"Maybe there's a God above

But all I've ever learned from love

Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you."

― Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah

...

"Be kind, aim for my heart."

― Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers

...

The Falling Tower

…

The black Mercedes rapidly devoured the rain-slicked road. Sherlock shifted in the back and stared out at the soaking Northern countryside. The drive to Yorkshire from London was long, and on this particular afternoon, very dreary.

Mycroft, only a foot away from Sherlock, occupying the other seat in the back of the cab, kept his silence. Thank god for that, at least, Sherlock thought.

The call had come in the middle of the night. Dazed from sleep, Sherlock had not immediately understood Mycroft's words. When his brother had announced a death in the family, Sherlock's mind had immediately jumped to his Uncle Rudy. The man had been on death's door for years; surely, if anyone was going to bite it, it would be eccentric, yet lovable Rudy. Sherlock felt a pang in his heart, but it was alright, he had been mentally preparing himself for his Uncle's death.

But it wasn't Uncle Rudy. Uncle Rudy was well, and would be attending the funeral the next day.

When the meaning of Mycroft's words registered, Sherlock had to run to the bathroom. He made himself abstain from crying, and instead took a forty minute shower.

His mother was still vibrant, in her early sixties. She should have had another good decade, at least. It had come in the night for her, a heart attack.

Maybe, if Sherlock cared, he could have focused his attention on her, spent more time with her, and observed her. He might have been able to spot the signs early and get her to a cardiologist. But Sherlock, the selfish child, did not pay her any attention. And in fact, on every visit with his parents, he made it a point to conduct the visit as swiftly as possible.

Now there would be no more visits from Mum.

The awfulness of his guilt tore at his gut.

His father, all alone now in that family house, what would become of him?

Sherlock, can I come with you? When Potter had woken up that morning, Sherlock shortly and professionally briefed the wizard on the situation. The wizard had offered to go and accompany Sherlock. Would he try to hold his hand during the funeral? Maybe not, but it was still easy for Sherlock to refuse.

No need, I don't think it would be appropriate. Like a wounded animal, Sherlock sought solace in being alone. He wanted to take the long train ride to Yorkshire with only his thoughts for company. Mycroft, of course, insisted on driving.

…

Sherlock stayed in Yorkshire through the next day. He took up his temporary residence in his childhood bedroom. On Mycroft's advice (otherwise known as a threat) he did his best to be civil to visiting relations, who were all gathering for the funeral.

Those few days Sherlock felt completely empty. He knew there was a wave coming for him, and he wasn't sure when it would crash on the shore, but he was glad to keep it together in front of his father, and Mycroft.

His father was a different story.

The man was so obviously heartbroken it was a wonder he could still breathe and walk around. Sherlock felt so much pity for the man, and something else. Something very small, yet growing, every time he looked at his father. Do I want to end up like that?

The funeral was arranged and executed without Sherlock's help. In all, it had been elegant, and completely impersonal. After the service, Sherlock's distant relations had begun dispersing. Soon enough, it was only Mycroft and his father left.

Once it was only the three of them, the wave of pain that Sherlock knew was coming for him started breaching. Mycroft could tell immediately.

Sherlock, like many adults on the younger side, had not yet seriously considered the death of his parents. And his mother's death was causing Sherlock to dry heave into a sink.

And what will happen once Potter's had enough of you? Or if he disappears? What will happen to you then? Would Sherlock resemble his father, who shuffled, seemingly lost in his own house, and looked on the verge of death himself? Sherlock had always considered the phrase 'died of a broken heart' very trite, but now, seeing the effect loss had on his father, it was not trite at all but seemed quite accurate.

Sherlock couldn't let that happen to himself. He had become vulnerable, and it was a mistake. One which, fortunately, could be remedied.

What had it been, that his older brother was so fond of saying?

All lives end, all hearts are broken. Observing his grief-stricken father, Sherlock now finally understood the horrible truth of those words. They do indeed, Mycroft.

The older brother, perhaps taking pity on Sherlock, or perhaps not wanting him in the way, dismissed Sherlock. He had nowhere to go but Baker Street.

