John didn't have a plan. He didn't have a real reason to go up on the roof. He was just trying to get away and get his head straight, like he always did when his memories threatened to drown him in their haunting waves. His feet always seemed to take him up to the roof. Everything seemed to lead up to that roof.

Mycroft Holmes had found him there several times.

The roof was always the first place Mycroft would check when John would go missing. Mycroft would usually send Lestrade to go coax him down and make sure he got back to his flat safely.

There was one time, during a particularly miserable day that John was having, that he was surprised to see that Mycroft himself had come up on the roof.

He didn't say anything to John. Didn't try to drag him down or try to reason with him. He just nodded at him and went and sat on old paint bucket someone had left there. Draping the black umbrella in the crook of his arm, Mycroft let John cry silently as he knelt on his knees before the ledge.

After he was ready to go, Mycroft took him home, made him a cup of tea and, before leaving, looked him straight in the eyes and gently told him that, "The telephone works both ways you know, John." and he had left as silently as he came. John later found the black umbrella lying on the bare kitchen table in his flat with a note that read: For the rainy days, I know you'll take care of it. M.H.

John didn't have to pay a visit to the roof for weeks after that day. Mycroft had been the only one to allow him to be ready to leave on his own.

They took many trips to the roof, John and that black umbrella. It would spread its black wings over him. Keeping lonely vigil, protecting him from the rain and storm clouds of the outside as he was being battered and drowned by the storms on the inside. As the skies wept over it and John wept beneath it.

He heard the door to the roof exit slowly creak open.

Sherlock could see John standing on the edge of the roof, his head bowed and he was leaning on his cane with his head resting in his free hand. As he drew closer, he could see John's shoulders shaking slightly with quiet sobs.

"John." He called softly to his friend so as not to startle him. He saw John's head rise and his shoulders stiffen back into his military shell.

"Back again to haunt me, Sherlock?"

His lifeless voice floated through the air, mixing with the cold wind that the storm clouds had brought with them.

The cold words sliced through Sherlock like a knife.

Maybe John was right and he did die from his fall off the roof and he took John with him. Maybe they were both dead like John believed and Sherlock felt. And they just secretly didn't want to admit it so they kept on believing that if they kept pretending to breathe they could make it through another night.

He slowly walked toward John. He tried to control his trembling voice "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

Sherlock felt so fragile and hollow. It felt like the cold wind would sweep him away. Isn't that what happens to faded and worn out ghosts? They get blown away.

John's worn out laugh was filled with pain and bitterness. "Since when have you cared if I was alright?"

Sherlock flinched against the words. "I have always cared, John, you of all people would know. You were the one who taught me how to care."

John slowly turned to face him, the look on his face confirmed all of Sherlock's fears.

"The only thing I know is that I know nothing." He whispered. "Everything I used to know doesn't matter anymore. I was all for believing once, but now..." His flat and empty voice trailed off and the cold wind stole it away.

Fear gripped Sherlock and it filled his voice; he stretched out his hand to John.

"It does! It does matter. If you do this it will be like saying everything that ever happened to us was for nothing. What we had, what we used to be was real-It still is real."

"If you do this it will mean that Moriarty wins, even though he's dead, if he gets you it will mean all the work and all the time I spent tracking down his men was just the battle and losing John Watson means losing the war. And he will have won."

Sherlock took another faltering step toward John and then froze fearing that if he moved too fast it would push him even further into jumping.

He turned in a circle agitatedly, his coat floating behind him. Swiping at his trembling mouth with the back of his hand he tried desperately to think of a way to keep John from jumping.

Sherlock whirled around to face John again, his face drawn in regret and overwhelming emotion.

"That's why I tried and fought so hard to come back, to come back for the both of use so we can begin again.

"You don't have to do this, John, please. It doesn't have to end here. I... I need you."

He took a tiny step toward John, fastening his eyes onto John's and holding out his hand toward him again, just like all those months ago.

"I never understood before, the phrase, "you never realize how much you need it until you lose it." I finally understood what it truly meant during the nights when I was alone and I had no John beside me. All I could do was think of you and how you were doing, wishing you were here and that I would give anything to just be able to sit and have a cup a tea with you again."

Sherlock tried to keep his voice controlled. He found that it was getting harder and harder to keep himself in control every second that John stayed on the ledge.

"I... I don't want you to be just a casualty. It's too late for me, John, but you... I never want you to turn into a casualty."

Something in Sherlock's voice made John pause. He closed his eyes and blinked away tears. Why wouldn't Sherlock just leave him alone?

Tears began to blur Sherlock's vision, and he felt one slide down his cheek. How did they get here, to this point? He never meant for John to end this way. He had tried so hard to save him but all his efforts had been in vain. And now he was watching John stand exactly where he stood once, with the same look on his face, like there was no way of going back.

This was John's note. Isn't that what people did? Leave notes.

John turned away from Sherlock, looking back down at to the street below.

"I have been dead a long time, Sherlock. You don't need me, if you needed me you wouldn't have left me so easily." John whispered the grief overcoming his hollow voice.

