For an endless moment, I was frozen on the sidewalk in front of the hospital, staring up into the open sky. For a second time, Sherlock was standing far above me, balanced on the ledge of St. Bart's. His hand was outstretched as if he was reaching for someone who wasn't there. I couldn't make out his expression well, but his face seemed absolutely blank.

Immediately, I knew what was happening.

I burst forward, grasping the security guard standing at the hospital door. Fortunately, he recognized me. "Dr. Middleton, what is it?"

"My patient is on the roof."

"What?" He hurried into the street to get a better look, shielding his eyes from the sun. As soon as he saw the figure far above us, he grabbed his radio and began barking orders into it.

"Tell your guards to approach him with extreme caution," I said. "He might not be awake!"

The man lowered his radio. "What?"

Heading into the hospital, I yelled over my shoulder. "Don't scare him! Whatever you do, do not scare him!"

I bolted into the building, running straight for the elevators and jabbing at the call buttons as if that would somehow make the lift arrive faster. After a split second of waiting, I ran to the stairwell. My lungs burned as I climbed flight after flight of barren, cement stairs, and I was breathless by the time I burst into the sunlight and on to the roof.

I blinked hard, trying to see my surroundings. When my vision cleared, the sight before me nearly caused my heart to stop.

Sherlock was standing on the ledge, speaking to someone only he could see. He was still wearing his pajamas and his dressing gown fluttered around his legs. His feet were bare and dribbling blood from where he'd apparently stepped on broken glass.

He still held his arm outstretched, his palm upright as if he was pleading. "You have

to understand," he mumbled. "… didn't have a choice…."

His voice was slurred, like a person who had just awakened from a deep sleep.

Or someone who wasn't awake at all.

Sherlock, in all his brilliance, had managed to unlock the door of our flat without setting off a single alarm and had found his way to the roof. And there he was, reenacting the single most traumatic moment of his life.

And he was still asleep.

I couldn't call to him. I couldn't tell him to step back. The slightest startle might frighten him and send him toppling over the edge.

A scream bubbled in my throat as he leaned forward, trying to reach further toward the phantom John; his bare toes were no longer on a solid surface. "I have to tell you why, John," he slurred. "Why I did it."

I took a step forward. Then another. And another. I held my breath, terrified he would see me, lose his balance and fall.

I was fifteen feet from him. Then ten feet. Then eight. I still wasn't close enough to touch him.

I stepped again, all the while silently chanting, "Don't wake up, Sherlock… don't wake up…"

He dropped his hand, his shoulders slumping in defeat. For a moment, I thought he'd awakened. But no, he was still talking to the ghost standing in front of him. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "'m sorry, J-John… didn't mean to hurt you…"

He bowed his head, and a quiet sob escaped him. "'M so sorry…"

Behind me, the roof door cracked against the wall as security guards burst through. Their arrival was loud, their voices urgent. Before I could shush them, Sherlock turned where he stood, a frown crossing his face, the fog of sleep fading from his eyes. He didn't notice the empty air behind him, for which I was immensely grateful.

"Merry?" he questioned, his voice small and uncertain.

I inched closer. "Sherlock, listen to me," I said. "Don't look back. Just step toward me, all right?" I held out my hands. "Take my hands, Sherlock, okay? Just step down."

"Where am I?" He glanced over his shoulder, and a wave of vertigo must have washed over him. He startled and began to flail, his arms like windmills, his back arching. As I lunged for him, trying in vain to close the gap between us, he fell backwards out of my reach.