...

When he returned to London, Sherlock found that the easiest thing to do was seek solace in his lover's arms. He found himself doing exactly that; he was more possessive, more demanding of the wizard than ever. Harry, to his credit, didn't seem particularly bothered and lavished affection on Sherlock whenever he demanded it.

The awful dreams, however, only got worse.

After a few nightmares that left Sherlock shaking and on the verge of tears, which he would not let fall, Sherlock decided he would simply not sleep.

After several days of this sleep-abstinence, the wizard became very concerned. Harry thought that the Goetic episode, where Sherlock's mad drawings had come to life in their flat and almost possessed him, was still playing a part and wreaking havoc on the detective's mind.

Sherlock knew this was not the case. His nightmares, his labyrinth crumbling, all this started before he was introduced to Ars Goetia. However, he let the wizard point a wand at his temple. A soft light emitted, and Sherlock oddly felt like he was being subjected to a rather short MRI scan.

When the spell had been completed, Harry's knit brows were resolved.

All clear, the wizard announced.

But Sherlock did not feel that way. There was so much churning inside of him, one thing building on another, that he felt like he was bursting at the seams. The tower would come crashing down any minute now. And of course, the lack of sleep wasn't helping.

…

The final straw had come quickly on the heels of the funeral.

It was evening, and Sherlock was feeling particularly tumultuous. The iron-grip facade of the impartial, cool detective was slipping from him, and what was he without his mask?

In such cases, it had become the norm for Sherlock to seek contact with his lover. But this evening, something was different. Harry didn't want to. Wasn't in the mood.

Sherlock sulked. Surely the wizard was well within his rights to refuse his advances on occasion. He tried telling himself over and over that there was nothing to it.

What could he deduce?

Nothing, save that Harry seemed tired, restless, thinking no doubt about imprisoned Snape, or poisoned Weasley, or maybe Granger, who was putting herself in danger.

Sherlock attempted to pry, but it did no good. Sometimes, Harry shut down like a steel box, and no amount of logic or sentiment could evince the wizard's thoughts out of his head.

Sherlock sulked more. It was becoming rather obvious to him that he needed the wizard much more than the wizard needed him. There was a power imbalance.

The sulk deepened, the bitterness came up like bile in his throat. The rejection from Potter was tying itself to the raw pain of loss. All of it was coalescing into one ugly clump, stuck in his throat. And then there was the shadow that lived in his labyrinth. A lesson learned long ago and buried deep into fertile soil, where it had taken root: don't get attached.

But Sherlock had gotten attached. And now he was beginning to understand what that could cost him.

Harry was in the kitchen, making tea, and Sherlock followed him in. He let the bile come up, without preamble, without letting Harry draw his words first, without letting his opponent know that they were in a duel:

"You're barely even a man, or, or a person." It was coming up in his throat, like vomit, words that had been churning underneath, waiting for their chance to claw out, "You're just good for a fuck." Sherlock felt his lips stretch into a grin.

The words, Sherlock realized, were not his own. Somewhere, somehow, someone had said them to Sherlock. And they waited, crouching in his heart like a predator, until Sherlock would spring them on unsuspecting prey like the words were once sprang on Sherlock himself. If only he could remember where he had heard them.

A part of him was paralyzed with fear of what he was doing, but he knew the words would keep coming. They had sat in his chest for decades, rotted his core, and caved in his labyrinth.

"It's so easy to have you, it's really become quite a bore." Sherlock finished, observing the bullet-hole wound that his words would surely make in Potter's visage. The wizard couldn't get angry? Sherlock knew that if anyone could do it to Potter, it was him.

There was an odd rattling noise, soft and musical. Sherlock immediately identified it as his crockery. London was usually not known for earthquakes. Perhaps there was a small one trembling through the city?

He returned his focus to the wizard's face. A momentary flutter of eyelids: surprise registering in the beloved and hated face. Then nothing again, the words sinking into Harry's mind like a shipwreck beneath a tide.