"You left me," John whispered, tears making his voice waver. "You left me behind just like everyone else I have known. Everyone always leaves." He raised his hand to the air and letting it fall limply by his side he turned to face Sherlock again. Tear filled blue eyes met fear filled grey ones whose tears were already escaping

"Just let me go, Sherlock. I'll see you again soon and when I do, it won't matter anymore for you can't haunt a true ghost."

Sherlock took another tiny step toward John. His heart was beating madly, like a drum. Fear and desperation made his voice start to shake "Please, John, come down and lets talk about this, I know we can find a way.

"I'm not a ghost, and neither are you, I'm real, John. You're real, I promise. Please just let me show you."

The outstretched hand shook in the wind, and John had to stick his own trembling hand into his pocket to keep from reaching out to it.

Sherlock took another tiny step closer to John.

"Take my hand. You don't have to hide from me, not anymore.

"I know what you're feeling, I know you're too scared to face the future anymore and you're just looking for a place to stop running and rest in peace. So am I."

Another tear slide down Sherlock's face but he couldn't feel them anymore. "I'm... I'm so tired and scared I have no idea what to do. But I know I have to try. That we have to try. At least for each other. We have made it this far, John. We can't throw it away now."

Sherlock took another step closer to John, the wind was picking up now. The rain dripped from Sherlock's black curls as the wind blew his tattered coat around him.

"Don't throw it all away like this. Don't turn into me, you're a better man than I'll ever be and I couldn't bear you turning into me. Please, John, don't throw away the only good thing that you ever had, away."

John looked down at the empty street below. He wanted to desperately believe this Sherlock that was begging him was real. He wanted nothing more badly as he wanted to jump off the ledge to run and grab and to hold on to him and to believe his words. But he couldn't let himself. He knew this apparition would just disappear again, leaving John alone to the fear and silence and he would have to go though the memories and pain all over again.

John sighed and shook his head. Thunder sounded in the distance.

"All this time I was so dead and you were - are alive. All of the mourning I did for you and times I spent thinking I should have done something different. I must not have been a very good friend if you didn't even trust me to tell me you were still alive and just left me to face all that grief alone. And then here you come back now and you're all "I'm not dead, John, It was a fake, John."

"I'm not sure how I feel about it; I'm not sure what to do."

"Emotion gripped Sherlock's voice even tighter as he took another step closer to the ledge. "You are not just my friend, John, you are my only friend and the only one I've ever wanted and I'm sorry the only way I could show it was to make you suffer like this."

Another step closer to the ledge. Another step to refusing to accept John's note.

"It's why I didn't contact you, because you are my friend. You told me once that friends protect each other and that's what I did because I didn't want any one to have a chance to hurt you."

"But it looks like someone did anyway... I did." Sherlock's voice trailed into a whisper. He took another step closer to the ledge, his hand still held out to John.

"I know what you're feeling. It's like the shadows have taken over your mind and you can't feel or see anything. Like the colors are gone and everything seems cold even if you can't feel it anymore. And the only thing you can feel is the shadows inside yourself and you can't imagine how you'll ever break away from them."

Sherlock was close to John now, he could see John trembling and the tears staining his cheeks. The wind softly ruffled John's hair as a streak of lightning touched the ground somewhere in the distance.

Sherlock took another step closer, his deep baritone breaking as his tears tried to steal it away.

"I think we have been given another chance, at least you have. If anyone deserved another chance it's you and that's why I came back. So I could give it to you."

Sherlock took another step, never taking his eyes off of John.

"So I could give you the second chance that I stole when I jumped from the roof and faked my death. You deserve to have it more than I ever will and I don't want it... not anymore, not if it means losing you like this..."

Sherlock's voice died in the wind as John looked at him, grief and anger flowing through his face.

"Why did you jump, Sherlock? Why did you lie and say that you were a fake? You were my best friend, Sherlock, and you left me. How dare you! I begged y-"

He was cut off by Sherlock, who silently strode over the last few feet of the roof to him and wrapped his long, thin arms around him, dragging him away from the ledge as he buried his black curly head in John's shoulder and held onto him as if he would never let him go.

He's so thin, Oh, John, what have I done to you? I never meant to hurt you like this, never realized that it would be this bad.

John desperately tried to break away from Sherlock, fighting against the strong arms that held him. But Sherlock, unwilling to surrender John back to that place of pain and despair he had been trapped in for so long. Just would not let him go.

John only stopped his efforts to escape when he heard Sherlock sob and felt his tears brush John's cheek. As Sherlock's tears fell and mixed with John's something inside John broke, and he cried like he hadn't cried in ages.

He felt his anger and grief wash out of him and finally surrendering to Sherlock's embrace, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's own much too thin body and held onto his friend, terrified that he was just a dream and would slip through his fingers like he did in all of his dreams and he buried his face in Sherlock's chest.

He knew now for sure that this was the real Sherlock and there would be no more ghosts. Because ghosts cannot weep like the person who held onto him for dear life.

They held each other and they cried. They cried for each other and for the people they used to be.

The rain continued to fall.

Tears mixed with rain.

And the wind sighed.

