Sherlock Holmes smiled to himself as he stepped up on the ledge, looking down at all the people bustling about, not even noticing the small figure seven stories above their heads. He smiled because he was getting out, he was free. Free from the bores of everyday life, of the mind-numbingly dull society that he'd been forced to live in. No one could stop his escape, no one cared and he didn't mind. Sherlock Holmes smiled because he was going to kill himself and he couldn't wait.

By the time Mycroft would realise what was happening it would be too late. He would get by though. The black sheep of the family wouldn't taint the Holmes' reputation anymore.

Lestrade would probably get the phone call tonight. He would be shocked and try to work out what had gone wrong and why he hadn't noticed the signs. He wouldn't grieve for long, though, a call from the dullards at Scotland Yard taking his mind off of it.

Mrs Hudson, he would admit to having regrets about. He didn't want to cause her grief; she was like a mother to him, but if all he had going for in this life was a wizened and kind landlady who occasionally made him tea and had a chat with him then it was not a life he wanted to be a part of anymore. He had left a note for his landlady, explaining things so she wouldn't blame herself, and the brief message he'd left Mycroft meant that she wouldn't be alone for very long.

All that was left to do was jump. Sherlock took another glance at the street below him, at the people chatting to each other about nothing important, at the cabs driving back and forth in search of a fare, at the congestion of traffic as the public rushed to get to work. It was all so boring. If this was as good as it got, then the planet did not need him.

Sherlock cleared his throat and then took a step forward, his eyes closed. Nothing happened. He opened one eye and looked down, surprised to note that both feet were still firmly planted on the ledge. He hadn't moved. Why hadn't he moved? He willed himself to lean forward but his body refused. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't meant to freeze. He wanted this. He wanted to die. There was nothing left here, he'd just gone over that. So why hadn't he jumped?

"It's a long way down."

Sherlock jumped and turned to look behind him. A blonde man was stood watching, leaning on a cane and seeming slightly out of breath. The stranger's hazel eyes held an air of determination and as Sherlock glanced him over a string of deductions ran through his mind.

"Can I help you?" he asked, eyebrows raised. The stranger smirked and took a few steps forward.

"No, but I'm hoping to help you." he replied and Sherlock snorted, turning to face London again.

"You can tell Mycroft to piss off, I'm not coming down." he said, half expecting a helicopter to materialise out of nowhere.

"Haven't a clue who Mycroft is but if I ever meet him I'll be sure to pass on the message." The man limped to the edge and peered over, pressing his lips together.

"Who are you, then?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

"Good Samaritan." the man muttered, still watching the crowd below him. By now, a few people had noticed the pair stood on the roof and were pointing. "Police'll be here in a mo." he continued and Sherlock knew he was right; one of the eye-witnesses will have called the emergency services. "Now's your chance." He raised his head to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"You're not going to stop me?" the detective asked, confused.

"Depends on if you want to be stopped." the man replied.

"I don't."

"Then jump." the stranger said simply as he sat down on the ledge, his legs dangling over the side.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, completely baffled.

"Getting a front row seat, what does it look like?"

"Do you find this funny?"

"Not at all. Had a mate of mine who killed himself once and I didn't laugh for six months. Your case, though, is a bit more entertaining."

"How so?" Sherlock demanded, unsure whether to be insulted or curious.

"Because you haven't jumped yet." he said, all traces of teasing gone.

Sherlock blinked, the realisation that the statement was true taking him off guard for a moment. He quickly regained his composure.

"I haven't had a chance yet. You've been here boring me." he snapped.

"You've had ample time and if I've been boring you so much the emergency exit has been down there all along." the blonde gestured to the pavement. "One step and you wouldn't have had to be listening to me." He suddenly smiled slightly. "Maybe I would have followed you just to bother you in the next life."

"You're not suicidal." Sherlock said.

"Says who?" the stranger asked conversationally.

"Says me."

"Ah, my mistake. I shouldn't have questioned the opinion of a suicidal man I've only known for a minute."

