A/N: Hey, thanks for reading! I'm sorry for the late update, I would like to make excuses about my exams and stuff but to be honest, I've just been really lazy for the past few weeks. In all seriousness though I have got a lot of exams coming up so my updates aren't going to be as regular as they have been, sorry. Also I've been meaning to mention that the theories used in this fic aren't mine, they have been thought out by the wonderful person who runs the 'finalproblem' tumblr, you should check it out! And while you do that feel free to follow me at imguildingthelily(dot)tumblr, I'm a bit of a late comer to tumblr but you'll get updates about my writing and if you wanted you could prompt something! DFTBA and don't forget to review xD

The cold wind buffeted John as he stood gazing over the edge of St. Bart's roof. People passed on the street below him, totally unaware of the battle field that they walked through; John could see it though, the height he was at just made it clearer. A man pushed passed a woman in a bright red, expensive looking coat, reaching into her coat pocket and taking something out as she stumbled; money and substance exchanged hands in a secluded alley; and police sirens drifted on the wind, the noise so common it barely even registered.

This was the last thing Sherlock would have seen before Falling, John realised. This was the last thing he would have seen as Sherlock Holmes, the last thing before having to don whatever mask he had to. Strangely John knew he wouldn't have minded; the detective would have stood here deducing the ordinary people below him or making sure the plan would work while he waited for John to arrive.

John shook his head and smiled slightly, he needed to focus; he was here for a reason, not so he could speculate the thoughts going through his friends head. Sherlock must have had a reason for choosing this building, something about this building was crucial for his plan. As John looked around he could see quite a few things that would make it useful; it had the ambulance building and bus stop that hid the impact site from CCTV; it was a good 14m, do there was no question of the height not being enough to kill and person; and there was good road access for him to make his getaway.

There was one other thing though, one that hadn't crossed John's mind before today. This was the build where they had first met, it was fitting that it would also be the place where they would say good bye. John shook his head, no, that couldn't be it, that would have been sentimental on Sherlock's part; Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment.

The wind hit John again, but this time slightly stronger and he realised how easily he could just let himself fall, to copy what Sherlock had done eight months ago; to step forwards into empty air, to fall freely and then smack into the pavement below. But Sherlock hadn't really done that, had he? Sherlock had faked it, cleverly faked it, if John stepped into open air he wouldn't fall into a bin full of shock absorbers; he would fall into oblivion.

John stepped back onto the flat surface of the roof quickly, trying to put as much space as possible between him and the edge. When he stood in the middle of the roof he sighed and let out a long, shaking breath. He had often contemplated suicide after Afghanistan, and again in the months just after the fall, but he had never stood on the very brink; when one move would have him ending his own life.

The adrenalin made his pulse race in a way he hadn't felt since Sherlock fell.

As John waited for his pulse to slow he looked up at the dark, stormy looking sky and sighed; it looked like it was going to rain soon, and he didn't have an umbrella. John turned and began to walk back to the door that lead back into the hospital when a thought struck him: Sherlock had thrown his phone down before he jumped, could it still be there?

John turned back to face the other side of the roof and thought for a moment; there wasn't really much point in looking for it, after all, it had been out here for over eight months so it probably didn't work anymore, and it's not like it was important or anything, it was just a phone.

And yet John found himself walking back towards the edge of the roof and looking round half heartedly. After a few minutes of looking John put his hands in his pockets, he was about to walk about to give up and walk back when he noticed something in the corner of the roof. He walked over and picked up the mobile, there didn't seem to be any damage and the overhang where the two sides of the roof looked like it had kept it out of the elements. He held down the on button but unsurprisingly it didn't turn on, maybe it hadn't been rained on but it had gone through a British winter; it had probably frozen.

As John turned the phone over in his hands he wondered why the police hadn't found it; he might not doubt the competence of the police as much as Sherlock did, but surely if it had only taken him a few minutes to find even Anderson's team could do it. Maybe someone had ensured it stayed there, perhaps Sherlock, or maybe the person who had moved Moriarty's body; John had no idea.

John sighed and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, there wasn't much point standing in the cold, speculating when he could just go home, charge it up (hope it turns on) and find out. But as John opened the door and walked down the metal grate steps he realised he didn't want to go home yet. John supposed he could visit Molly, after all he had intended on just taking her to lunch without any ulterior motive, but right now he doubted Molly would want to see him; it was too soon after the lunch failure the other day.