"Please, John," John heard Sherlock tearfully whisper into his shoulder. "Forgive me, I never meant to hurt you like this; I never meant to drive you to this place on the roof. I never meant to leave you here, like this. Don't turn me away, John. Please let me come back and live again, don't make be go back to the dark place where I've come. Please, let me come home."

Everything that had built up in Sherlock over those long and hard months began to overflow in him and he knew this was his last and only chance to tell John the truth.

"I'll go if you want me to, but I never want to leave again. I never meant to hurt you and I never wanted to leave you, but it was just the only way I could think of to keep you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson from dying.

His voice was shaking more than ever now and he closed his eyes as tears of weariness and grief escaped them.

"I didn't mean to kill you by saving you, I'm sorry, John. I know it's not fair to ask your forgiveness for I know I'll never deserve it, but please let me come back. I want to live again and you're the only one who will let me."

John tightened his arms around his much alive and not a ghost-friend. He gripped the frayed black Belfast coat. "Of course I forgive you. You big idiot," John sobbed. "Please stay, please... I don't want you to leave again. I wasn't really going to jump; I was just trying to get my head straight."

John never believed that he would see the day someone would actually remember and come back for him. No one ever came back for him.

He had spent his life trying to save and help the broken but no one had ever tried to save and fix him before. He never thought that a tired, physically and mentally war scarred army doctor would actually matter to someone.

But he understood now, as he stood there in the rain. Holding onto the one who did remember him. Holding onto him like the world would end.

"I'm so glad you came back, Sherlock. I'm so glad you remembered me. I'm afraid I'm not sure if I know much about this living business. The day of your funeral it seemed like they buried both of us. I'm not sure I even know how to live any more, it's like the words of a song I used to love to sing but when you died I forgot the words."

Sherlock clutched John's jumper, that dear old familiar blue jumper. His voice broke as tears of relief threatened to choke him, as John's words seeped into his mind.

"Anyone who could forget you, John Watson is a fool. The words will come back to you John; I promise I'll find them for you."

"I've missed you, John, missed you so much it hurt. It took everything I had not to contact you, to let you know the truth. There wasn't a day that went by that I didn't think of you. I'm so sorry that I have been able to help other people but was only able to hurt you. You have stopped eating, you have stopped living and I'm sorry for never realizing you would stop caring. Please don't stop, John."

Sherlock's desperate words ran through John. Tearing down the last bit of grief and anger inside of him.

"Do you think there is any hope for us, Sherlock? Can we ever go back to what we used to be? I'm so tired of being a shadow and I'm terrified because I think I have forgotten how to be a real person."

Sherlock clung to John, blinking back tears. "We'll learn to live again," he whispered against John's shoulder. "We'll find ourselves again, I promise you we will. I won't let us...I won't let you end this way."

John could hear Sherlock's heart beating, the rhythm soaking into John. The feeling of sound running through him, scattering the darkness.

He so desperately wanted to believe those bare hearted words.

"Are you sure, Sherlock, are you sure that we can?"

Sherlock raised his tear streaked face to the grey clouds, his eyes catching a bit of sun trying to break through and he held John tighter.

"I promise you, John Watson."

That was all John needed to hear and it felt like those whispered words had just given him a new breath of life.

"I trust you, Sherlock, I have always trusted you." John replied softly, his face buried in Sherlock's coat as the rain washed his tears away.

"Do you think Mrs. Hudson will let us come back to Baker Street?" Sherlock weakly asked as they finally loosened their embrace and shakily wiped their eyes.

"Oh I know she will, I can't wait to see what she does when she sees you," replied John, laughing softly through the last of his tears.

Sherlock shook his head, sniffing as he wiped at his chin with his sleeve. "Ten pounds says she slaps me in the face then hugs me."

"I'll take you up on it." John quipped.

"Do you think we should get off this roof before we get struck by lightning?' Sherlock asked as he took hold the sleeve of John's jumper.

John nodded. "Good idea."

He let Sherlock lead him across the roof to the exit door. Sherlock's hand still clutching the sleeve of his jumper, as if he wanted to make sure that John was still real and he wouldn't disappear on him.

The rain had almost stopped as they reached the street and the signs of a newborn rainbow began to appear above them.

"Well then, shall we go home?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled, his eyes growing brighter like someone had just turned on a light.

"I have waited so long for someone to ask me that. There is no place where I'd rather go."

They walked toward the safe refuge they always had called home, the place they knew would be waiting for them.

The clouds drifted away and the sun appeared and shined down on the wet street.

Sherlock and John walked side by side, each clutching the bit of hem of the others sleeve.

Scared to death of what and who they would find in the upcoming future, and wondering how they could ever become real again.

They didn't know what would be ahead of coming back.

But among all the fears, something inside them knew that whatever journey they would have to take, it wouldn't be nearly as bad knowing that they weren't walking that path alone.

The two men walked down the street. They seemed to be only shadows, but the closer to Baker Street they got, the more real and animated they became, until the only image of shadows that hung about them were the ones that were being cast by the setting sun, breaking through the clouds and shining behind them.

A/N: The sequel "We Might Not Make It Home" ties right into this if you are interested in seeing what happens to them next and if they will ever be alright again.

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