"Get some sleep, Sherlock." The wizard answered him, passively, tiredly. Something in Sherlock snapped. To just be dismissed! No, he would not lie down and take that. It was time to go for the kill.

"I always meant to ask," Sherlock said, the rictus smile stretching his face again, "what happened to your ginger-haired sweetheart?"

Sherlock had deduced it long ago. He had never mentioned it to Harry. He had kept the knowledge safe, a last silver bullet that would surely wound the beast when nothing else could.

"I assume she must have died by way of one of your adventures. But do enlighten me if I'm incorrect." Sherlock said, knowing that he had found his mark. The bullet landed home.

He saw the impact immediately. The wizard's face crumbled, and he turned away from Sherlock. The rattling came again, and Sherlock heard the unmistakable crackling pop of a teacup bursting into bits.

When Harry turned around to face him again, he had more emotion on his face than Sherlock had ever seen. The wizard's face was flushed with fury, just barely keeping hold on his temper. A thought slipped by Sherlock's mind like a ghost, that perhaps taunting a wizard like this was dangerous and stupid, but he dismissed it, and kept pressing.

…

Rain lashed against the black stones of Azkaban. As the dementors prowled the halls, there were moans and laments heard from every corner of the grim fortress. Snape, however, was too proud to make these noises of misery. Instead, he persisted, like a soldier bent on the war, trudging through a bloodied and smoking ruin of a field. He persisted in scurrying deeper and deeper into the hallways of his mind.

He reminded himself: no good memories. He would shield these from the awful darkness, and keep them, like precious stones that were to be hidden and never seen by the light of day.

A terrible storm raged, and the cold spittle of rain fell through the slit of a window in his cell. Had it been his imagination, or was there always a storm over Azkaban? He shivered and curled in on himself, leaning against the frozen walls. He counted his breath.

He fell back in time, into that December, in 1997, which he knew to be the last December that the Dark Lord terrorized England. He wanted to get to that final climax, to see how that Devil had finally come to his demise. So he persisted in his loop.

He remembered coming to his conclusion on how he would save Potter. Snape had wasted no time fetching Ginny Weasley. He had to be quick before he stopped and let himself think this idiotic plan through. Almost certainly, he would abandon it if he even gave it a modicum of thought. He found the Weasley girl easily.

She had that hard and defiant look on her face the whole walk to the Headmaster's office; do what you will, but you shall not break my spirit. Snape wasted no time trying to explain. As soon as they entered the Headmaster's office, he immediately led her to the back room, where the Savior of the Wizarding World sat staring into space.

The girl gasped and ran over to him.

"Harry, can you hear me? Harry?" Her words were whispered, but urgent. Her hands immediately and naturally squeezing around the boy's hands.

Sensing that something was terribly wrong, she turned on Snape, her hard eyes blazing with rage.

"What did you do to him?" She spat.

"I brought him here from the dungeon where he was being kept, dressed, and healed his copious wounds, and now, I am trying to heal his mind. As you no doubt notice, he currently seems to lack it," Snape couldn't help himself, "Not much of a change for Potter to be sure."

Oddly, it seemed like the insult was what deflated the girl. Her blazing look gave way to trepidation and confusion.

"I don't understand…" She said, looking between Snape and Potter.

"All you have to understand is that this has to be kept secret. From the Order, too." Snape added, knowing that the girl would raise the alarm with his former comrades of the Order of the Phoenix.

"Why?" She asked.

"It doesn't matter why. If you tell, I will make sure Potter will be gone, and you won't see him again." Snape did

She narrowed her eyes.

"Why did you bring me here then?" She asked.

"Because I need your help." Snape was surprised by how light and easy it felt to admit this to the teenage girl.

Sighing, Snape began to explain in stark detail exactly what affliction caused Harry to lose his senses.

He watched the girl's face whiten, and her lips drawn into a thin line.

"…however, after consulting with the former Headmasters, I believe we may be able to entice Potter back to this world." Snape finished.