John pulled open the glass double doors that lead out onto the street; he walked towards the edge of the pavement and flagged down a cab. They might be expensive but his leg was beginning to hurt again; he couldn't be bothered to walk to the nearest tube station. The black car slowed until the back door was level with the doctor and he opened it and got in.

"Chantry cemetery please," John said to the cabbie as he clipped his seatbelt on.

When the cab pulled up in front of the entrance to the cemetery, John got out and paid. As the cab pulled away he turned for to face the black, wrought iron gates and sighed; what was he doing here? Sherlock wasn't here, Sherlock had never been here, he was alive and these places were for the dead. But he wanted to talk to Sherlock and he couldn't contact him, so talking to the headstone would have to suffice. John opened the gates and walked along the gravel path towards Sherlock's grave feeling like a fraud, he passed all these other people who really had lost someone they loved and here he was; the fake, he hadn't lost anyone, he didn't deserve to be here.

John stepped off the gravel path and made his way towards the edge of the graveyard, he came to a stop under the yew tree that marked Sherlock's grave and looked down at the black marble.

As John stood in front of the headstone, his hands still in his pockets, the left one holding the mobile loosely, he felt a smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock wasn't dead, he was alive, John would see his best friend again and they would be able to go back to how things used to be; he was so much luckier than anyone else in this place.

John licked his lips, he wasn't a big fan of talking to graves, but he had to say something this time. "I told you before you... Fell, that only you could be that clever and knowing that you faked it all," John paused and shook his head, "It just proves it. Only you could be brilliant enough to pull this off, to not be dead, only you could have fooled everyone, only you. I hate that you did it and I don't know why you did it, but I do know that Moriarty had a hand in it. That doesn't make it right though, you should have told me, I've spent eight months in mourning and then I find out it was a lie," John shook his head, "look, just promise me something Sherlock, come home, I don't care how long it takes you, just come home."

John laughed, sometimes he wondered if maybe Sarah was right, he did spend too much time surrounded by the memories of Sherlock. He tried to imagine life without those memories, life without Sherlock, but he couldn't. It was like trying to imagine life without being able to see; he could do it but he didn't want to. The doctor sighed: he needed to get a girl friend.

"Come home soon Sherlock," John said, biting his lip and nodding, the he added with a smirk, "Though watch out, because I am going to fucking punch you in the face,"

Anthea forced a laugh at what Moran had said and turned back to the company issue Iphone he had given her, letting her smile fade. She had been working for him for almost three days now and slowly but surely it was becoming easier for her to lie, to pretend she found the jokes funny; slowly she was settling into becoming Elizabeth Harrington.

Moran put his muddy military boots on the desk and took out his own phone out. He had nothing planned for this morning, just three hours to relax and 'plan', he had asked her to stay for a while, but Anthea had no idea why.

"Can you attend a meeting on Wednesday?" she asked when she had finished reading an email.

"No, clear Wednesday, didn't I say yesterday?" Moran snapped. As soon as the words had left his mouth a woman burst into the room, her breath coming in pants and her bone while hair falling in wisps from her bun. Anthea automatically stiffened; out of all Moran's employees this woman, this assassin, Peace; she was the one who terrified her the most. "What?" Moran barked, glaring at her, "Don't you know how to knock?"

"Its John Watson sir," Peace said in between pants. Anthea's eyes went wide; what the hell had that man gotten himself into now? "He... he's written a blog post,"

Moran raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing across his face, "That it?"

Peace glared at him through lilac contact lenses, "Turn on the news," she told him bitterly.

Anthea grabbed the remote and turned the flat screen on that hung on the white wall opposite Moran's desk. BBC news was on and sure enough one of the headlines scrolling along the bottom of the screen read: Sherlock Holmes: fake or genius? Anthea resisted the urge to sigh; this was not good.

"Turn it off," Moran snapped, Anthea raised the remote. Peace shot a warning look at her and she paused, glancing between the two criminals; they were both glaring at her and she realised she would have to choose the lesser of the two. Anthea pressed the off button and lowered the remote, not meeting Peace's harsh gaze.

"You haven't even-" Peace began but Moran cut her off, his green eyes sharp and angry.

