Uh, hi! This is my first fanfic and I have utterly no idea what to write here. Currently I have no beta so you're welcome to point out any mistakes or give constructive criticism.

Warning: Contains spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.

Falling

There were only four times that Sherlock Holmes fell and truly felt it.

The first time was when he was 11. School was out for the day and he had decided that heading directly home was a waste of the precious daylight hours; instead he decided to visit the local park.

It was a small thing with swings to the left, slides on the right and monkey bars in the middle.

Out of everything there it was those red coloured metal bars that captured his interest. Slides and swings couldn't really be applied to real life situations and if they were it was fairly simple to figure them out. Those bars however were so much more. It seemed a little farfetched but who knew when you might need to hang onto something without letting go. So many little variables to test, opportunities that so far he had never taken up. How much strength would it take to hold on for a minute without letting go? How much would sweaty palms influence this result? If a child did something like this regularly what defining factors would they have? Callouses on their hands, selective muscles stronger than the rest?

This small playground was a field of untested experiments just waiting to be conducted and yet he hadn't realised because he'd been simply too busy rushing home each day.

Not today though.

He dropped his bag at the bottom of the landing and climbed more eagerly than he had ever done before. His shoes slipped a little on the ladder and he frowned. Annoying but certainly something to be tested.

He wiped his hands to free them of any sweat. A few boys his age were chasing each other towards the park - his park - and he eyed them disdainfully. It was highly unlikely that any of them would be any help towards his experiments. They roughhoused with each other and he turned away from them. Distractions.

It took him almost a minute to swing to the end and back again. As good a runner as he was it was no doubt that this sort of physical activity was not his genre. Already he was puffing and his arms felt strained.

No problem though. Exhaustion itself was something to be tested.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he spun around wildly. The boys had snuck up behind him while his mind was whirring through possibilities. He opened his mouth to tell them of for their meddling presence when one of them smiled disconcertingly and oh so innocently pushed him of the landing.

The world spun as he tried to turn so he could brace himself against the fall with his hands but the ground caught up to him only half way there. The sudden flash of pain and the sickening sound tore a scream from his lips.

The other boys fled without any warning and he was left alone pushing himself of the ground with soft whimpers leaving him every few moments. There was no bone poking through skin but it felt like there was a strange pressure/pain making it hard to stay calm.

He hadn't cried in three and a half years but no matter how hard he tried to force it back it didn't work. There was a real fear in him now.

Pushing himself up completely with his good arm Sherlock crawled over to his bag before shouldering it and cradling his injury. He ran home as fast as he could without aggravating the injury. It seemed logical that you had to avoid moving the injury and so that's what he tried to do. Keep it still until he got home.

It was a relief when the house finally came into view. It hurt to let go of his injured arm but he had to get his keys out of his pocket. There was a very real possibility of him crying as he wrenched open the door.

The silence was astounding and sad understanding washed over him. Mummy and Father weren't home today as they were at another one of their functions. The maids were in a completely different section of the house (courtesy of him and the food dye that turned all their clothes a vivid green) and he wasn't allowed to go to them.

That sick feeling of raging hopelessness was back again. All of the other children had families to go to when they were hurt so why didn't he?

He dropped his bag and tried to ignore the spike of pain that it resulted in before slowly wandering over to the phone. It was a last result and something he'd never done before but he dialled the one number he hoped would help him: Mycroft.

It took four long rings until someone picked up and even when they did it wasn't Mycroft, rather an incredibly female voice who asked him who he was and what was wrong automatically.

"It's Sherlock," he hiccuped and wiped at his eyes. He hadn't asked Mycroft for help since he left to start his life outside of their home. "Can Mycroft come home please? I need some help."

The woman, slightly younger than his brother judging by her voice (or maybe it was just distortion from the phone, he couldn't tell), told him she'd see what she could do before hanging up and leaving him yet again very, very alone.

He placed the phone back in its place and hugged his arm to his chest and wriggled into the warm pillows of his favourite armchair.

Eventually black claimed him and he fell into an unsteady sort of sleep.

When he woke up their family doctor was at his injured arm and Mycroft was softly stroking his hair. He kept saying "I'm sorry," over and over again yet Sherlock couldn't fathom why. Mycroft always did say he was too young to understand a lot of adult things but young enough to see things that they couldn't.

Maybe he didn't understand the sorry but he did tell Mycroft that he forgave him and that he missed sitting and reading with him.

Mycroft came every weekend from then on.

The second time Sherlock fell it was almost completely unnecessary.

The case was going spectacularly; the evidence was falling together like pieces of a child's puzzle and Lestrade had already happily locked away two of the group's illustrious members.