Despite the situation, a small smirk worked its way onto Sherlock's face, the first that had appeared in a long time because of someone other than himself.

Sirens blared in the distance and the smirk was wiped off. He shuffled his feet, preparing himself. He closed his eyes and told himself to just jump already.

"Should have brought some popcorn." He heard the man next to him say quietly. Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Not unless you knew you were meeting me today. I'm inclined to think your therapist would be a bit surprised, though." Ah, a way to get rid of this man.

"How did you know I was visiting my therapist? Scratch that, how did you know I had a therapist?" the stranger asked in surprise.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist."

There was silence for a moment.

"Okay, you must have known I was going to follow that with the question of how you knew my limp was psychosomatic."

"I could tell you a lot more than just how I knew your limp is psychosomatic." Sherlock said smugly.

"Maybe I really should have brought popcorn." the blonde said. "Go on, then."

"One question, first, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The stranger stared up at him for a bit, a look of utter surprise on his face. "Afghanistan. How–"

"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the fact that you're up here, trying to talk me down suggests a more caring side, so army doctor. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk but when you got up here you'd been stood talking to me for a while, seemingly forgetting about your limp."

"But I've sat down." the man said.

"Not because of your limp, though. Like you said earlier, front row seat. You keep looking down at the pavement as if contemplating what it would be like to just jump. You've contemplated suicide, then, but there's no desperate urge to end your life so you used to be suicidal but you're not anymore, possibly down to your therapist. Bags under your eyes suggest you've not been sleeping well so you suffer from nightmares. The nightmares and the fact that your limp is psychosomatic says that the circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, PTSD, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"How did you know I was visiting my therapist today?"

"You've written it on your hand."

A long pause ensued and Sherlock smirked to himself, content that he'd finally driven this man away.

"That was... amazing."

Sherlock glanced down at him, eyebrows knitted together. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

The detective huffed. "S'not what people normally say." he muttered under his breath.

"What do people normally say?" the blonde asked, hearing Sherlock despite the low volume.

Sherlock sighed. "Piss off." he said.

The stranger frowned. "And that reaction," he said slowly. "Would be the reason you're up here?" he guessed.

"More or less." the detective responded. "It's just so boring. Nobody thinks anymore. There is absolutely nothing out there that can excite me anymore."

"I hear you." the man murmured. "What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Sherlock Holmes." he answered without thinking.

"Well, Sherlock Holmes, I'd like to say it gets better but I'm having a hard time believing that myself."

The detective smirked again. At least there was one person on this planet who was not as dull as the rest.

"Did I get anything wrong? About you?" he asked.

There was a pause before the blonde replied. "No, you didn't get anything wrong." he said absent-mindedly. He blinked and seemed to shake himself out of his stupor, glancing up at Sherlock. "But with those mind-reading abilities of yours, surely you could do something with them?"

"I already do something with them." Sherlock said.

"And what's that?"

"I'm a consulting detective."

"A what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A consulting detective. It means that whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"I see." the man said, though it sounded as though he didn't quite understand. "And how often do they consult you?"

"Two or three times a week, depending on how complex a case is."

The man was frowning. "I would have thought the police would be against outside help. They don't tend to like vigilantes, do they?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I only aid... one of the detectives there. Others do not like my suggestions."

A black, unmarked police car parked outside St. Bart's and a grey-haired man got out and ran towards them. The pair watched him. "And I'm guessing that one detective you help is now on his way to stop you from making a mistake. Have you thought about who you might hurt if you do this?" the stranger said.

"Of course I have." Sherlock snapped. "They wouldn't care."

"Tell that to the man who just ran inside." the blonde said. "He didn't exactly look as if he was coming to get a front row seat like me."

"He's only here so I can keep helping him on cases. He doesn't care about my life."

"Then why hasn't he come with the rest of the squad cars now pulling up?" the stranger gestured to the five or six patrol cars squealing to a halt, police officers dashing out and getting people out of the way of the hospital. "You've got an audience. It's now or never." the man said, looking up at Sherlock, his hazel eyes examining him closely.