"Whendid he post this?" He yelled, swinging his feet off the desk and standing, "Tell me now or you neverwalk again!"

"Wednesday," Peace replied timidly. Anthea watched them carefully from where she sat as she tapped her pen against her left thumb; Peace looked scared, and that really wasn't good, not good at all.

Moran's jaw worked for a while as he tried to find the words, "Wednesday?" he echoed in a voice that quivered in anger. "I am running a criminal web and I don't even know things that happen four days ago!"

Peace nodded sharply, her eyes flicking to all the exits of the room then back to the livid face of her boss. Moran looked ready to kill someone and sure enough he reached under his desk and pulled out a gun, he lifted it and aimed at Peace.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he demanded. Peace's eyes were wide but she stayed motionless, her mouth tight as she struggled to find an excuse. "That's why I keep you idiotic lot around isn't it? To keep tags on people?

"No one's been checking the blog, sir," she told him, her voice shaking slightly, "he hasn't written anything for months,"

"What did it say Peace?" Moran asked, the gun never lowering, "If it's on the news it had to contain something ground breaking,"

"Watson was pointing out the problems with Moriarty's plan, get them to realise that they had been played," Peace told him, "Its working,"

Moran's shoulders slumped and he put the gun back on the table, he sat back in his seat and ran his hands down his face. Peace's body relaxed and she shared a look with Anthea; Anthea tried smiling reassuringly but the assassin just scowled in response.

"Well, I wanted it to be poetic," Moran said from where he sat, he was slouched now with both arms on the arm rest; a faint smile playing across his face. The two women's gazes snapped back to him, "And now it will be,"

"What do you mean?" Anthea asked with a frown, her pen stilling as it rested against her thumb.

"Watson's death," Moran smiled, "It will strike fear into the heart of this city, he knows too much and so he dies; it'll be a message, one that will stick with the population for years to come! Might even draw Holmes out of whatever hole he's crawled into,"

Anthea frowned, this man was more crazed than she thought, he was sounding like he was in some badly written action movie, not real life. It wouldn't 'strike fear into the heart of the city', people died all the time in London; people just got on with their lives and ignored it. Peace didn't seem to see this.

"I agree sir," Peace replied hastily. Moran laughed bitterly and raised his gun, Peace stiffened again as he clicked off the safety.

"No you don't, you'll do anything to stay in my good books," Moran smirked, "See the thing is, a lot of the missions over the past few days have been failing due to information leaks and it all seems to come back to you,"

"What are you saying?" Peace stuttered. Anthea watched as one of the figures of the hand Peace rested on her stomach touched something on her belt, Moran didn't notice, "I am loyal to you,"

Moran snorted, "How can you say that after the scene at the meeting the other day? You, my dear, are anything but loyal! Tell me, how long have you been an informant for Mycroft Holmes?" he demanded, then glanced down at her hand, she held what looked like the grip of a knife now, "And for god's sake put down the knife!"

She didn't, instead she slipped it out of its sheath and raised it; as if she meant to throw it. "Lower the gun first,"

"Bullets are faster than knives,"

"You willing to test that?"

Moran smirked and clicked the safety back on, Peace slipped the knife back into the hidden sheath at her waist but she kept her hand on the hilt; Anthea suddenly felt extremely venerable, she was totally unarmed and in a room with two killers, not exactly her idea of fun. Peace's scared act had fallen away now and she looked nothing short of blood thirsty, there was a smirk on her lips and her body was tense, ready to spring at any moment.

"So you are a spy?" Moran smirked, glaring at her.

"Never said that," Peace replied, "Though I suppose I should. Not for Holmes though, might want to check for that spy again,"

"Doesn't matter who for, you're a dead woman Peace," Moran spat, "You've changed nothing; John Watson will die and there's nothing you can do to change that,"

"Well you are sorely mistaken," Peace smirked.

Moran shot.

Anthea cried out as hot droplets of ruby red blood splattered her white blouse and burned her skin, the gun shot echoed in her head and made her ears ring. Moran had shot the woman through the head and a perfectly round hole decorated her forehead, she was still smirking, her cold eyes stared up at Anthea unseeing; one of her contacts had popped out, leaving the dull, brown iris of her left eye to be seen.

