I hope at least a few of you are freaking out, otherwise I haven't done a very good job... :)

That gave him two hours. John locked himself into his bedroom and began to prepare.

He put on his best pair of trousers, and his best button-up shirt. He pulled a nice jacket over that, and ran a comb through his hair.

He then exited his room and stopped at his laptop. He opened and unlocked both files, then printed them out. He folded them neatly and placed them in envelopes.

One he left blank, while the other he paused, and then wrote "Sherlock". He put both inside his jacket, and then grabbed a slice of bread.

Checking the time he saw that it was only 3:45. He began to pick up the flat a little, not wanting to leave too much to Mrs. Hudson.

At 4:23 he strode down stairs. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson was down there. He took her gently by the shoulders and folded her into a hug.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much."

She smiled up at him. "For what, dear?" she asked.

"Everything." And he strode out the door.

John took a cab to St. Barts. The only think that kept him from turning back were the locked doors of the cab. At last he reached the hospital.

He still had thirty minutes to kill, so he paid the driver, being quite generous in his tip. He strode around the back of the hospital.

Everywhere he looked papers were plastered to the walls with Sherlock's face on them. The walls were tagged with phrases such as "I believe in Sherlock" and "He's not dead." John was both proud and ashamed of his followers. Indeed, they had more hope than him on days like today.

John at last located the fire escape and took to the stairs barely realizing his cane was still lying on his bed inside 221B.

He climbed for twenty minutes before reaching the roof. John surveyed the scene before him.

The roof had been thouroughly cleaned, and he had actually had to jump a gate at the top of the stairs.

The hospital had stopped taking chances. No more suicides. They had promised. But, thought John bitterly, most promises weren't kept.

He stepped forward cautiously, overcome by waves of emotion. He kept walking until he came to about the center of the roof.

He shuddered at the dark stain on the cement. How long had Jim lain there before his body was removed?

John gave it a wide berth and stepped to the edge of the roof. The view was beautiful, and somewhere within him, beneath the pain and the fear, John felt that he could fly.

He looked over the edge, at the beautiful city. Sherlock's beautiful city. John often had to remind himself just how many acquaintances the man had known.

How many people were indebted to him. Would do anything to help him. John also knew how many enemies he had made.

Was this how Sherlock had felt? Looking at the city, wanting to fly? After all, falling and flying were very similar to each other.

So lost in thought was John, that he didn't hear the gate at the top of the stairs open and swing shut again.

John checked the time. 4:56. It was time. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered, and spread his arms.