Quick note: Your comments are amazing! Keep commenting I love it! Oh and have a bit of Hamish fluff...just to...help with your feelings a bit.

Keep commenting! I want to know what you think and love and want to see out of this story! Tell me!

"Mycroft?" John asked, slipping into the quietest place he could find. The people he was staying with were a contact of Mycroft's, John suspected family members, and were very loud. They kept saying he reminded them of a kangaroo, the way he jumped when he saw a snake. John was really not enjoying his time in Australia. The sweat trailed it's itchy finger down his spine, pooling over a bandage on his right hip. An injury given to him by a large man with a beard and a stick, that would reward him with a scar that resembled a heart.

"John." Mycroft whispered, his voice nearly drown out by the sounds of what seemed to be an E.R. "You have a plane to get on."

"What? I thought I was heading to Ireland next week!" John hissed, watching a child with dark curls and bright blue eyes run past him. Said child turned, giving him the signature 'A Holmes is judging you' look over, before his face broke into a satisfied smirk. The child looked so much like Sherlock John thought his heart stopped.

"You are coming to London, temporarily." Mycroft replied, his tone forcing John to breath again. Th doctor's entire head spiraled, and he started to stumble. Catching his left foot on his right, he ended up heading face first towards a brick wall. Thanks only to his fast reflexes he caught himself on the wall, just before his face connected, and rested his forehead on the cooling stone.

"Why?"

"Sherlock's...gotten into a bit of trouble." Mycroft mumbled, sounding almost embarrassed. Judging by his next sentence, John figured he probably was. "If it were Gregory in that room I'd want you to call me, I'm simply doing the...human...thing." John chuckled darkly at how completely disgusted Mycroft sounded with himself. Then his mind ran through fifteen and a half different situations that could have happened to Sherlock, all of them ending with some sort of mortal wound.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Hypothermia."

"How?"

"He turned the heat off during a snow storm."

"It's March!" John said, breaking out of his daze. Without him Sherlock really was going to end up killing himself, accidentally. "Why'd he turn the heat off?"

"Yes, I know it's March. Thank you, doctor." Mycroft bit out coldly, but John sensed the underlying worry. He was Sherlock's older brother after all, he probably blamed himself for everything that happened to his younger sibling. John knew he blamed himself for Harry, and she was older. "And we have no idea, yet, what caused my brilliant younger brother to try and turn himself into an ice block."

"Right, so sending a car?"

"I am sending Bian to bring you to the plane, then the hospital."

"Who the hell is Bian?"

"I believe she called herself Anthea the first time you met." Mycroft said, and John could feel the smirk on the other mans face through the phone. Seconds later a car pulled up, and Antha-or Bian- stepped out elegantly as ever. She was dressed in her to-tight-to-be-considered-appropriate dress suit, and waved a hand at John. Instead of staring at her phone like she usually did, she was actually looking at him, and her unfairly beautiful face was tainted with worry. "See you soon, John."

"Bian today?" John asked as he made his way over to Anthea-Bian, and she nodded solemnly. She'd shown more emotion to him the last time they met also, so he assumed she knew everything that's happened on his little mission so far. Before he could make it to the car the tiny version of Sherlock stopped him, forcing him to look down by waving his thin arms.

"You're a doctor?" Tiny Sherlock asked, his voice still high and childlike. His tone was anything but, he had said the words as a question, but it sounded far more like a statement. When John nodded the boy smiled the perfect 'I'm a genius Holmes' smile and clapped his hands together, looking frightfully like Sherlock. "Thought so. You're also from the army, and you're British. Your Irish accent is very good, though. Your hair is died black,and you don't like it." The boy flew into his deductions like a bat out of hell, and John's face cracked into a smile before he could help it.

"All of that's true, yes, very good." John said, trying his hardest not to sound like a condescending art teacher who was attempting to make you feel better about your clay vessels.

"Of course it is, I figured it all out." The boy attempted to look offended at his brilliance being underestimated, but John recognized the underlying satisfaction at his compliments. It seemed all Holmes had that weakness. "Your here for something important. What? I don't know. She works for the British Government, which means Mycroft. So you work for him? No. No! You're helping him, because you aren't clever enough to work for him, but you are smart enough to assist him in something. Important by the looks of your phone."

