AN/ I need to get all the angst from Reichenbach off my chest. The Great Hiatus until S3 has begun, so expect a lot of fic written to get over it =)

Warnings: Spoilers for 2x03, warnings for suicide.


Take my hand, he says, gesturing for him to breach the gap separating them. And John does.

They are running, and scattered round them both are the debris of Sherlock's fortunes, the carcasses of his disgrace. It is just the two of them again, grasping hold of their anchors, fingers tangled in fingers, a union of limbs. There are things unspoken in the faint spaces between.

People will talk. But John has Sherlock, and they are together, even with the world at their heels. He does not concern himself with the rest.

Then it's six months later, and he has nothing. He has words carved on a gravestone. He has restless sleep, compositions of unanswered questions. He has the silence. And John is standing on that memorial ground, the tips of his toes at the boundary where roof meets air. He imagines the sudden drop. The sickening fall.

Sherlock is a step in front of him. His image hazes like a wavering flame, a magic trick, but his features are a privilege to John's memory, etched out in pallid finery, dark scarf cutting across the skin of his throat. There is no blood here. No sightless eyes.

Take my hand, he says, gesturing for him to breach the gap separating them. And John does.

It is almost like it was before.