Of course it should have registered that a criminal group of this caliber that had avoided capture for so long really shouldn't be going down this quickly but the thrill of the chase was in his veins and this lead was likely to take him directly to their hideout where he would have all the evidence to condemn them all. He was still observing the documents on the table when the door behind him was slammed shut and he was rather violently hit over the head with a blunt object.

Then he realised he had pitifully fallen for their trap.

This time when he woke he had two men dressed in dark grey clothes (night camouflage obviously) looming over him with twin looks of hatred in their eyes. The third was a woman dressed as a civilian but clearly their leader. Her stance was proud and domineering but her eyes were as hateful as her lackeys. His sight was still just a tad fuzzy but it was fairly clear that all three had guns on their person. Moving a little now he could feel the ties on his wrists and ankles. No obvious escape here.

It had been eight months since he had begun taking Lestrade's cases and not once had he fallen for a trap. Working to undermine criminals obviously would involve getting caught up in various traps but something this mind numbingly simple? He'd been so stupid it almost hurt and now this woman was mocking him and all he was. "You think you're so bloody brilliant don'tcha?" She hissed. "Look at you now all tied up. Going to show us some of that freaky talent then?"

She wanted a rise out of him, something to punish him for. Truthfully she didn't think he had the skill to observe but rather pulled the most logical conclusions out of his arse and then contorted them to suit the situation.

"I hope you know she's shagging both of you."

Of course they didn't, their reactions certified that. Little henchmen trying to earn favours with their leader in any way they can. Quaint and entirely exploitable. At first the two men shouted accusations at each other but soon they turned on their leader. Clearly they couldn't resort to any physical violence as undoubtedly she held all the knowledge of their little crime ring but they certainly did demand explanations. She was trying to come across as a demanding, powerful, almost dominatrix like woman by shouting them back down with her own arguments.

The noise only escalated until he had a full blown headache to match the pain of the physical blow from before.

He groaned but realised this was likely the only distraction he'd get to reach into his pocket. While the small knife he kept handy was tucked further down and decidedly unreachable the phone was not. This was precisely why he had never purchased a touchscreen phone, he'd never be able to press the buttons and know if he had dialled correctly. This way he simply had to run his fingers over the the little number pad, feel for the right key and finally dial his hotkey to Lestrade.

Now it was simply a waiting game. It was hardly a conventional method to bring criminals in but it did get the job done. All part of the plan of course.

The three were still shouting at each other when the tallest of them spun around angrily and demanded how he knew.

Loud. The sound of his shout reverberated throughout his skull and he winced. They could whisper the same question to him and he would respond with the same answer. No need to act like his hearing was impaired.

When he didn't respond straight away the man punched his jaw.

"How?"

"Easy," he gloated and the man's eyes narrowed. "The evidence is written all over you. The way you act and look at each other is half of the picture. The both of you look mostly at her lips while acting smug around the other. Typical behaviour when observing two or more people where someone has the upper hand, sexually of course due to the lips. Not only that but she flashed the both of you identical smiles and winks but only when the other wasn't looking." He cast a curious yet telling glance at all of them. "The condoms in your pockets was a fair give away too."

It was expected but still highly unnecessary when the man punched him in the jaw yet again. Lestrade's commitment to finding him really did seem a little lacking. Now he almost questioned his decision to ring the DI. The shame of having to do so really was worse than the actual process of being caught.

He received two more heavy blows until the doors burst open and the police filed in.

Really, tonight would have been so much easier if he hadn't fallen for the whole affair.

The third time Sherlock fell he wasn't even aware of it until much later.

This time he was just waking up. His subconscious was still whispering seductively to him, trying to pull him back down under in the dream and smother him with it. That soft whisper niggling at his mind made him sit up and gasp because that could not be real and yet it felt so real. Dreams weren't meant to feel that realistic.

But what if it was true?

He slipped of the top of the bed covers in a panic, not even bothering to snatch his blue dressing gown, before striding out of his room and through the kitchen. He almost knocked over a questionable looking Petri dish before taking the stairs up two at a time making the softest pad-pad sounds with his steps.

It took 16 seconds to complete the entire journey but when he reached the door he simply stopped. Suppose it was really just a dream, his subconscious working overtime, a fabrication of his mind. Or even worse suppose it was really true and he'd cast it from his mind only to be reminded through sleep.

His hand slipped on the doorknob and he wiped his sweaty palms, nervous and afraid of what could be behind this one door. He reached for it again and opened the door painfully slowly. It took a few long seconds until he could finally make out the figure sleeping in the bed.