"Where are your parents?" John broke in, trying to fight down the happiness in his gut for having some one so much like Sherlock near. The real, true and full sized Sherlock needed him now.

"Don't have any." The boy waved a hand in dismissal, and continued staring at John. "You have to be somewhere right now, you look worried. A friend? No, the look on your face is more...lovey dovey. Wife? No, no ring, no wife. No girlfriend either, you haven't even looked at her twice and she's very pretty. Your blushing now, so you agree but...but your in love! That's who you're worried about!...And in love with a man if the part of your phone call I over heard is correct."

"That's...amazing." John mumbled, looking in unbridled astonishment at the boy. He was Sherlock, a tiny, hyper version of Sherlock. "Who are you?"

"Hamish Holson." The boy said proudly, then his face faltered the tiniest amount. "I used to be anyways..."

"Not a Holmes?"

"No, but they are putting me through my schooling. Mycroft has paid for private tutors for as long as I can remember."

"John.." Bian whispered, and when he looked up he saw the soft, satisfied smile on her face. He'd missed something, he could feel it. "We have to go..." When Hamish's face fell into a disappointed pout she laughed, patting his dusty curls. "He'll be coming back...and I have a feeling you'll be seeing him a lot later on." Her voice held a conspiratorial tone, but John tried to ignore it. He had to get to Sherlock, even if it was only for a second, even if he couldn't tell the genius he was there.

He had to see him, now more then ever.

John tapped incessantly on the leather arm rest of the black car, looking out tinted windows as Bian typed away on her phone. "Almost there, stop that." She commanded, her face still set in that 'I know something you don't' grin she had hours before, when they left Australia. And Hamish.

"How old is he?" John asked suddenly, unable to keep the questions out of his mind. Something about the young boy had pulled at John, and now he was second place for the things that never left John Watson's mind shanty. "Hamish, how old?"

"9 and a half, 10 in September." She replied, and he didn't see, but her smile grew. John also didn't see the text she sent to her boss, and he'd never know about the smile that crossed Mycroft's face when he got it.

'Meeting with Hamish successful.' Is what it said, and that was the only thing that could control the guilt the elder Holmes felt. The only truly good and bright thing that may come out of this entire ridiculous adventure is that he could find Hamish a home. Mycroft will never admit it but he had a soft spot for the look alike of his younger brother, and for the army Doctor. His love, though shown in admittedly odd ways, for his brother was undeniable, and he wanted them all to be happy. The British Government did have a heart, after all.

Sherlock's fingers ached, like they'd been dipped in a bucket of melting snow. His pinky toe on his left foot wouldn't move, and the atomic bomb of a head ache in his head made him curse this world more then ever before. He'd been injured before, but this felt more like he'd been dropped on his head into a bucket of ice. He attempted to open his eyes, but was attacked by bright lights, and suddenly became aware of the gagging sent of antiseptic. Cracking one eye barely open he tried his best to catalog his surroundings.

Boring off white walls, dull cream ceiling, horrid bed. Hospital then. Next Sherlock moved onto himself, flexing each part of his body to deduce his injury. He always forgot, when he ended up here, what it was that got him here. Fingers all moving, no obvious wounds to torso or legs. Feet still cold, cannot move left pinky toe, or right second and third toes. Head ache, excessive blankets on body, heat elevated in room. Hypothermia! Room empty, television off, high end heart monitor. Mycroft got me here. Sherlock let out a hefty sigh, only to discover his lungs horribly dry and his lips chapped so bad they bled when he moved them. Blindly he stretched out a shaking hand, pawing at the bedside table for the water glass that usually sat there. After a moment a room temperature plastic cup was pressed to his weak hand and he had to use both hands to hold it over his chest, afraid to drop it over himself. Scooting slowly, and awkwardly without use of his hands, into something akin to a sitting position he sipped slowly at the liquid. It ran down his sandy throat, coating his tongue in blessed water. After a long moment of reveling in the art of water on his dry tonsils, he decided he'd attempt to open his eyes again.

