Nothing is mine.
Time slowed down. The wind was swirling around Sherlock. Jim Moriarty lay dead behind him blood and brains all over the roof.
Overhead, birds twittered about uncaring of the impending tragedy. Sherlock could see John racing towards him. He was still moving in slow motion. If Sherlock didn't jump John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all be dead.
He had thrown his phone away after begging and bidding goodbye to the one person he truly cared about. It was a long way down from the roof.
He wiped the tears from his eyes, took a breath and flung himself forward.
Thank you for reading.