Sherlock had been a little confused after the scene in Molly's lab. It had hurt him to see John so concerned, but Moriarty had to be stopped, no matter what emotions may be a result. Lestrade had been no help whatsoever and Sherlock needed evidence. With the whole world swimming in hashtags and captions, you would think that someone would know something, but 'no'. Though Sherlock was glued to the screen for almost 24 hours, his search had not been fruitful. The only thing he could do after John left was look for Moriarty, but even that held no results. His Mind Palace was bare. The detective had wandered in a dessert for a month and still could not find Jim. The California redwoods had been climbed and ancient ruins scoured. Out of all Sherlock's mind, the criminal was nowhere. He could hide in any book, article, or day. Sherlock would have to virtually relive his life to find one man.
How had Sherlock let him escape? It was the panic, the fear, that broke the shackles. A search was taking place in both reality and the subconscious, for if Jim wreaked havoc in Sherlock's mind, Sherlock would not be able to catch him in reality.
At around noon the day after John left, something in Sherlock's brain snapped him to reality. He sat up on the couch and walked to the kitchen. Naturally, on a case, Sherlock's appetite was gone. If Lestrade had no evidence for Sherlock to go off of, he would have to get his own.
The sleuth grabbed the black coat and headed out the door.
"Where are you headed, Sherlock?" called after him.
"Bart's. Case," was all Sherlock said before heading outside. Right away, the sun was blinding. High noon after 24 hours of concentration was like stepping on a tack, getting out of bed. The honks and motor sounds of cars zooming by caused pain to erupt in Sherlock's temples, but he forged ahead. He hailed a cab and climbed in, directing the driver to St. Bartholomew's Hospital.
"Hello, Molly. Call John for me, would you?"
"Sher-. What are you-?" she stuttered after Sherlock. He had just landed the elevator on her floor, said "hello", then closed the doors again. That man had the strangest habits.
Of course, she had to call John. If Sherlock was in that much of a hurry, something had to be up. Besides, he looked pretty happy, considering what had recently been happening.
She dialed. The phone rang.
"Hello?" said the voice on the other line.
"Hi, John. It's Molly."
"Hi, Molly. What's happening?"
"Uh, Sherlock just popped in the lab and said to call you. He seemed pretty good and in a hurry. I think he was going to one of the top floors."
"...Oh...Okay, thanks," John stuttered. "I'll be there soon."
"Okay. See you, I guess," Molly concluded.
"Bye," John hung up.
Sherlock stood on the roof of the hospital...again. This didn't bring good memories, but it had to be done. John should have been on his way. Until then, Sherlock had some thinking to do.
Oh God. Sherlock was on the roof again. John knew it. No cab was fast enough and the elevator was slow, as always.
Coming out onto the roof, John ran around to the other side of the elevator. There stood Sherlock, observing the platforms.
"Sherlock. Wha-"
"John! Hi! So, I stood here," Sherlock said happily, as he moved to the right, "And he stood here," he said twisting around to the left.
Oh no. Sherlock wasn't describing this. Not like this. John never wanted to know what happened up there. That was between Sherlock and Moriarty. His heart began to race, as his legs grew stiff.
"We had a conversation," Sherlock continued, "Then…well... here."
In a split second, Sherlock leaned over, grabbed John's gun from his waistband, and had it pointed at his face!
"Sherlock!" John leaned forward, but hesitated out of fear of setting his friend off.
Sherlock continued, "He threatened you, I showed him how I was in control, then...POW!"
John flinched as his friend mimicked the motion of a gunshot. No blood was present, but Sherlock laid on his back, clearly getting into character as Jim Moriarty.
"So," Sherlock said, "How did he do it?"
John was breathing heavy. This was too much. He may have needed stress, but not this much.
Sherlock lay on the cold cement, staring at the sky. He had to recreate the scene, no matter how much it hurt. Quickly, he jumped up and ran to the edge. Behind him, he could feel John lurch forward and try to catch him, but Sherlock carried on.
The detective looked over the city and soaked in the familiar view. He looked over his shoulder and saw himself from a minute ago laying on the ground. It would help him to project himself from his memories into reality. Sherlock swayed, and his memory image flickered.
John was by his side now. Sherlock pulled himself together and focussed on the scene.
He asked, "How could Moriarty have moved from where he was? When did I look back?"
John responded, "Jim couldn't have moved. He was shot."
"And my head was smashed in!" Sherlock responded, frustrated. He could see John flinch and lean away at that response, but he wasn't concentrating. His next response was calmer:
"If he wasn't shot, where could he move?"
John was slow to respond. "To the other roof," he suggested, "or to the next building over.
"Humph." Sherlock made this noise with sense of thought in it. "What was I doing?"
Sherlock stepped up onto the edge. The all-too familiar feeling was gut-lurching. His throat was dry; finally reacting to his thirst. The town spun around him. Buildings far away seemed close and vice versa. He could feel himself leaning back and forth. Sherlock's line of vision grew dark on the edges and the sky seemed more grey than normal.
"Where was I… John…," he muttered. Then fell.
Why was he on the edge? John wanted to know. Could this whole setup not be recreated using blocks or diagrams? No. Of course not. Sherlock needed to risk his life for the case and nothing less. It was a sick truth, but John knew it true.
The first visual sign of Sherlock's distress was the swaying. Then, his friend's speech grew quieter.
"...John," he had said. Then leaned forward.
Luckily, John was prepared. He wasn't about to lose his friend off this roof, again. With a lurching pain in his chest(probably from panic), John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He pulled him back, only to catch his limp body.
Sherlock's eyes were rolled back into his head and long legs were turned in weird angles. John sank to his knees and let out the biggest breath. He had been so close to seeing Sherlock fall again. Only this time, it would be permanent.