Sherlock looked into the London horizon, watching the cars like beetles crawl by with a rush of wind and a buzz of an engine. It was a demented sort of peaceful, but Sherlock felt eerily calm, in a strange, untouchable way. But he knew he had to act fast.

He lifted his face to the evening sky, something he had looked at a thousand times, but something about today made him really see it. The sun was just starting to set, and Sherlock was alone enough to appreciate it. He blinked, and wondered at exactly which point in the sky did it fade from blue to orange, from orange to pink, and just how far away was the place where the ground touched the sky.

Sherlock shifted his feet until his toes peeked over the edge of the roof. He stared down, looking at the people walking along, minding their own business without a care, and he wondered if he would be happier if he was like them, boring and ordinary.

Since Sherlock was a little boy, he had wanted to fly. He had watched birds with envy, defying gravity with a graceful flap of the wings. He had wanted to be that free, with the carless joy of the wind itself, to go wherever it may take him, and he would simply enjoy the ride. But he was not a bird. And he had no wings.

So as Sherlock looked at the ground so far below, he wondered if he had finally gotten his chance to fly. After all, flying is rather simple. Jump and miss the ground. That's all there was to it. Take a leap, and let yourself soar.

But this wasn't flying. This was falling. Flying was peaceful, with the wind tugging your hair and whistling past your ears. Falling, though, was terrifying. The drop made your heart leap into your mouth. The plunge made your head throb in fear. The plummet made the ground rush up to meet you, made your courage of iron turn to crumbling rust, made your eyes close as you waited for your body to hit, bracing yourself for the inevitable shattering of bones and splintering of skin, for the warm trickle of blood from your broken body, for the pain like fireworks flooding through every inch, until the final quite. It was that nothingness that scared you the most.

But for Sherlock, there was something even worse. He could face death. He wasn't afraid of it, for it was only through death that his mind would truly be at rest. He wasn't afraid of living, either. He enjoyed life, in his own way, and there was just so much left it to leave it all behind. No, Sherlock was not afraid, not of life, not of death, for neither could truly hurt him.

He was afraid, in part, of himself, or rather, what he had to do. But that couldn't change the path fate had chosen for him, and he swallowed his fear, not for his own sake, and took that step, watching with a curious peace the petrified eyes of the only one he could truly call friend.

And for one brief moment, he knew what it meant to be wind, how it felt to be sky. And he knew what it was like to fall. And he felt utterly defeated.

When Sherlock woke, he knew nothing. And he thought of John. John, who would by now be feeling lonely. He had probably cried, although Sherlock wished he wouldn't. It wasn't worth the little drops of water that fell from that familiar face.

Sherlock wondered if John had found his message yet, and if he had, did he know? There was no way he knew, and Sherlock was both saddened and relieved.

-.-.-.-.-

John was reading a book. Well, he was staring at the words. He didn't know what any of it had said, and he didn't even care to know the title.

His eyes felt moist, and he muttered a curse, too weary even to wipe the dampness from them. He sighed, dropping the book to the floor with a soft thud. He hung his head in his hands, heels digging into his eye sockets.

He was tired, so tired, and sleep evaded him, dancing at the tip of his eyelids, only to pull away with gleeful smirk as he reached out, longing for the embrace of darkness and the escape from the reality that was his life of broken scraps and unfilled potholes.

He didn't want to exist, not like this, and he didn't want to die. Not when Sherlock had given him the tiniest flame of hope, subtle, but enough. It would have to be.

He picked the book back up, reading it and imagining, in a fit of mischief, the young hero to be a tall, eccentric detective with curly hair, if only to lessen the pain he felt, yet did not feel. The dull ache of a broken-healing heart.

-.-.-.-.-

Sherlock had never known how much John meant to him. He had never really thought about it. John had just been there. Always. Whenever, wherever, and whatever Sherlock needed, John was there. Even if he was painfully dull, he was still John, and Sherlock knew, now more than ever, that he needed him.

And Sherlock realized, acutely, that he never expressed his appreciation, even for the little things. John didn't have to make him tea. But he did. John didn't have to stay, even when everyone else left. But he did. John didn't have to tolerate Sherlock's strange habits and arrogant temper. But he did. He did, and Sherlock never even said thank you. And now, he couldn't. Not yet.

He had ruined things to fix them. He knew it was the wrong thing, but it was the only thing, and his lone solace was in those little black words had dried and cracked on the mirror.

He hoped that John wasn't falling to pieces, as ordinary people had a tendency to do, and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt the cold pang of loneliness.