See? John was right there, sleeping soundly and most certainly not dead. From here he could even see the slow rise and fall of his chest as he curled in on himself as a suppressed technique to protect his wounded shoulder. He could even see the soft open mouthed breathing. It was irrational but even then he wanted to check for a pulse. Drugs had shown him what a powerful imagination could make you see.

He fell back against the doorframe with a soft thud and rubbed his palms against his face. A dream. Just a dream. Moriarty hadn't won; John was safe here in 221B. Everything was okay.

But it wasn't.

How simple had it been for Moriarty to whisk John away to the pool and cover him in semtex. It was child's play. John was too trusting and loyal to see the underlying problem. This was all for Sherlock. Proof that he, a previously friendless sociopath, had a pressure point. A heart. It was laid out in front of Moriarty like a set of cards now. Broad daylight couldn't depict what Jim had seen that day anymore clearly. Moriarty knew that if he had John in turn he had Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

Oh. He hadn't even heard as John woke up and padded over towards him. There was sleep still evident in his voice and eyes but he was observing him with protective concern.

It was irrational but he did reach for John's wrist to take his pulse. He held his digits over the faintest tan line for a few seconds and felt apprehension settle deep inside him when he couldn't find the steady beat that by all means should be there. Was it really possible that this was all false?

His fear must have shown because John took his wrist gently before placing Sherlock's two fingers at the curve of his neck where his pulse should be. He felt John swallow once and moved his fingers marginally to the right before finding the pulse. Here the beat was strong and constant and most certainly alive and for some unknown reason this reminded him of the first time he fell and Mycroft hadn't stopped saying sorry.

Because now he understood.

Because now he was sorry.

He was sorry he ever met John Watson and turned his life into the mess it was, he was sorry for every single time he had forgotten him or ignored him for a case, he was sorry for every time he caused him worry and for every time he had inadvertently caused him harm, he was sorry for Moriarty and most of all he was sorry because he was selfish and he never wanted to let John leave.

Yet he couldn't say it. It stuck in his throat and wouldn't come out but even then John seemed to exercise his strange ability of just inexplicably understanding because he hugged him softly around the middle and rested his head in the curve that joint his neck and shoulder.

"It's okay, Sherlock." It wasn't, not really. This was a temporary respite away from the world and the work. His life wasn't designed to remain in such a tranquil equilibrium and yet again John was staying.

He wrapped his arms around those broad shoulders, a little more careful with the left one, and leaned his head against John's. It was warm and he could feel every single digit against his back as an anchor keeping him sane. I'm right here, Sherlock. I'm not going to leave. I would die for you. Please be okay.

It was then that he realised that he had most certainly fallen for one John Watson.

The fourth time Sherlock fell he fell in many different ways.

The hospital rooftop was indeed very tall but that was the last thing on his mind now. Standing on the edge had taken what some people would have called courage. Standing on the edge and speaking to John was even more difficult. Even now John was as trusting and loyal as always, believing in Sherlock when hardly anyone else did. It was obvious that he knew what he was planning to do, the tall building was a give away, and yet in his own very John-like way was still trying to stop him from jumping.

From falling.

But John didn't understand. He had only half the picture. The other half was lying dead with his head shot open, still warm blood flowing weakly from his wound, grey matter swirling and mixing with crimson, rigor mortis already a few minutes in. Sherlock couldn't help but picture himself dead on the pavement.

"You could."

Sherlock hadn't truthfully cried in over 25 years but now it was difficult not to.

Two words. So simple and yet they confirmed absolutely everything he had ever feared about this man. This stupid man who would never let him go and would not for one second believe the lies he was spinning.

There were two words he had to say, two words to wanted to say, and three words he should have said a long time ago.

"Goodbye John."

He threw his phone away. Evidence, he hoped they would find the answers there. He knew John's eyes did not once leave him as he let himself tip forward and let the earth rush up to meet him. The wind was so loud in his ears and yet he knew John's screams of his name would stay in his mind and in his dreams.

Falling did have a more permanent destination. It should have been easy but his heart had stuttered and it had become one of the most difficult things he had ever done.

Just like that he fell from the rooftop and through the air. Just like that he fell from grace and into the newspapers. Just like that he fell from life to death... Just like that he fell from John Watson's life.

Goodbye John, was what he had to say. Necessary because this was goodbye for what could be a very long time. I'm sorry, was what he wanted to say because he knew this would destroy John. I love you, was what he should have said weeks ago, months ago, but was too scared to.

Goodbye, I'm sorry, I love you too.

End.

AN: I know a lot of people have written tales of Reichenbach but I really just wanted to try my own spin on it with some imagined history. Hopefully you liked it :)