Sherlock glanced down at him. "You won't grab me?"

"I won't grab you." the blonde agreed after taking a breath.

"You're just going to let me jump?"

"I'm just going to let you jump."

Sherlock watched as the crowd below him expanded as more and more people saw what was happening.

"Go out with a bang, isn't that the phrase?" Sherlock muttered, thinking that these strangers were probably hoping he'd jump, just so they'd be able to go home to their loved ones and fret about how traumatised they are. Oh, they'd cheer if he stepped down, but there'd be an air of disappointment as they all left to go back to their normal, dull lives. "My emergency exit." he said to himself.

The man next to him seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Don't want to disappoint, do you? I wouldn't be surprised if they have popcorn."

Sherlock scrutinized the blonde by his side, who wasn't paying attention to him, instead gazing out at the masses.

"This'll be something to tell your therapist about." he said. The man nodded but didn't say anything.

"You're late for your appointment. It's just gone eleven."

"I was late anyway." he replied, looking back up at Sherlock.

"Why haven't you left, if you're not going to stop me?" the detective asked.

The army doctor shrugged. "I'm not going to leave you in your last moments. Nobody deserves that."

"How touching." Sherlock said with an eye roll.

"Call me a sentimentalist, that's just what I think." he said, just as the door to the roof behind them clanged open.

"And if I don't jump, what are you going to do?"

The man thought for a moment. "Then I will make us exchange numbers so that if you ever get this urge again, I'll be here with the popcorn." he said, not breaking contact.

"Sherlock, please get down from there." He heard Lestrade plead with him from behind, but he did not break eye contact with the army doctor sat next to his leg. Everybody had gone quiet; the crowd below him, the doctor next to him, the detective behind him. They all watched and waited for Sherlock to make his move.

"Sentiment makes you weak." he said quietly. His stranger didn't answer.

"It is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"Who are we fighting against?" the doctor asked gently.

Sherlock sighed. "Ourselves." he said, and then reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and held it out for the army man to take.

He heard Lestrade swear behind him and call off the police cars. The doctor beamed at him, his whole form relaxing with relief, and the detective couldn't help but smile back as his phone was taken from him.

Lestrade's arms wrapped around his waist then, yanking him back from the edge and he was pulled into a crushing hug, the DI still cursing and swearing at him.

"You stupid, stupid berk." he said. "Don't you ever think of doing something like that again. Jesus Christ, I'm too old for that, I don't think my heart could take it."

Sherlock let out a huff of laughter and a moment later the door to the roof opened again and Mycroft strode forward, looking as poised and elegant as always. His face was expressionless, and as Lestrade let go of Sherlock and stepped back awkwardly, the detective turned to face his brother.

"Really, Mycroft, I'm surprised it took you so long. Did the diet get in the way aga–oomph."

To his utter surprise, his brother had also enveloped him in a hug, one hand resting on Sherlock's back whilst the other wound itself in the detective's curls, pulling him close. Mycroft rested his chin atop Sherlock's head, closing his eyes and not saying anything. Sherlock was too stunned to speak, and he numbly linked his arms around his big brother's waist.

They parted moments later, Mycroft straightening his suit and Sherlock adjusting his scarf. Mycroft's piercing eyes looked him up and down before he glanced at his feet.

"A car is parked below and it will take you back to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson has found your note and is waiting to be reassured that you haven't done anything stupid." he said, holding out his phone, and Sherlock could hear shrill crying on the other end. Reluctantly he took it, and it took him a good five minutes to calm her down and apologise, promising to come back to Baker Street. When he finally rung off Mycroft had left, and the DI took the phone and held out Sherlock's.

"I was given this by the bloke who was sat with you. Dunno where he went. Who was he?" Greg asked, and Sherlock looked around, surprised to realise that he hadn't noticed the army doctor leave. He glanced down at his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he came upon a recently labelled one named 'Alternate Emergency Exit.' He smiled to himself, finding that he wasn't fussed he hadn't gotten the doctor's name.

He gazed at Lestrade, who was still waiting for an answer. "My friend." he answered, before heading towards the exit, leaving the DI asking where Sherlock had gained a friend.

