"You didn't have a plan?"

"No." Sherlock sounded almost ashamed, but his back was turned so John couldn't be sure.

"That was you? Falling? It wasn't a trick? That was really you?"

"The distance from the roof of Saint Barth's to the pavement is approximately seventy feet. People have fallen that far and survived before."

"They've fallen that far and died before too. Those things you said. Your note." John had to swallow several times before he could continue speaking. "You thought you were going to die, didn't you?"

"There was a possibility of survival, with a windspeed of fifteen miles per hour, at an angle of-"

"Didn't you?"

"Yes."

John shook his head, like he was disagreeing with something. "And you did it to save me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," said Sherlock. "I did it to save Mrs. Hudson."

John let out a laugh, choked and desperate.

He finished binding Sherlock's ribs, making sure the conforming bandage was secure, smoothing the gauze down onto itself. Sherlock had, impossibly, lost weight in the past two years, with no one to force biscuits on him in between cases. His vertebrae were visible, and John could feel his heart beat through the pale, papery skin of his back.

"There was no pulse."

"You missed it."

"I didn't."

"You must have. Molly and my homeless network moved me quickly. She still made the swap, had me transported to a hospital out of the country before the press had even smelled blood."

He knew it was just a metaphor, but as soon as Sherlock said that, John could see the blood in between the paving stones, in between his fingers, in Sherlock's eyes. Maybe they were both a little cracked.

Sherlock's shoulders bowed slightly, like he'd finished a case and could finally rest. The adrenaline had to be wearing off, from the pain, from the job, from the past two years.

"I never meant for you to see it."

"I believe you," said John. He laughed again, this time a little less desperate. "Always did."