AN: This was originally written as a birthday present to a friend. I decided to continue it. This is my first Sherlock fanfic attempt, so please enjoy and tell me what you think.

Chapter 1:

John envied Sherlock. He'd had it so easy, in the end: a short drop and a sudden stop. There had been no hesitation, and Sherlock had fallen with a thud. Even so, it was John that had to endure the true fall.

Every night he fell into bed and descended into a place in his mind that was so dark he never knew for certain whether he would ever find his way out again. He wasn't even sure he wanted to some nights. Even after decreasing so far as to be unable to as much as cry, the memories were far too beautiful.

People would insist it was time he move on. There was no moving on. He was too busy falling.

He would fall into the seat of a cab, fumbling with his cane. Even his mind was declining, giving John that phantom pain in his lower limb again.

John couldn't make the images stop. Every time anyone extended their hand for a handshake, John could only see one pair of delicate hands, one holding a phone to an ear, and one raised in his direction, bidding him to stop and listen to final words. Anytime John witnessed a whooshing of fabric, he saw only Sherlock's coat flapping madly against the rush of air as he plummeted to the ground.

Still, John felt himself plummet as well. He wished his own fall held the promise of an easy, quick death. John envied Sherlock. He'd had it so easy, in the end.

That thought brought John back to the present. The metal of the military issue Browning was cold and heavy in his hand. It was also familiar and comforting. It teased John with promises of such swift relief that it filled John with rich anticipation.

Perhaps there would be some that would envy John, in the end: a slight pull and an instant lull. John's hand did not tremble as it lifted the pistol. John's mouth was not dry, and the taste of metal on his tongue was oddly welcome. There was no hesitation, and John fell with a bang.

.:!*!:.

The moment that Lestrade's phone rung, and he had seen Sally's name, he'd got a bad feeling. Now, he was at one of the most emotional crime scenes he had ever had to work. There was one detail there that broke his heart more than all the others.

It wasn't the corpse of the wanted, ex-military man that had been shot point-blank between the eyes. It was not the fact that the bullet in his head was a match for the pistol that Greg knew belonged to one Doctor John Watson. It wasn't the box full of evidence beside the dead Colonel that not only proved Moriarty's existence but also that Sherlock Holmes had been innocent. It wasn't even the suicide note telling Lestrade what he would find in 221B. No, it wasn't any of those things.

It was the words on the wall behind Moran's body, spray-painted on the brick in a horrible yellow, which caused Greg to hold back tears. It was those words that made his heart clench uncomfortably and made him realize that his friend had never moved on the way everyone had thought that he had.

"Clean this up, and send some guys over to Baker Street." The Detective Inspector ordered quietly, his voice tired and strained. He turned to leave the building, unable to stay any longer, but he couldn't help a glance back at the brick wall. As he read it again, a tear finally fell.

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock."