertical.

"This...this is not logical. Can't be," Sherlock muttered and felt his knees buckle.

"Whoo...easy there mate."

Lestrade grunted at the sudden additional weight and gently lowered Sherlock back to the ground.

"Lestrade...Greg, what did you see coming up the bridge?" Sherlock asked and grabbed ahold of the DI's sleeve.

Lestrade knelt next to Sherlock and tipped the detective's head back to check his pupils. Gently feeling along the scalp, he searched for any bumps but found none.

"I saw you two grappling when you started to tilt over the edge. I lost sight of you for a moment and was worried you actually did go over. But then I saw you splayed out on the walkway. I'm really glad you didn't," Lestrade said, breathing a sigh of relief and remembering his almost heart stopping fear.

Lestrade kept a hand on Sherlock's shoulder while waving over the paramedics to check on the consulting detective. Sherlock was silent as the medics checked his pupils and felt along his ribs. He assured them he had no trouble breathing and declined to go to hospital. Promising to go if he felt worse, he left Lestrade with assurances he would come by the station the next day or two to provide a statement. Disappearing into the evening crowds of London, Sherlock hunched his shoulders and moved through the streets.

He was sure he had fallen off that bridge. The memory of watching the bridge fall away from him was as clear as it could be. He didn't just imagine that. Replaying the whole memory, his feet moved on autopilot taking him home. Cutting down a dimly lit alley like he usually did, Sherlock didn't notice the darkened shadow charging at him. A grunt was forced from him as he was shoved against the brick wall and his head bounced off the stones. Holding a hand to his now bleeding scalp, he dizzily glared at the culprit. A terrified looking kid was trembling in fear and surprise as he stared at Sherlock. Straightening and moving towards the kid, Sherlock was just reaching for the kid's arm when the boy frantically pawed at his own pockets before finding what he was looking for.

"Stay back!" the kid yelled and Sherlock obediently took a step back, immediately recognizing the outline of what was in the kid's hands.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at the aged handgun and recognized the World War II era piece. Probably the kid's grandfather's or great grandfather's service weapon. Sherlock wondering if it was still fireable and then wondered if he really needed to know. John's voice came back to him suddenly; a reminder so often given, to treat all weapons as if they were in mint condition and can still do what they were designed to do. Taking his hand away from his scalp, Sherlock held his hands out to his sides in the international sign of non-hostile.

"Alright, take it easy kid," Sherlock said calmly.

The sound of a car backfiring on the street immediately preceded the sound of the handgun firing. Sherlock fell back against the brick wall, instinctively curling over his abdomen as the boy yelped and dropped the gun. The sound of the kid running away reached Sherlock's ears as he wrapped his arms tightly around his abdomen. He knew he needed to staunch the bleeding until he got help. Life with John had taught him plenty about trauma care. A gunshot wound to the abdomen was never good. The chance of…

Sherlock took a deep breath and realized he felt no overwhelming sensation of pain. Slowly straightening, he kept his arms wrapped around his abdomen but started to release the pressure. The dim lighting of the alley didn't help him as he spread his arms and looked down to assess his abdomen. Not seeing any discoloration, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt, not even noticing his shaking hands. Spreading the fabric, he stared in amazement at the unblemished white skin of his torso and abdomen. He watched the skin flex as he breathed deeply and still felt no pain. The gun had gone off. It was pointed right at him. Did it misfire? No, he distinctly heard the discharge after the car had backfired. A blank possibly? Spinning, he stared at the brick wall behind him and felt his knees wobble at the sight. There was a fresh chip in the brick and he could see the embedded mushroomed slug. Did he really miss being shot by sheer luck? Pawing at his coat and jacket, he couldn't find any bullet holes but he realized it was dark and he was panicking. Starting to feel light headed, he slowly dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels with his hands curled in his lap. How? His life was ruled by logic and intelligence and science but none of those covered this. How did he avoid that bullet? All the evidence pointed to the fact that the bullet was fired, it was aimed directly at his torso and he didn't move enough to avoid the projectile...yet he wasn't struck. It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Sherlock looked up at the concerned pedestrian. He expected the deductions to start firing through his mind about the person but it was silent. His mind was preoccupied with his near death.

"Yeah...yes, I'm fine. Fine," Sherlock muttered and slowly rose.

Ignoring any other questions, he wrapped his coat tightly around himself and continued on his way home. Rain started falling just as he turned onto Baker Street but instead of hurrying up to get inside, he slowed down and enjoyed the rain. Stopping outside the door of 221, he tilted his head back and felt the rain strike his face. His mind slowed just enough for him to feel in control and he took a deep breath. Opening his eyes, a sudden flash of tan at the corner of his eye caused him to jerk his head around sharply, slinging water from his hair. Searching for what made the movement, he saw nothing and narrowed his gaze. Sherlock couldn't keep track of the number of people that had called him crazy over the years but for the first time in his life...he was starting to honestly wonder. Looking around one more time, he turned and pulled out his keys. The building was silent as he went up the stairs and let himself into his flat. It was dark except for a single lamp that permanently stayed on. Without pausing, he walks to the tellie, turning it on to fill the quiet. He found that he needed it now whenever he was at home. Needed something to fill the silence, be it the telly or radio.

Pulling off his coat, he hung it up to dry and pulled off his jacket to drape across the couch arm. Walking to his chair, he sat, propping his face up on one open palm while his other hand drummed on the arm rest. One finger tapped at his temple in thought as he stared at the wall above the chair across from him. He replayed the whole scene in his mind from when the kid ran into him to when he ran off in fear. No matter how many times he reviewed it, he still should have been shot.

With a growl, he stood quickly and grabbed his laptop. He needed to do some research.

(!)(!)(!)

Three days later he still had no answers. He had gone back to the alley the next day and even though the gun was now gone, the mushroomed bullet remained in the brick wall. Otherwise the alley looked the exact same as when he was last there. He had removed the bullet and examined it under his microscope at home. He saw the rifling on the bullet and found the chemical proof that it had been fired. Gripping his hair in utter frustration, Sherlock spun and looked around the room. Books were scattered about, opened to different pages. Tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up sat cold and ignored on various surfaces. His head whipped around at the brisk knock on the door. He hadn't heard the door downstairs open.

Before he could speak, the door opened to admit Mycroft. Sherlock groaned and spun to sit in his chair, wrapping his dressing gown around himself and pulling his legs up into the chair with him. Staring at the telly, he studiously ignored Mycroft and hoped against hope that his brother would leave him alone. The game show that was on was tedious and mind numbingly boring but it was something.

"How have you been doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cut his gaze over towards his brother and grunted. Looking back to the show, he realized his stomach was grumbling and sharp hunger pains were making themselves known. Standing swiftly, he walked to the kitchen and snagged the bag of sliced bread. He heard Mycroft follow him into the kitchen but didn't look over at him.

"I'm fine. Couldn't be better," he replied while he loaded the toaster with bread.

"Really? Because Detective Inspector Lestrade messaged me that he was concerned about you. Said you were acting strangely at the last crime scene. Doctor Hooper has messaged you three times about interesting specimens at the morgue and you haven't responded to her. So, lets just pretend I've asked again and this time you tell me the truth," Mycroft replied and crossed his arms over his chest.

Automatically, Sherlock felt the pockets of his dressing gown and found no mobile. Must be in the sitting room or his bed room. Or John's room. Or...he wasn't sure. That bothered him more than the fact that Mycroft was here and pointed out that he had been ignoring the outside world. The toast popped up and he snatched at it lightly to drop it on his plate. Pulling the jam from the fridge, he slathered it on the toast and left the jar sitting there on the counter. Turning, he pulled the stool out with his foot and sat at the table. Taking a bite, he chewed while staring at the toast in his hand.

"I think I'm going crazy," he muttered softly before taking another bite.

Mycroft was silent; he pulled out the other stool and sat across from Sherlock. Hooking his umbrella on the edge of the table, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over his lap. Leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the tabletop, Mycroft laced his fingers together and took a deep breath. The two brothers watched each other until Mycroft spoke.

"I usually find that the people that are worried they are going insane, rarely are. It's the ones that think they're saner than everyone else that you have to be cautious around," Mycroft replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes before taking another bite of toast.

"There have been four occasions that I should have...died, you could say. Or been seriously wounded. But somehow I didn't or wasn't and I can not explain it."

Sherlock watched his brother and knew what he was about to say even as he opened his mouth. He would have said the same thing if the roles had been reversed. He needed Mycroft to play devil's advocate and help him explain this.

"Mycroft...I can not explain it away. I've tried."

Mycroft closed his mouth and sat there watching as Sherlock finished eating the first piece of toast and started poking at the other on the plate. He wished he knew what to say to his little brother. He was a genius and a scientist so he knew how to perform experiments; to use the formulation of questions, hypotheses, predictions, testing and analysis. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would have already gone through his process with the same infinite detail he applied to everything. He watched his brother finish his meagre meal and nudge away the plate.

Sherlock sighed, glancing into the sitting room before looking back to his brother. "Any suggestions? Thoughts?"

"What would you like me to say, Sherlock? I think you're still grieving over the loss of John. I think you may be attaching undue importance to common happenstances. Hoping that John may still be with you...perhaps as your...guardian angel?"

Sherlock scoffed and stood from his stool. He put away the jam, stopping with the fridge door open to stare into the cold interior. Shaking his head after a long moment, he pushed the door closed and turned back to stare at Mycroft.

"I don't. I don't think he's looking over me. He's dead, I know that, I acknowledge that fact. I don't believe in angels or an afterlife or anything of that sort, but I can't explain what's been happening to me, Mycroft. I can make the logic work in one or two of the cases but not all of them. Either my observations are incorrect or I'm working with the wrong original data."

Mycroft nodded and stood to slip into his jacket. The informal conversation was over between the siblings. "Well, do call me if you would like to talk again or if you come to a conclusion. I would be interested to hear it."

He walked to the door and paused before exiting. "Your mobile is sitting on the vanity in the lavatory."

Sherlock sneered silently and listened as his brother walked down the stairs to exit the building. Stalking to the lav, he did find his mobile and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock the device. Several missed texts and a few missed calls. Clearing them all, he tossed his mobile towards the bed and went to get cleaned up. He had one important stop to make, then hopefully he could move on. Finish reading between the lines. Finish hoping for something he knew would never happen.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped out the flat and into a light drizzle of rain. Glancing up at the grey sky, he turned and started walking. He knew he could easily get a cab but somehow walking in the rain made everything else more bearable. He walked and rode the tube; walking between some stations to walk past significant areas. He submerged himself in memories as he walked, imagining a short dirty blond haired doctor next to him. Talking and giggling about their last case together. Or reminiscing about running through the dark streets of London. His fingers ran over the object buried in his pocket. The cool material warming under his fingers as he walked.

Eventually the memories brought him to Kensal Green Cemetery and followed him up the drive. The steady drizzle didn't obscure the graves and tombs he passed. He could see the cold sentinel as he was walking towards up on the hill. It seemed to overshadow the much darker one next to it. His steps slowed and eventually he stopped upon reaching the grave. Fresh flowers were laid in front of the pale stone and leaves skittered across the plot as a strong breeze blew past. Looking down, his gaze roved over the inscription again before taking a deep breath and looking away.

"This is ridiculous. I don't believe in this sort of sentimental stuff," he muttered and clenched his jaw.

Taking another deep breath to gather himself and organize his thoughts, he turned back to the grave stone. "But I do believe in apologizing to my best friend for grievous wrongs that I committed.

"I jumped to save you, John. That was my intention. Moriarty would have killed you and I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let that happen. But, like you always joked, 'the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry'. Why you felt the need to compare mice and men, I've never quite figured out...but...I digress."

Sherlock took another deep breath and let the anguish wash past him. He could get through this.

"You never should have been hurt. You were supposed to grieve and move on. You were supposed to forget about me, find a woman that made you giggle and gave you the 2.5 kids and pet dog you always wanted. You never should have died!"

He choked on that last word and cleared his throat, looking away again from the now blurry stone. A shiver rippled through him and he hunched deeper into his Belstaff, rounding his shoulders.

"I came...I came to say goodbye, John. I can't take the memories...the regrets. I've never tried it before but once I get home...I'm going to delete you. You know how I hate being wrong. Missing that one thing. I thought you'd forget about me. Now...I risk forgetting about you. I can't bear to lose small pieces of you over the coming years. How you sounded when you giggled at crime scenes. How you always had a cup of tea for me when I didn't realize I wanted one. How you stood up for me when no one ever did.

"I can't bear to lose you slowly and wake up one morning to find I've forgotten the sound of your voice. So, I'll wipe it clean and lose it all at once but I won't know it. I'll go on like before...before I met you. Continue to solve crimes like you would have wanted me to. And...if you are actually watching over me then...well, I guess I'll figure out some way to explain it away."

Sherlock dropped his head, looking at the gravestone with the rain running down over the words. Biting his bottom lip to hold back the sob, he reached into the pocket of his Belstaff and withdrew the object he'd carried from home. Rubbing his thumb over the RAMC logo, he stepped forward and reached down to place the mug in front of the flowers. Pushing the mug firmly into the damp grass, he reluctantly straightened and shoved his hand back into his pocket. Seeing the mug placed there broke a small part of Sherlock but he shoved the pain of it away.

"I know it doesn't matter now. But I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."

He let a tear escape and it soon disappeared into the rainwater that trickled down his face. "Goodbye John Watson."

Biting his inner cheek, he turned and walked away. It was time to move on. Time to put it all behind him. It was better this way. He started to collect all the memories that contained John and put them in a specialized room. He had never attempted to delete this large of a collection before and realized he might have to adjust his normal procedure. He was so occupied by these thoughts that he didn't notice the middle aged woman following him. He didn't realize he was in a dangerous situation until a van screeched to a halt beside him. He stepped away quickly, but he didn't get far when something pierced his lower back and some eighty thousand volts surged through his body. His head jerked back and every muscle in his body spasmed painfully. A grunt was ripped from his mouth as star bursts exploded behind his closed eyelids. Just when he thought it was never going to end it did and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground. A thick humming noise filled his ears and he didn't hear the voices or van door slamming shut behind him once he was dumped on the floor. He panted weakly as residual spasms racked his body. He couldn't even think of opening his eyes...actually couldn't even remember how to do that. The humming followed him into darkness.

(!)(!)(!)

A sharp kick to his ribs jolted him painfully back to consciousness. Trying to gasp for air, he panicked when he realized that something was blocking his airway. Jerking his head back to hopefully remove himself from whatever was blocking his mouth, his teeth clamped onto something rubbery and a few more moments of adrenaline fueled fear passed before he could calm enough to evaluate his situation. His wrists and elbows were tied behind his back, pulling his shoulders back painfully. He was stripped of his Belstaff and jacket. A large ball gag kept his mouth wide open and he could feel his hair caught in the clasp. A quick jerk confirmed that his ankles were also tied together. He tried to blink away the darkness but quickly realized it was nighttime and there were no streetlamps nearby. The stars above him were rocking to and fro and he idly wondered how much electricity he was hit with. He let his eyes rove the extent of his peripheral vision to take in his surroundings until he zeroed in on the middle aged woman leaning against the railing.