Sherlock was rewarded with an assault to his pupils, then whoever it was that was assigned to babysitting him was kind enough to rush over and turn the room lights off. Now the area was bathed in the dimming light of a March sunset, and that was dim enough for the genius to be able to observe his surroundings. Two chairs sat by the side of his bed, one occupied by Lestrade, the other by an umbrella.

"Making a phone call." Lestrade whispered, catching Sherlock's confused stare at the empty chair. Some childlike part of his brain felt what some would call hurt at the absence of his older brother at the moment he woke up. Curse human emotions, they served no purpose. "Again..." The DI sighed, shaking his head like an old housewife, already tired of arguing over something. Sherlock knew that look, John used to have it whenever Sherlock yelled something like 'Damn those thumbs!' or 'Mrs. Hudson, stop throwing away my scalp samples!' They were looks of fondness, acceptance, and love.

Some part of Sherlock's mind that knew social norms threw up the fact he should be happy for his brother and friend, seeing true love like that should make someone smile. It only made Sherlock ache deep inside his empty, freezing chest. He nearly found happiness in the fact Moriarty had been somewhat wrong.

Not having John didn't burn his heart out, it froze his entire being. It ripped his emotions to shreds, and created ice in every nook and cranny where depression didn't loom. Sherlock did, in fact, find happiness in the fact it'd all be over soon, and he'd be able to end all this ridiculous sentimental pain.

That was certainly one thing, maybe the only thing, he'd never argue with his older brother about: Caring was not an advantage.

"You look like hell on a stick." Lestrade broke into Sherlock's thoughts, trying to bring the detective back to Earth. The man's entire body looked defeated, like he'd finally accepted that he lost, and he could never win again. The far away look in Sherlock's gunmetal grey eyes startled the DI; he looked helpless, hopeless, and like he was about to die.

"Thank you, that's very comforting." Sherlock grumbled, slumping against the pillows and pouting the best he could with his chapped lips. Lestrade laughed half-heartidly, placing two pills on Sherlock's lap.

"For the headache the nurse said you'd be getting, told me to give them to you when you woke up." Greg explained, shrugging one shoulder as he got up to refill the plastic glass. "You've been out for nearly a day now, I didn't think Hypothermia worked that way."

"I'm exceptional in everything I do." Sherlock replied, taking the offered glass and the pills. He tossed the pills onto his tongue and chased them down with a shot of water. "Even falling ill." Lestrade barked a laugh at that, plopping back in the uncomfortable chair, and another one of those cursed sentimental notions rose up in Sherlock's consciousness. "You shouldn't have to stay here, you look rather awful yourself."

"Mhm, well Myc asked me to stay." Lestrade shrugged again, looking like a tired dog as he eyed Sherlock. "And even if he didn't...I would. You might not like it, but I'm your friend and your stuck with me." It was Sherlock's turn to laugh, even if it tore his lips open, because Lestrade was trying. The human part of Sherlock had broken through every barrier he'd put it behind when John fell, and he was seeing everything just a bit differently. This tired man sitting near him was not John, he could never be, but he was a friend. He'd watched Sherlock bow to drugs, watched the genius tear himself apart to serve his master high, and he'd watched Sherlock retch his guts out when he detoxed. He'd thrown drug dealers in prison, risking his entire career to make sure Sherlock could share his genius with this world. Lestrade was one of the few good men Sherlock had ever met, and he certainly didn't deserve all that was given to him.

Sherlock smiled for the DI because he knew he was about to throw another rock in the man's path; give him another reason to curse this world at night. His lips stung and cracked, but he gave a genuine smile to Gregory Lestrade, knowing it may be the last chance he has to do so. Two weeks and he'd be smiling for no one, because the one man he smiled for had left him.

Twenty minutes of idle chit chat partnered with long silences passed before Mycroft finally walked back in. Sherlock noticed immediately the look of self blame his brother wore, layered with a look of what a fool may call hope. But Mycroft Holmes did not hope, and Sherlock was no fool, so he named it smugness and threw it in the cavern dedicated to Mycroft in his mind.