It was two weeks later when Sherlock's phone went off in his pocket. He was at a crime scene with Lestrade early in the morning, crouched over the body of a dead woman and spurring off deductions. Ever since the incident at Bart's Lestrade had been round Baker Street every other day, pretending to call about this case and that, or just asking to solve problems, but Sherlock was aware that the DI always spoke to Mrs Hudson before he came to see the detective, obviously asking whether he'd had another attempt.

When his phone went off he ignored it, assuming it was Mycroft or someone else who could wait. This murder could not wait. It was too deliciously complex and anything else could be put off.

It was five in the evening when Sherlock trudged up the steps to 221B and entered the living room. He collapsed onto the sofa, not particularly tired, he told himself, but just in need of a few minutes rest.

When he woke up the next day it had just turned four in the morning. And the reason for his early wake up was his phone trilling in his pocket. With a frown he pulled it out, blearily reading the caller ID only to find it was an unknown number. He accepted the call and held the mobile to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Mr. Holmes?" a female voice asked.

"Yes, who's this?" he responded.

"I'm calling from St Mary's Hospital and my name is Doctor Gladd. You're listed as John Watson's emergency contact."

John Watson? He'd never met the man. He'd never even heard the name. He was about to tell the doctor that they'd made a mistake when curiosity got a hold of him. The case had just been finished and he had nothing to do today, so why not solve the mystery of John Watson? True, it was probably just a weird coincidence but if it staved off boredom for a while then he'd take anything.

"Yes, that's right, I'm his partner." he lied smoothly. "What's happened?" he adopted a worried voice as he spoke.

"Dr Watson was found unconscious in his flat. It turns out he has overdosed on sleeping pills."

Attempted suicide, then. That still didn't present any links to Sherlock or how this John Watson had gotten his name. Might as well meet the man.

"Will he be alright?" he asked as he got up to put on his coat.

"We're unsure at the moment. He came in five minutes ago and his stomach is currently being pumped."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes." Sherlock said and hung up, trotting down the stairs. Hopefully he'd get to see this stranger before he died, but it seemed unlikely.

It was surprisingly easy to call a cab at this time of the morning and as the taxi set off Sherlock suddenly remembered that someone had tried to call the day before. He looked through his missed calls and was surprised to find that his 'Alternate Emergency Exit' had tried to phone him. Sherlock frowned. It was unusual, seeing as the doctor hadn't contacted him since they'd last met, and Sherlock could think of no other reason why he would want to call now.

It bugged him for the rest of the journey but he promptly forgot about it when the taxi pulled up outside St Mary's. He got out, paid, and walked into the reception area of the hospital and was pleased to see a doctor strolling towards him, meaning he wouldn't have to ask at reception about the whereabouts of this Dr Watson.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the doctor asked and he nodded. She broke into a slight smile and held out her hand. "Doctor Gladd. We spoke on the phone."

"Yes, I remember." the detective muttered. "Where's John?"

The pair began to walk, Dr Gladd speaking as they headed down various corridors. "He's in the ICU at the minute. He's stable but we want to keep him there at least for a few hours." she explained, and Sherlock nodded.

They rounded a corner into another corridor and Dr Gladd stopped suddenly. "He's in the last ward." she said, gesturing vaguely. "I'll leave you two to it."

"Thank you, Doctor." he said and she nodded and walked off. Sherlock had decided not to ask her which bed he'd be in, considering he had no idea what Dr Watson looked like, so he made his way to the last ward and walked down the short aisle, scanning each figure in the six beds. He got to the end of the aisle and was about to turn and leave, thinking that this really wasn't worth his time, before his eyes snagged on one person in a bed to the right of him. He slowly walked forward, shocked at the sight of his Alternate Emergency Exit lying unconscious.