Her arms were crossed across her chest and her head was tipped back to stare at the night sky. One hand reached up and plucked the burning cigarette from her mouth, flicking the ash loose over the railing. Sherlock finally identified the noises he was hearing as water lapping against something. He was on a boat somewhere. The woman's head tilted back down to look at him and he searched his memory for the familiar face. Raising an eyebrow, the woman took a drag on the cigarette again before speaking.

"Give it a moment, it'll come back to you."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze and looked over her figure, the minute details all adding together to give him a more complete picture of the person that kidnapped him. Identification came to him suddenly with mental klaxons. Judith Whibley, 49 years old, widowed, Starbucks store manager, mother of Cassandra Whibley, daughter dead by serial rapist, fifth and last victim, four and a half years ago.

"Ah, there's the connection. It's been a while Mr. Holmes. Thought I had forgotten about you?"

Sherlock could remember their last interaction clearly. When she had to identify her daughter's body, she had confronted him, screaming and railing about why he didn't save her daughter. Why the great Sherlock Holmes didn't find the rapist fast enough to save her baby. He had felt back then that he should have worked harder, been quicker. It was such a close call, she passed away a mere twenty minutes before they found her. John assured him it wasn't his fault. Grieving mothers will say anything in their desperation to blame someone for the unthinkable. Sherlock had gone home, unable to sleep for four days until John finally drugged him.

"You let my baby die. Left her to die at that monster's hands because she wasn't important enough for you. I thought you had gotten what you deserved when you jumped off that building."

He jerked against his bindings, searching for some way to get himself loose or free. This was not going to end well for him.

"Imagine my shock and fury when you appeared on the telly. How dare you survive...living happily ever after when you discarded my baby girl." Still clutching the smouldering stub she jabbed her index finger at the captive detective. "I knew then that I had to make you suffer. Make you feel the terror that my baby must have felt in her last moments," she said, flicking the spent cigarette over the edge.

Sherlock continued struggling, grunting against the gag.

"Time for you to take a dip, Mr. Holmes."

Fear seized in Sherlock's chest as Whibley pushed away from the railing and moved towards him. She knelt next to him and started pushing him along, slowly nearing the lowered edge of the boat. Sherlock started thrashing, lashing out as much as he could given his bindings. He knew if he went into the water, it was all over. He wouldn't be able to keep himself afloat for long. He might be able to for a bit...but not long enough to get himself loose. A small part of Sherlock railed that this was when he needed John. This is where John should appear and save Sherlock's arse. But he wouldn't be coming this time.

He tried to hook his feet around anything he could reach. Tried to knock Whibley away, hoping she might crack her head open or fall in the water herself and drown. Something, anything. He did manage to land a few knee jabs and headbutts but he was still progressively moving towards the edge of the boat. Just as Whibley took a deep breath and gave one final huge push, Sherlock took a deep breath and felt the deck disappear from under him. The cold water shocked his system and he sealed his lips around the ball gag to retain all the oxygen he could. Pressing his legs together, he rolled his hips and legs in a wave and managed to break through the surface. Gasping for air before he sank back under, he saw Whibley standing there, watching him with cold eyes. Water washed over his face again as he continued struggling to get himself loose.

His muscles began to tire and his lungs burned as he sank deeper. He didn't expect it would end like this. He suddenly thought of Lestrade and Mycroft. Lestrade would be called first, once they fished his body from the water. Mycroft would be called so a family member could officially identify the body. God, Molly would have to do the autopsy. His autopsy. Water in his lungs would indicate that he was alive when he went into the water. Testing the water would confirm it was fresh water he drowned in; chemically identical to the Thames.

His transport's instincts took over and he sucked in water through his nose, needing and expecting oxygen. The water burned as it flooded his nasal passages and rushed into his lungs. His body spasmed, trying to eject the liquid and obtain the air it needed.

Darkness came quickly after that.