"Feeling better, dear brother?" Mycroft asked, keeping his voice quiet so it wouldn't attack Sherlock's vibrating senses. He looked cold and distant as ever when he sat, one leg over the other and the umbrella balanced on his knee, but Sherlock read between the lines, like the Holmes family always did. Floating near Mycroft's agitated pinky tapping was 'I failed, I should've done better for you.' And dancing at the tip of a scuff mark on his shoe, were he drug it across the floor-a nervous habit he couldn't kick- was 'Not again brother, I'll fix it.' Beside the coffee stain on his collar stood, in block lettering, 'I'll protect you, no matter what.' And near the twitch of his mouth, under the sleepless bags beneath his eyes flashed, in bright white letters, 'I am sorry. To the moon and back, I am sorry. '

Sherlock saw all of this in seconds, and Mycroft saw Sherlock seeing all of it, and they lock eyes: Cold, pained, dead eyed grey and hard, nearly emotionless blue pinned together with bounds of unfathomable loving hatred. Mycroft was showing more then usual, allowing Sherlock to see the words he couldn't speak, and they both knew it. Only one knew why, though.

"Not in the least." Sherlock grumbled, voice still embarrassingly hoarse. "What was your phone call about?"

"Nothing you'd be remotely interested in." Mycroft said, taking Greg's wrist in his hand so he could see the man's watch. "Gregory needs to go home, he hasn't slept in days. You are nearly asleep where you sit, Sherlock, I think it'd be in your best interest to rest."

"I don't need sleep-"

"Oh shut up and lay down." Mycroft groaned, exasperation clear in his tone. Lestrade smiled at the shift in vocabulary his fiance took when Sherlock got difficult, and stood to do just what the man had said. "There is a car waiting outside."

"Good night." Sherlock flopped backwards onto the bed dramatically, pulling the covers all the way up to his nose. Lestrade and Mycroft moved towards the door, turning back to see disheveled dark curls sticking up comically and bright eyes narrowed in a scathing glare, over the white blanket. Lestrade chuckled, and Mycroft gave an annoying smirk as they left a very peeved Sherlock. Adding to his annoyance was the fact the moment his head hit the pillow he couldn't force his eye lids to remain open, and he was quickly, and reluctantly, following his brothers advice.

John thought his heart broke when he heard Sherlock scream his name as he plummeted to his 'death'. He thought it broke when he watched the strongest man he knew run out of his funeral, nearly in tears. He even mistook the moment Sherlock said 'It's been an honor, Captain,' has the time his heart fell to pieces. No, none of those were the true moment John Watson's heart broke, because now the doctor was discovering true heartbreak wasn't seeing someone in pain and not being able to do something. No, it was seeing someone you loved, someone you'd really jump off a roof for, lying right at your fingertips and being unable to do a damn thing.

Sherlock was curled tightly in a cocoon of blankets, John could only see fluffy curls and closed eyes under all of them. His legs were pulled near his chest, and he was facing the chair John sat in. In a word, the consulting detective was absolutely, illogically, terribly adorable. Tragically beautiful in everything he did, from talking to walking to deducing, John never thought he'd call Sherlock Holmes adorable. The man moved with the elegance of a cat, grace of a dove, and beauty of disproportion and oddity, nothing about that equaled adorable.

But John saw the small pout on the mans sleeping lips as he shifted the blanket off his face as he tossed and turned in the bed and his heart ached to touch him. He wanted to wipe the sadness that seemed carved in Sherlock's face away, and wrap his arms around him. He wanted to kiss that annoyingly cute pout off the mans lip, whether the action be welcome or not, and tell him it would all be normal now. They'd go back to baker street, and continue in their imperfect little life.

Except he couldn't, and they wouldn't, and that hurt like hell.

The room was drenched in cotton silence, darkness wrapping it's secretive arms around the two men. They were alone now, together again at last. The perfect, improbable, team of doctor and sociopath; of a man renowned for his brain and a man adored for his heart. A panther and a wolf, at odds with each other every moment, but somehow completing each other. Though fate had a sick, psychopathic sense of humor because this perfect team was only a step apart, but kept away with an iron wall of lies.

