Rooftop

noun-

the outer surface of a building's roof.


An involuntary shiver rattled Sherlock's bones. He drew his wooly blanket closer around him, clenching his hands.

His blasted hands wouldn't stop shaking…

A cold London breeze buffeted him from all sides. Sherlock scooted, so the air duct behind him sheltered him from the worst wind. He eyed the overcast sky, trying to judge whether the gray clouds we're preparing to release their payload. If so, Sherlock decided, you would have to sit through it.

A little rain was worth not having to return to the boiling pot of pity, and sickening tears below. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would work all his escape earlier in the day and bring an umbrella. Best not to get high hopes he thought, with a sigh.

He had extracted a promise to let him know when all the crocodiles have left. Sherlock had encouraged the gathering from the start, completely disregarding Mycroft's warning but it might not be a good idea. He had invited them all himself, searching out old friends and relatives of… John's. He had done it all, hoping that it would help. That if he was surrounded by people who knew John, who felt Sherlock's pain, he would find a fragile sort of peace.

But when the time came, and Baker Street started filling with dark suits, and weeping women, Sherlock was hit with the reality of just how many people John had touched in his life. Ex-soldiers huddled around the sofa, co-workers milled around the kitchen table, acquaintances chatted by the fireplace. The last straw for Sherlock had been Mike Stamford, searching him out - and with a forlorn face, clapping his hands and muttering, " I'm sorry Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't understand why, but that had caused a lump to rise in his throat, and the room suddenly seemed very crowded and small. He escaped to the roof, with a candle and some matches. On his way, he had been stopped by Mrs. Hudson with the knowing look in her eye. She had handed him a blanket and hugged Sherlock tightly.

So he was, hiding away from the mourners below. Reduced to shivering against an air duct.

"It's your own fault," a voice that sounded suspiciously like John's whispered.

"Ah no…" Sherlock buried his head in his blanket. " Not now, please."

Sherlock could practically feel John's sympathetic grimace, and a slap on the back he cursed his brain, having studied John so frequently in the past, he was now anticipating John's every action.

"Stop it…" He moaned clasping his head in his hands.

"You can't just shut your brain off." John pointed out.

A violent tremor shook sherlock's hands, causing him to snarl in frustration. A red flower on a wool jumper bloomed across his vision.

He stood, dumping his blanket onto the concrete.

"Yes, I can." He said the empty roof.

He eyed the ledge, taking a step towards it.

"Sherlock?..." John murmured worriedly.

He just wanted it to go away. The blood was still seeping into the corners of his vision. Sharp tears pricked the corners of his eyes, as the wind whipped his dark curls around his face. He approached the edge.

"Stop it, Sherlock!" John said urgently.

He took in a deep breath and raised up his right foot…

"Sherlock!" John's cry inside his head mingled with a deeper, familiar voice.

Sherlock spun around in shock and saw Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson all jogging over to him.

"What do you think you're doing mate?" Greg asked.

Sherlock glanced at Molly's wide eyes, and at Mrs. Hudson- whose hand had flown to her face in shock.

"I-I was just… I was looking…" Sherlock stammered, gesticulating at the ground below.

Lestrade's silvery eyebrow rose.

"Oh… Alright then…"

Greg Lestrade tread lightly over to the taller man, who appeared to be shrinking by the second.

It was moments like these that reminded Lestrade that Sherlock was really human

"Come on Mate. Let's go inside."

Greg wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder and guided the shuffling man towards the fire escape.

"Wait, wait." Sherlock tore himself away and strode over to his blanket.

He extracted his small candle and matches from the bundle. Sherlock avoided everybody's eyes as he said,

"It's something my family does when someone dies a wrongful death. Superstitious, preposterous really… but it's supposed to ease the spirit on…"

There was a moment of silence on the roof, whilst London bustled about without a care.

"Well go on then." Mrs. Hudson sniffled.

He knelt and carefully laid the candle on the ground, and extracted a match. Sherlock tried once, twice, to light the match, but his shaking fingers prevented him.

"Shite." He cursed.

Small, warm hands wrapped around his own, keeping them steady enough to strike the match. The flame shimmered and danced, and Sherlock looked up into Molly's sad brown eyes. When their eyes met, Molly let go and backed away. Sherlock tried to smile at her but failed with a grimace.

Sherlock lit the candle's wick, and carefully picked it up, grasping the sides tightly so as not to drop it. He shook out the match with one hand and laid it and the lighted candle on a waist high slab of concrete, which was adjacent to the air duct.

He, of course, was making an exception to the rules, but he didn't tell the others that. You were supposed to place the candle at the spot of death, as a vessel for the soul- but, Sherlock thought, I'm sure John wouldn't mind if we're a floor above.

Sherlock had been avoiding his flat at all costs for the past four days since John was murdered. he would've left Baker Street altogether if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson. he frequently heard her crying every night from his air mattress, which she had kindly allowed him to set up in her office. Sherlock hadn't been able to bring himself to do anything, not even assist Mycroft in the hunt for Moran. He had ignored the many calls from his sibling in favor of hiding away, and counting down the days. In Sherlock's grief filled mind, everything centered around the funeral. He would find Moran as soon as John's body was put to rest. Moran would pay dearly for what he had done. Then… Moriarty.

That thought was what had propelled him out of bed, this cold London morning. The funeral was tomorrow, and Sherlock, mentally prepared or not, would be there.

The candle sputtered out, snapping Sherlock out of his daze. He puzzled for a moment why, as the harsh wind had died down considerably. Then, a large fat raindrop landed on his nose, answering his unasked question for him.

Molly quietly took his hand, while Lestrade grabbed the candle and blanket.

"Let's go warm you up," Molly said softly.

Next chapter will be very soon, I've already written most of it. Shoutouts to Melodyofsong526,TrustNoOne182, Percy James Frost, Josette, and Pick me as your beta for all your kind, and encouraging reviews! Thanks! And if anybody is interested, I've created a roleplaying forum called House of Fandom. It's a multi-fandom roleplay, and we still have a ton of characters open, you should come check it out! Happy New year!