A/N: This story idea began with a song and an image in my head.

The song is When I'm Up (I Can't Get Down) by Great Big Sea from the album Play. Originally performed by The Oyster Band.

The image is of John and Sherlock running through the streets of London at night. It comes from the line in the song Black skies are grinning,street lights are spinning. Ever since I started watching (and re-watching) Sherlock when I hear this song I can't get that image out of my head, so I wrote a story to go with it.

This is my interpretation. I hope you enjoy it.

Once again I am sadden to say I do not own. That right belongs to BBC, Doyle, Gatiss, and Moffat. May they continue to drive us crazy.

Any mistakes are mine.

Update – because I included the lyrics, I had to re-edit this piece – it's not what I had written originally– you should listen to or at least read the lyrics for this piece to see where I got my inspiration. I still have a copy of the original work at my house!

Lifted Up, Crashing Down

It starts with respect

Which leads to bemusement and affection

And turns into



Complete and absolute

Joy in the running and in the chase.

Joy with this man, because of this man, he is enthralling and I watch him, listen to his breakneck, rapid-fire thoughts, thoughts that can lay waste to a person's innermost, privileged workings and tear them apart to investigate, to solve.

I am held captive.

Quicksilver thoughts. Quicksilver tongue.

Scathing for others, but for me, even at their harshest, softened, the edge removed.

The world is there for us

Or at least London is,

At our feet.

There is no one I trust more.

Our trust is in each other.


Laughter falling from the skies, jumping, traversing rooftops, breathless from the hunt.

Laughter back at the flat.


Raised high

The rapture of solving the puzzle, playing the game. Mine is watching him work, watching him think.

Refusing nothing

Glances bruise, looks filled with unspoken heat, unspoken thoughts.

Flying up the stairs, pushed hard and firm against a closed door, hands reaching and fumbling.

Drowning in his eyes


A first brush of lips and it blossoms up and fills us both. His mouth on mine. The quicksilver tongue gentle and tentative, unsure at first, and he's never unsure. Then demanding, claiming, making me his. The feeling of falling and being caught and his mouth, god his mouth, is everywhere and it's safe and it's dangerous and it's petrifying and it's bliss.

And there's no coming down from this high.

After the passion and the lift, it's soft sighs and moans and caresses and murmurs.

He lifted me, but I tether him.

And he says my name.

Just once

Looking into my eyes.


The sweetness of completion.

The morning comes and he blinks and that crazy madman, that lunatic is grinning and it's so perfect and real. His impossible beauty. Beautiful is not the word you use to describe a man.

But he is. God help me, he is.

His hand reaches up and traces bruised lips, his mouth set for apology and I reach up and run my hands through a wild tangle of curls.

Why apologize for something desired?

But later

There is nothing to take away the edge of what he is feeling.

What he can't control.

And it's strong

The desire to wreck havoc

And to find something to occupy and fill the never-ending, relentless tedium.


Nothing works, nothing distracts

His mobile rings.

"Will you come?"

"How could I refuse?" he breathes. A swirl of coat and we're out running.

If he can't refuse, how can I?

I am helpless against him.

My focus of attention and attraction

The rush of the night. Tracking through the winding streets, filled with night sounds and a kaleidoscope of lights. London at night with this man. Others are there to help with the capture, but they're peripheral and they hold no interest and they don't, in the end, matter. The capture and the rush and the thrill and the passion.

The passion

The fervency

The fanaticism

I am a disciple under his touch, his intellect, his piercing stare.

But after the fall, his fall, it's dark and cold and the nights are lonely and lost.

Who does a fanatic worship when their object of obsession is destroyed?

And there is no more lift and no more rush and no more passion. I stumble to the ground.

All that's left are the memories and they hurt and are sharp and searing and they cut and burn.

Because he is gone

He fell

And he died

He fell, but I crashed


And down?

Down is a hell of a long way from up.