"How?" The girl asked, now taking a more careful inventory of Potter, noticing his absent gaze, his stooped shoulders, and slack hands.

"That's the reason for your presence here Miss Weasley."

"What do you want me to do exactly?" She asked, and Snape knew he had her. He knew they were on the same team, but still, he felt like he had won out.

"Sit with him, talk to him, do whatever it is you two would do normally. Surely I don't need to explain how to hang out with your little boyfriend?" Snape said, the bitterness which he thought might be in his voice, was absent.

The girl looked at Potter, worried and biting her lip. She looked back at Snape and nodded.

Nothing happened for a week. The girl had sent her parents a letter, saying she would be better off staying at Hogwarts for now. She told lies to her friends, which questioned her many disappearances. Snape didn't know the details and didn't care much. It seemed his plan was doomed to fail. Miss Weasley came every night, and spent hours talking with the boy, and softly stroking his hands, and nothing happened.

Until Harry spoke again.

And then again.

And more and more, not just with Sirius and James, but with Ginny now, conversing with the living and the dead at the same time.

By February, Potter was aware of what was around him. He could, Snape carefully noted, shift his awareness to the other world, where his soul must still have a finger grip onto a slippery ledge. But it was fading from him.

On March 1st, Potter left. He did not bring the girl with him. She was upset but hid it well. She knew Potter loved her. She kept coming to Snape's office on a less frequent, but nonetheless regular schedule. They played chess, and Snape allowed himself to drink firewhiskey. For some reason, unknown to the gods themselves, Snape and the Gryffindor girl had become something like friends.

Here, Snape made a very deliberate effort to start skipping memories. He could count his genuine friends, living and dead, on one hand. He could not afford to lose, even one.

They hid out, Snape and Ginny, in Hogwarts, waiting for news, any news. She shared whatever she could from the Order's side, and he, despite all the good sense in the world, shared news from the Dark Lord's side. And what had happened after that?

Skipping memories was difficult. He lost his place.

He knew there was a happy ending. Not for him, but for the world. Somehow, somehow everything had ended. There was more to the story, if only he could remember

It must have been because he was already thinking of Potter, but he suddenly saw a very vivid memory of Potter's face in the window of his cell.

No one cared that he was rotting away in here. No one was coming. This was it, he thought bitterly. All that effort, all those years, this is always where they had led. To four stone walls, and the constant freezing cold of Azkaban.

Snape bumped his back against the stone wall of his prison cell, to try to jog his memory. He wanted back into his own head. He needed to continue the loop. It occurred to him that bumping his back repeatedly on the wall was a sure sign he was going crazy. He had seen other prisoners, even long time patients of St Mungo's, do the same. He straightened out, cooly leaned back, and regained his focus.

Potter had come back. Ginny and Snape were following the news. One morning, everyone knew at once, there had been a robbery at Gringotts. Who had done it? Everyone knew: Potter.

Potter's 200,00 galleon reward for capture climbed to 500,000, the papers proclaimed. And then, that same day, he was there, in Snape's office, embracing Ginny, as Snape watched on sadly. He had bad news for the kid. And after everything he'd been through…

But Potter was in Hogwarts on a mission. He had to find something. Something very important.

Snape didn't let Harry leave his office until he told him the secret, which Dumbledore had trusted to Snape, which Snape knew he had to finally tell, now or never.

Your scar is a horcrux. He whispered the words into the boy's ear. Potter's face blanched, his eyes widening. Snape didn't need legilimency to know that the boy understood all the implications of that fact.

And then the boy was gone again. And then the death eaters and Hagrid were carrying his body out of the woods. And then, he was alive again, miraculously, wondrously. And then, Voldemort was no more.

On that morning, the news that the Dark Lord fell had broken over Snape like the first warm ray of sunshine after a lifelong winter.

Was this a happy memory? He had to be careful, after all.

It wasn't. Yes, Voldemort fell, but something happened. Something which marred the day in Snape's mind as a distinctly unhappy one. What was it? What could have possibly dampened his spirits on such a day.

