Warning: Some angst, but not enough to qualify this story as angsty. Promise it doesn't last. Set after Reichenbach Fall. Oh, and I live in the boonies and don't get cable, so I watch this show when available on Netflix (on disk only, I get Internet when I go into town). And, last but not least, I apologize in advanced for the last line of this story, which is now complete

Chapter Six – After the Fall

He had been numb in the aftermath. At first, he had wept so long and so hard that he had actually thrown up, but then the numbness set in. John didn't know how long he sat in Bart's just staring at the wall before Molly came to him, dried tear tracks down her face, to check on him and to send him home.

But he couldn't go home, because anger and disbelief had started to worm their way through the numbness. Anger at Sherlock for leaving him, for making him *watch*, for trying to make him believe that he was a fraud. Disbelief because he knew Sherlock, knew he wasn't a fraud, and with that knew he couldn't possibly be dead.

For some reason, the man had faked his death, probably to protect John in some stupid, convoluted way. John was not going to stand for that. No. If he had to break down every door in London to find the truth, he would damn well find it. So, when Molly came to him, he started his attack.

"I need to see him."

"John," she said quietly, her voice full of pain and sympathy. "You can't. It was bad."

"I've seen plenty of bad bodies."

"Yes, but not his."

"Don't care, take me to him."

"No, John, I can't do that."

"I know you can't," John rounded on her, his eyes blazing and his mouth set in a cruel line. "You can't because there no longer *is* a body. I don't know how he did it, I *saw him jump*, but he's not dead. I know he's not dead. Where is he, Molly?"

"John," Molly looked scared, and John wanted to know why. "Please, that's insane. Of course he is, it hurts, and I know it feels impossible, but he is. You have to let this go."

"Let it go?" Now John's voice took on a dangerous edge. "That man is, and I'm not putting too fine a point on this I assure you, the love of my life. He means more to me than every other human on this planet combined. And for some reason, he faked his death and isn't letting me in on it. I want to know why. I want to see him, now!"

"John, please, I just can't take you to his body, no one faked anything…"

"I'll find out, one way or another."

John got to his feet and stormed down the hallway, his new purpose chasing away the fear and agony he had been feeling. When he glanced back at Molly, he saw that she had pulled out her phone and was sending a rapid text. And John knew who she was texting. Good.

He walked out of the hospital and waited. He knew it wouldn't take long, and sure enough, a large black car pulled up and the driver stepped out, holding the door open for John. John slid in across from Mycroft Holmes and the driver resumed his seat and started driving again.

"Why, John, are you giving Ms Hooper such a hard time?"

"I'm giving her a hard time? What the hell do you think this is doing to me? Where is Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid he's back there, cold and dead, and while I know you don't believe this, that's a fact that is as hard on me as it is on you. He was my brother, after all."

"Oh, I'm sure it's hard on you," John spat at him. "It would be your fault, after all. You told Moriarty everything he needed to *destroy* him. But, despite that, I don't believe he died. I don't know how he faked it, but between you and Molly, I'm sure he could."

"John, please, you saw it with your own eyes. You must stop torturing yourself."

"I know what I saw! And I know Sherlock! Where. Is. He."

Mycroft met his eyes calmly, picking him apart. John matched him stare for stare until the car finally pulled to a stop and the driver opened the door for him.

"Where are we?"

"My home, so please, if you would," Mycroft smiled, in a very condescending way, motioning John to exit the vehicle.

John found himself in a much nicer section of London than he normally travelled, but he barely gave it a second thought. Completely ignoring Mycroft, he headed up the front steps and through the door that was being held open for him by a manservant.

"I did try," Mycroft announced after the door had been closed behind him.

"Try what?"

John froze in his tracts at the sound of the voice that had been a daily part of his life. Sherlock Holmes walked in from the room beyond, holding a book, and flipping through it. He didn't look as if he had taken a dive off a roof. His suit was pressed, his hair recently combed and his flawless pale skin unbroken. He looked perfect. And perfectly startled when he looked up and saw John.

"John?"

John briefly noted that Sherlock dropped the book and was coming to him, arms held out. John met him halfway, his balled up fist connecting with the side of his face. A very startled Sherlock fell to the floor, landing on his backside. He looked up at John for just a moment before rising to his feet and pulling John into his arms.

"I was just trying to protect you," he whispered into the smaller man's hair. "They told me I should tell you, but he was going to kill you. If his hired assassins thought I was alive, they would kill you. And they still will, even though he's dead."

John wasn't used to hearing Sherlock babble, but since just that morning he thought he would never see him again, he just held on tight and let his silent tears soak into the front of his shirt.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry," and his voice hitched, and John knew he was crying as well, and he couldn't stand that. He pulled back and grabbed his face.

"It's alright. I'm just so grateful that you're alive. Ok, scratch that, I'm pissed you kept me out of the loop. But we'll get over that and maybe you'll learn to never do that again."

Sherlock nodded once and leaned into his partner, kissing him hard. John slid his hands around to the back of his head, tangling his fingers in his soft, curly hair, deepening the kiss, drinking in his taste. By the time they pulled apart, they were both breathing heavy. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and pinned him with his stare.

"I have to leave, John. I have to take care of Moriarty's network or you'll never be safe."

"Can't you trust the authorities to take care of this? Please, Sherlock, I can't go back to Baker Street without you."

"Then don't. Come with me. You know as well as I that Scotland Yard is helpless. They can't take care of this mess; it has to be me… and you. I should have never tried to keep you away. You're my partner; I can do this twice as fast with you."

"Yes, let's go. Our biggest adventure."

Sherlock pulled back and looked at his brother.

"Text Molly. I'm sure she's still holding onto that body she had set aside for John. Oh, and we need another set of papers and a second ticket to Bolivia."

"Bolivia?"

"It's already been taken care of," Mycroft replied, still standing by the door. "I did tell you he wouldn't let you leave without him."

"Bolivia."

"Yes, John, please try and keep up, love," Sherlock held his hand out. John grabbed it and let himself be dragged into the adjoining room where he was promptly pulled down onto a couch. "This, my dear Watson, could be dangerous."

John laughed, kissing him on his bruising cheek.

"No shit, Sherlock."

The End