The army doctor had an oxygen mask strapped around his face and an IV attached to his left hand. Sherlock stopped at the end of his bed, still staring at the small form. The blonde looked vulnerable in this state, nothing like calm man he met two weeks ago. The bags under his eyes had worsened and he had lost a noticeable amount of weight. His skin was an unhealthy pallor, looking worryingly pale, and the doctor seemed to have an air of sadness about him, of hopelessness. A sudden snippet of their conversation they'd had a fortnight ago came back to him:

"Did I get anything wrong? About you?"

"...No, you didn't get anything wrong."

The pause, the pause before the doctor gave his answer should have told him that yes, he did get something wrong because Sherlock can remember stating that this man before him was not suicidal, not anymore, and he had been wrong. His stranger – scratch that, John Watson, because he had had a name and Sherlock hadn't asked it of him – had called him yesterday, hoping Sherlock would be there to listen because he was about to do something stupid and Sherlock had assumed it was Mycroft and deemed it unimportant. John Watson was not unimportant. The fact that Sherlock only spoke to him for around ten minutes and yet had deemed him important should be proof enough to show that he was important.

John had talked him down from that ledge (not in the way anyone else would have; he was a lot more subtle but it had still worked. In fact, Sherlock doubted it would have worked if John had been more blunt and pleading) and Sherlock had ignored the call that might possibly have prevented the doctor from doing this. Sherlock was surprised to find himself angry; after all, he barely knew the man, but he had managed to make such an impression that Sherlock immediately felt guilty. He vowed then and there to stay until John woke up. "I'm not going to leave you in your last moments. Nobody deserves that."

Aside from making a quick stop to the small convenience shop the hospital housed, Sherlock spent the next three hours sat in a chair next to John's bedside. Nurses had come and gone, one of them removing the oxygen mask and all the while Sherlock had remained silent and stoic.

He had looked through John's phone at one point, having wanted to know why he had been listed as John's emergency contact. He scrolled through the contacts and was shocked to find only two names: Harry Watson and ICE Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock wondered why John's brother (it must be his brother, the engraving on the back of the phone was a young man's gadget) wasn't listed 'in case of emergency'. He had been even more surprised to find that when he clicked on his own contact, John had written his middle name as 'Alternate Emergency Exit', going on to prove that John Watson was, in fact, suicidal.

A groan from the bed shook Sherlock out of his stupor and he sat straighter, leaning over the railings of the bed. John's eyes opened slowly, squinting at the harsh light, but soon those hazel eyes focused and a hand clumsily came to scrub at them.

"It's a long way down." Sherlock said, repeating John's first words to him two weeks ago. The doctor jumped and looked across at him, eyebrows knitting together.

"What're you doin' here?" he croaked, words slurring slightly.

"I bought popcorn." He held up the bag he'd bought from the convenience shop an hour ago and was pleased to see John smile slightly.

"I called to see if you wanted a front row seat, but there was no answer." he mumbled tiredly. "You missed the show."

"I'm here for the encore, though." Sherlock said persistently. "You don't need to take the emergency exit again."

"Don' think I will." John murmured. "Isn't half as fun as using the revolving doors at the front entrance."

"Good." Sherlock breathed.

"Can we stop talking in metaphors, please? S'hurting my head."

"Apologies." Sherlock said. "Are you alright?" he asked sincerely.

John sighed. "No. But I'm hoping it'll get better."

"I'd like to say it will..." Sherlock trailed off and John smirked.

"At least we've got the popcorn." he muttered.

"What happened to not talking in metaphors?"

"Oh yeah, sorry. M'too tired to be thinking straight." He looked Sherlock up and down. "How've you been?"

"Fine, fine, fine." he said cheerfully, knowing that this was what relatives do to those in hospital; make them think everything was alright. John gave him a faintly amused expression.

"Three fines. You must be peachy." he said.

Sherlock chuckled and John smiled tiredly.

"John Watson." the doctor said.

"Sherlock Holmes." the detective replied with a smirk.

"Pleasure." John mumbled, eyelids drooping.

Sherlock leant forward. "Can I ask you something, John?" he asked.

"Anything." Was the reply.

He took a breath. "How do you feel about the violin?"

There was a faint frown. "Is that another metaphor?"

END