Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I just like to obsess a lot.

Rating: T

Setting: During 'Reichenbach'

Words: Exactly 600.

A/N: Ah, well. This is actually a no-plot look into Sherlock's brain with its entire focus on the way he cries. It doesn't do 'Reichenbach' justice at all, nor Sherlock as a person. I just wanted to write a short analysis. It's okay if you're bored by it. Either way, I'd be glad to get a review or two. :)


The only fall that matters

Sherlock doesn't cry like normal people.

When Sherlock cries, it isn't just one tear, steadily following the other, trailing down the same course until it drips down the chin. When Sherlock cries, his eyes flood until they can't hold the salty water anymore and the tears flow over, clinging to every thin eyelash, wetting his cheeks in many paths at once.

Sherlock doesn't cry very often. He dislikes it. He dislikes the emotions beforehand, what they do to his mind, the way they fog everything up until he can't think. The way he doesn't seem to be quite himself anymore. He dislikes letting people see he is capable of such intense feelings at all. He dislikes letting himself see that.

Occasionally, Sherlock cries for a case. Sometimes, he makes up an alias that requires tears and then he likes them immensely. Tears can be powerful. They aren't hard to produce – he has complete control over his tear-ducts and the way his voice chokes up – and people are so easily fooled. One more proof of his superiority.

Right now, his irises are difficult to spot behind the very real tears in his eyes. They obscure his vision and his head is bound to feel on fire even if he doesn't actually split it open on the pavement below. He doesn't like that he can hardly see John through the overwhelming sentiments, but it can't be helped.

Sherlock is not going to die, not today. He's sure of that, has it all figured out. But John will think he's dead. John will see him fall. John will see his body sprawled out on the side of the road. John. He's almost ashamed how much he grieves for John.

Sherlock doesn't have friends. He knows better. But this silly little man with his sarcasm, his bad moods, hideous jumpers and the fact that he never gets angry or scared enough of Sherlock to leave, he has wormed his way into his heart and he knows the sentiment is mutual.

Right now, he wishes he didn't even have John. Because if he didn't have John, he wouldn't have to lie to him and he wouldn't have to make him believe he's about to kill himself.

He looks down on the man with a mobile phone in his hand – for once not a conversation to be had via texting – and he wishes he could stay. When he says 'Goodbye, John' and hears the faint scream of his name in the distance, he really, really wishes he didn't have to do this. Not just to spare his friend the misery, but because he himself will suffer knowing he can't have John around, not for an unforeseeable length of time.

He is prepared. He knows it's the only right course of action. He is scared, even though he knows he won't be seriously injured. In the last two minutes on the phone he has destroyed everything he ever had, everything that ever mattered to him – his genius. John. And he was doing the right thing.

Sherlock tells himself it's bad that John doesn't seem to believe him, but the truth is, he is glad. He's so, so glad there's at least one person in all the world who really knows him, even though he can't know what's really happening. Even though he might not see him again.

Sherlock doesn't cry like normal people. When he cries, it is much, much worse than when normal people cry. He dislikes it.

He spreads out his arms, feels the wind tear at his beloved coat and lets himself fall forward.