Potter came to talk to him, right after. Harry told him to come with him; talk to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Potter would explain everything. He would explain that Snape was a double, or triple agent. Snape himself had lost track of the crosses and double-crossed. All he knew was that finally, the Dark Lord was dead, and he was free.

That's when it happened. They were walking through Hogwarts. Every other corridor was a ruin of crushed masonry, fallen pillars, and mangled bodies. Unbidden, the image of the Falling Tower, from Trelawny's deck of cards, came into Snape's mind.

Snape spotted the blaze of red before Potter, but he was not quick enough, not clever enough to divert the boy. Potter caught sight too. He ran over.

She had gotten crushed under the falling stones. It could have been anyone that killed her. It could have been no one. She was just there at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

Harry gripped Ginny's cold hand, and said nothing. But Snape saw something happen. He watched in horror, unable to intervene, unable to stop what was happening.

They had used the girl to fix Potter, and she was the one to undo him. Potter's face was losing definition. The tension, the sadness, the raging grief was all melting. His cheeks slackened, and his eyes lost focus. He was losing grip, Snape realized, on the world. He was reverting to the same state in which Snape had found him.

There was a crash of voices from the other end of the corridor. The Order, coming for Snape. He looked at the boy, who had sat back and was looking with disinterest at the ruins, his eyes dull and unaware. He would be of no help now. So, Snape did what he did best. He fled.

The guilt churned his stomach, even now, decades later. Snape should have told the Order. Let them take Snape, but he should have told him what was wrong with Harry. He left the boy in that corridor, listlessly holding a dead girl's hand, while the cavalry surrounded him, tried to help him, tried to get him to stand up… All useless endeavors.

Snape blinked his eyes, finding himself back in his cell. He really must have been much closer to insanity than he previously thought. He was sure that he had seen something in the window.

…

The wizard was indeed furious. Sherlock found, to his surprise, that Potter had a bitter and sarcastic side which the detective, clever as he was, never observed. More accurately, nothing had provoked this sharper Potter out of hiding until now, when it came to the fore.

Potter bit back. He sidestepped the issue of the ginger-haired girl, and latched into Sherlock's words prior.

"The fucking didn't seem to bore you an hour ago, when you were practically begging me for it. Never been rejected before? I know it stings, but grow up Sherlock." Potter said, and it was like the vileness had spilled from Sherlock to the wizard. Sherlock did not think it was possible to infect Potter with his own bitterness, but there it was, staring back at him from the face he had come to treasure.

There was more back and forth. It got ugly. Finally, Harry had enough.

Potter got close to him in a flash, and Sherlock stumbled back. For a brief second, Sherlock thought the wizard would hit him, or cast a curse, and found himself paradoxically excited, aroused, at the prospect. Indeed the wizard had never looked more beautiful to Sherlock as when he towered over him, terrifying, strange, and furious, rattling the entire flat with the raw magic which Sherlock could almost smell. It smelled like lightning had just struck. Sherlock waited with anticipation for the pain, panting for it like a dog.

Potter must have considered it, because Sherlock saw it in his eyes, but then the wizard regained control of himself.

"We're done here then, yeah?" He bit out, and without hearing an answer from Sherlock, the wizard's things flew out of the spare room, into a bag.

Sherlock was happy with himself for exactly two and a half seconds after the crack of Harry's disappearance sounded. Then, he felt totally empty, save a small feeling of satisfaction. A feeling of a mission, which had been successfully accomplished. He was alone again. And after all, the wizard could get angry. It just required the right stimulus.

Sherlock went to sleep full to the throat with his delicious victory. When he woke up, he instinctively reached for Harry. He found no one there. The memories came rushing back, and with a clearer head than he had in days, in the gray, wan light of that morning, he knew that there was no point for him to go on living like this.

…

AN: A bit of melodramatic note to end it on, but I felt like it suited the mood of the chapter. These last couple of chapters are difficult to piece together from all the copious but scattered notes I have. But, they're coming along. Thank you so much if you're still with me. I hope you keep reading :)