To Sherlock John was dead, gone forever. To John Sherlock was untouchable, unreachable. Two people who could save each other now, could end a life times worth of suffering with a simple word, a touch, kept from each other by a criminals game. If this were a fairy tail, Sherlock would wake up now, see John sitting there and tackle him to the floor. He'd pin the doctor down and hug him until he couldn't breath, then kiss him until his senses got confused. There would be a wedding and bells and white roses, and golden letters spelling out The End.

Except this isn't a fairy tail, this is a concoction of tragedy and action, love and mystery, lies and Lorazepam. So Sherlock won't tackle John, and wedding bells will not chase out ending credits as a cheesy song plays, they will both continue falling into blackness without each other. Pining and wishing, waiting and hoping, counting and crying until the day Moriarty's cursed web falls to rubble.

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin as he tried to soak in this moment. To memorize every curve and shadow of Sherlock's face, every twist and bend in his curls, every sigh and mumble coming from his lips once again. John had no idea when he'd get to see the man again, and he wasn't going to let this devils gift pass by without something to show for it. Even if that something was an image in his mind, it was all he needed. All he wanted, right then and there.

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, slowly coming back to the world. It was still dark, but he could see the early morning light beginning to arrive. Slowly he peeled his heavy eye lids open, blinking to make out the figures in the room. One tall and lean, except for the round belly poking from his mid half. The other short and stalk, with well defined muscles and an ugly jumper. Mycroft and John he came up with in his dazed sleep, and a second later his entire body went rigid. Both men went silent, and then there was a crash, but Sherlock couldn't move. The foot falls of someone running echoed in the empty halls, but still Sherlock was frozen.

No, it was impossible! John was dead. Dead, gone, passed, never coming back. Sherlock saw him jump from the roof, he saw the blood, he saw his blank glassy eyes. John is dead. It was probably just a doctor or nurse who looked strangely like the fallen army doctor. A lot like him, same hair, same height, same build, with notably more muscles now, but still. It was John.

No, don't be an idiot. It couldn't be John, why would he have stayed gone for so long? No, John was dead, he wouldn't leave Sherlock alone this long by choice. John jumped off hat building! John broke his skull on that pavement! John took his own life July 7th, Sherlock knew it. He knew he saw John lying dead on those cold stones.

Or did he?

Sherlock's breathing was erratic as the world spun around him, distantly he registered his brothers voice and frantic nurses. He couldn't more or reply, just shake and wheeze as the horrible memory pulled his broken mind into it's embrace.

He stood in the center of a frozen street, watching himself talk on the phone. Suddenly he saw the other him stop, and look to the skyline. Blue eyes halted on one roof in particular, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to turn and verify what he already knew. Everything was deathly silent, but he knew exactly the words being said. He watched his face go from surprise to denial, then desperation. 'No, no John. Shut up! You're being an idiot again.' That's what he was saying now, and he watched as the tears cracked in his eyes, falling over his cheeks. He watched himself hold a shaking hand into the air, and he knew John was doing the same behind him. Some eerie part of Sherlock's mind supplied john's voice, traced through the street like wind.

'Hole me one last time.' It said and suddenly Sherlock realized that's what they'd been doing. From so far away they were reaching for one another, holding each other one last time, knowing they were about to loose their love...No, their soul mate. Sherlock watched himself drop the phone, and he watched his entire face transform into a shell shocked mask as his lips formed the last shout John ever heard.

'John!' He watched himself run across the street, and get hit by the biker, and now he began backing away. He couldn't watch this, not the moment he found John. He couldn't relive that, no. Not again, never again!

"Not again!" He whispered to himself, rocketing from the images hiding his mind. Nurses were trying to hold down his thrashing limbs, and his breath was still to quick for comfort. His chest burst with fire as it heaved in each short breath, shaking him to the core. Now he stared at the ceiling, every part of his body shaking violently as nurses and doctors kept shouting. Asking what happened, if he was known to have panic attacks, and to keep him under watch. Mycroft answered all of these, and the minutes passed by as Sherlock kept an unwavering gaze on the ceiling tiles.

Sherlock didn't see John, he couldn't have. It was impossible, and he couldn't believe in miracles anymore. His miracle had fallen off a roof.