Anthea didn't know what to think or say, she just sat on her chair unmoving, her mouth agape, after a moment she realised she was shaking. Peace's blood was spreading across the blue carpet, staining it a reddish black, Moran was clicking the safety back on and fixing the gun back under the desk. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not in shock are you? Because if so you might end up being fired; you're gunna see that a lot," Moran smirked.

Anthea gave a shaking, hysterical laugh, "If you have a habit of killing your employees I might quit,"

Moran snorted, "Yes, well, before you do I want you to send a text. Also get someone to clean this mess up; I do hate it when the brains end up drying into the carpet."

"What do you want the text to say?" she asked, trying to forget the nonchalant way he had said the last bit.

"John Watson dies tonight, send it to everyone," Moran told her, as he crossed over to a cupboard on the other side of the room and took out a sniper rifle, he glanced over at her, his gaze lingering on the droplets of red on her blouse "Get a new top as well, you'll never get that stain out."

After Anthea had stopped the shaking in her hands she sent the text to all of Moran's employees and one other person. She put the phone back in her pocket feeling as if she had just signed her death certificate; she would have to get out of there today, Anthea had just watched one spy die and she had no intention of becoming the second.

Sherlock swept his eyes down John's wall, there were four days left until Moran would make his move and he had to be ready. This couldn't be like the fall, there had been too many loose ends, and John had proved that they were too easy to connect together and work it out, this had to be tight; no one could know where John went, Moran's men couldn't be allowed to track him.

Sherlock had debated getting Mycroft to take John into a protection scheme now, keep him safe, but that left time for Moran to track him down. But by getting him out during the thick of it they had the cover of confusion; everything would be happening quickly, there would be less time to track the army doctor.

Sherlock heard the sound of an expensive car pulling up outside the house and he crossed to the window. Through the grimy, single pane of glass he watched as his brother got out of the car, Mycroft began to jog through the heavy rain towards the door. Sherlock's blood ran cold: jogging andno umbrella? Something was very wrong.

Sherlock turned on his heels and grabbed his orange hoddie from the mattress in the corner; he pulled it on with fumbling figures and hurried out of the room.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said in between ragged breaths, "You have to come now it's-"

"What's happened to him, is he alright?" Sherlock demanded, pushing past his brother and out of the door towards the car. Mycroft followed him, stepping back out into the rain.

"Nothing yet, Anthea sent me this," he replied, giving Sherlock his mobile.

Moran's ordered his men to kill John tonight, you better get going if you want to save him- A

Sherlock's eye met his brother and he thrust the phone back at him, "I need to get to him,"

Mycroft handed him a GPS, "I know, here; it's showing his position,"

"Get in the car, we need to go,"

Once they were in the car Mycroft took the GPS and read the address out to the driver, he handed it back and said, "When we arrive your job is going to be getting John out of there so the snipers can do their job, alright?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to glare, he didn't like taking orders from his brother, but right now this was going to save John's life, "Fine,"

Mycroft gave him a hard stare, "I mean it Sherlock, don't try anything. Just get him out and take him back to the house,"

"What about Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, they may not be targets now, but they will be eventually," Sherlock asked as he stared out the window. He didn't want his brother to know just how nervous he really was, that meant as little eye contact as possible.

"They've been escorted to a safe location," Mycroft replied. Sherlock felt Mycroft looking at him but he still didn't turn to look at him, his brother sighed slightly, "Sherlock, it's going to be okay,"

Sherlock's head snapped to face him, a poisonous glare on his face, "I don't need your reassurances Mycroft,"

"And yet I will give them, Sherly," Mycroft added softly.

The two brothers stared at each other for a few moments, Sherlock sighed slightly and turned to face the window; if Mycroft thought a single childhood nickname was going to get him to open up and spill all his inner thoughts, he was mistaken.

"We're almost there." Mycroft said after a long few minutes of silence.

"I know,"

Mycroft sighed, "Don't get hurt, please,"

"Look, Mycroft, please stop with the caring, I thought it wasn't an advantage," Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft didn't say anything until the car stopped a street over from where John was. As Sherlock got out of the car Mycroft reached over and grabbed his brothers arm, making him face him, "Good luck, don't do anything stupid,"

Sherlock nodded briefly and closed the door, the car pulled away and he watched for a moment. Sherlock took a deep breath in and started to run.