When they shook hands, Moriarty was blank.

Too late, Sherlock realized what this meant, recoiling only as he heard the shot ring out.

The pool of blood grew larger under his head.

Dead people didn't have futures.

Everything was cloudy, but Sherlock realized what he'd have to do.

He phoned John. He was just arriving at the hospital now; in fact, Sherlock could see him from his position on the roof.

The edge of the roof.

Sherlock pleaded and John came back.

Sherlock stretched his hand out, his voice breaking.

If only he could touch him, to see what the future would bring.

But once he saw it, he couldn't change it. No matter what happened.

He swallowed. In a way, it was good that they couldn't touch. He might not have been able to stop himself had he been able to reach him.

Goodbye John.

And then he'd done it.

Moriarty was right; falling was just like flying.

But then there was concrete, and little else mattered after that.

He'd landed awkwardly, and considering he couldn't feel his legs, had broken his spine.

He really didn't want to know what else, but damn his brain, categorizing and sorting, letting him know that his pelvis was broken, maybe a leg or two, not that he could feel them, he was bleeding internally, and had a collapsed lung.

And the head injury.

Considering all those things, he was surprised he was still conscious.

Perhaps the universe was angry he'd screwed with his fate, and was forcing him to face John making his way through the crowd, mumbling something that sounded a lot like 'he's my friend'.

Because his eyes were open, and he couldn't seem to be able to shut them, and then John reached for his wrist, that much he could feel, and Sherlock focused all his remaining energy on seeing just the next few seconds, not knowing what would come after. Not wanting to.

Pain. There was mostly pain.

Hints of anger, terror, sorrow, shame, and even hints of guilt. (Off in this distance, so far away that it could barely be felt, there was... something. Something beyond all that pain for John to feel. Oh. It was joy.)

But now, there was only pain.

Sherlock wasn't sure if what he was feeling now was his own physical pain, or John's future emotional pain.

But really, did it matter?

Because with the paradox created between a future that he saw himself, alive and well, and a present that seemed impossible to facilitate that, Sherlock had hope that John's life could end better.

Even if he wasn't in it.