It was snowing. The white flocks danced in the air, lead by the wind in unpredictable paths. The same wind was ruffling his military short hair and let the cold seep through his clothes. Around him, the snow was starting to form layers on the ground, covering the grey with white. Its brightness had faded long ago with the last sunrays, the sky now dark with snow clouds, no moon or star light breaking through them.
John looked up. Night had already fallen. He had not noticed that he had been standing here for such a long time period, but he did not really care.
Ms. Hudson would not notice his disappearance till the next morning so it did not matter.
He was aware that he was freezing, the tips of his bare fingers already becoming blue. Hypothermia, though not serious enough to inflict real damage. Yet.
"You know", he said out of the blue, "They are wrong when they are saying that it is the depression."
Luckily, nobody was there to point out that he was talking to himself. At least, it would look like that to any outstanding person, who could not see Sherlock, standing just a few steps behind John, skin pale and snowflakes in the black curled hair.
"It's not depression", John repeated with a flat voice, "Well, at least not entirely. It's dullness. It's boringness. It's the fact that just nothing is happening anymore. It was like that when I returned from Afghanistan. And now it is back, just a hundred times worse. Like when you've lived all your life in the dark and suddenly someone opens a window and the light floods your life. And then the window is shut again and you're left in the darkness, with the memory of the light burned into your mind and the darkness just becomes unbearable.
It's the same with my life. Though I'm not exactly living in the dark." He chuckles bitterly. "More living in grey. Previously with colours, but now everything's grey again. Boring, lifeless grey."
He turned around to look at Sherlock. The illusion did not do anything, it just looked back with those intriguing eyes. John sighed.
"And then, there you are. The window to 'back then'. Bringing some of the colours back, sometimes at least. But then they are watery. Faint. Not real, just like you.
I probably should find something to return the colours. My therapist says that I should stop living in the past. Find something new, yes.
Really, but who am I trying to kid? What could possibly replace someone like YOU? And even if… even if I should manage… I mean, the world is great and wide. There surely is some crazy genius somewhere which would resemble you. With seven billion people on the world, counting. No consulting detective then, of course, since you were the… the only one." He hated himself for letting his voice break at the last words and turned away in shame, hiding his face by showing his back to the illusion. Although it was only that. An illusion.
He looked down.
"About twenty-five metres. Together with an acceleration of free fall of 9, 81 meter per square second that makes a speed of around 22 meter per second. And with a weight of 70 kilo an impact force of 17 kilo Newton. Deadly enough, like you've proven already."
Under his toe caps, which are just slightly towering over the edge, a few cars passed by on the street. No more patients were coming out or in of the hospital door at this time. Not much audience for a fall.
"Would be hopefully enough to kill me too", John whispered.
Suddenly, strong arms encircled him, startling him and nearly causing him to fall of St. Bart's rooftop.
"Don't", the deep voice whispered in his ear. "Don't."
The tears were warm against his icy skin as they ran down his cheeks.
"It's alright, John", the illusion said, the feeling of its grip slowly fading.
When he turned around, Sherlock was already gone.
"No, it's not", John said, though he knew that there was no one there to here him.
And backed of the edge to the solid cement ground.