A/N: A little late in the game, but here's my Sherlock's Fall fic. Short and sad.


Sherlock's hands.

All he can think about.

Sherlock gripping his hand as they ran. Sherlock, on the edge of the roof, reaching his hand out for John. Someone had lifted Sherlock's hand, felt his wrist with their hands for a pulse.

He had reached for Sherlock then, hadn't he? Held out his hand to be taken though the distance was too far to bridge.

Sherlock's hand lifting a pill to his mouth. Sherlock's hand tensing and unclenching as Sherlock lay on the sofa, deep in thought. Delicate hold on a violin bow that sweeps out staccato sharp melodies.

Sherlock, searching for something to hold onto even as he prepares to fall.

Always Sherlock. Sherlock and his blasted, beautiful hands that John could never quite grasp.

Sherlock holding a pipet steady above a beaker. Sherlock reaching for John. Other hands had lifted him onto a stretcher, hands that were not John's because John's own hands were limp against the sidewalk.

Who had taken Sherlock's pulse? Whose hands had borne him away from John?

John's hand on Sherlock's tombstone.

He thinks, maybe if held on tighter Sherlock wouldn't have fallen.