A random Sherlock fic that popped into my head. This is my first fic for this fandom, so be kind! Eventually this should grow into a collection of oneshots from the point of view of different characters showing their reactions to the Reichenbach Fall.

I'm sorry if Sherlock seems a bit OOC, but in my opinion this is just the more human side he hides because he doesn't fully understand it.

Credit for any recognizable Sherlock characters or plot lines are property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatkiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Original novels), and all the great people who work on Sherlock.

Most people believed that Sherlock Holmes was ignorant to the ways of the human heart. They were wrong. In more ways than one. After all, the heart is a muscle for the pumping of blood, a process he had studied well. It has no more to do with the emotions of men than their big toe. That responsibility rested on the brain. Sherlock knew the workings of the brain, could read people by the merest twitch of a muscle. He knew that sentiment was a product of an electrical current jolting through synapses. However, he also knew that his brain didn't work the same way. He fancied that he could deduce any stranger's mind to a list of traumas, motives, desires, and disorders, but sentiment remained elusive.

It was only fitting that he had the most data on the mind belonging to the man who meant the most to him. His best friend. His only friend. John Watson. From the day he met him, Sherlock knew John suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. If the psychosomatic limp hadn't have given it away, the clenched fists and shaking hands were all he needed to know. It wouldn't even have taken a genius of Sherlock's stature to figure it out when Bonfire Night and New Year's Eve came around. There was death in John's past, and loneliness too. The attack on his platoon had killed all but a precious few, and left John a virtually friendless invalid with only an alcoholic sister to turn to. So bored, and so alone.

And then Sherlock came. He never doubted John's friendship, but all the same, he knew there was more to it than that. He was John's fix. John may be a doctor, but he was also a soldier. He liked to hear the pounding of his heart and the rush of adrenaline. He was not that much different than Sherlock in that way. He was willing to risk his life, simply to stop being bored. Sherlock knew what that was like, and he knew other ways to get a fix when one method was closed. John was an addict. Not on the sense that Harry or Sherlock were, but an addict none the less.

He knew enough about his friend to know that he would not react well to Sherlock's death. He also knew that John would be unable to hide the truth if he was let in on the secret of Sherlock's survival. He was left with no other choice. As far as John knew, he was buried under that smooth black gravestone. And therein lied the problem. In a plan laid out with precision the military could only aspire to, John was the wild card, as well as the only one that really mattered. Sentiment. The only explanation for the twinge in his chest.

"Sherlock," Molly called anxiously from the door, breaking him from his abstraction, "Mycroft called to say your false identity is almost in order. The legend is thorough. I'm sure all you will need to do is read out before it is absorbed. You should be able to leave soon." Sherlock did not answer, but continued to pluck the strings on his violin and follow the vibrations through its body. One small moment of movement in the string, he thought, and the whole instrument feels it and trembles. Did the string even fully understand what he wrought? If course it didn't. It was a string. It didn't feel or know or understand. He was being ridiculous. Sentiment.

"Thank you, Molly. I shall be ready to leave as soon as my arrangements are made." He hesitated for a moment, and then continued. "There is one more thing, Molly. I need you to do one more thing for me... It's John." He gestured to the armchair across from him and she perched tensely on the edge.

"What about him?"

Sherlock shot her an irritated look. "He came home with PTSD. I'm not sure how he will react to losing a friend in a civilian setting. Especially if he has to begin an average lifestyle."

"What do you suggest?"

"Get Lestrade to continue consulting John on cases. It will keep some excitement in his life."

"Of course I will. We will all be there for him."

"Make sure he continues to go to his therapist and to work."

"Why would he stop?"

"I hope he doesn't." Sherlock cried, ruffling his hair with his hand irritably. He took a moment to collect himself and continued more quietly. "I hope I am being overly egocentric. I was an addict, though, and I suppose I still am. I know if the hit you have been counting on suddenly disappears, life begins to lose meaning. It is all flat and pointless. John is addicted to Adrenaline and danger. He got that running with me."

"I will do what I can, but he is a grown man Sherlock..."

"Molly, there is one more thing. There is a stash under a loose board under my dresser..."

"Sherlock..." she admonished.

He shook his head and waved her off. "Remove it," he asked, "Dispose of it. John doesn't know about the stash but I think he suspects there is one."

"You don't think he would..."

"I don't know," he answered honestly. The not knowing cut at his pride, and he blamed it on sentiment. If John had been a stranger, he could have added up his observations and deduced something long before now. He would probably have been able to deduce what they were going to wear to the funeral.

He tried running over John's life as a set of statistics gleaned from his experience and pinched notes from John's psychiatrist. Doctor. Soldier. Victim of a violent attack. The disabled care-giver. Survivor's guilt. Discharged and cut loose. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Depression. Feelings of inadequacy and failure. Possible suicidal thoughts. Seeks dangerous and possibly self-destructive behavior. One principal connection, accompanied by casual encounters and loose friendships. A string of lovers. Family history of substance abuse.

It was only then, with the data spread out before him, that Sherlock realized his rock wasn't all that stable after all. Something like fear settled into his stomach again. Sentiment.

"I need you to look after him, Molly. He can't go back to the way he was before. I simply will not allow it."

"I will do everything I can, Sherlock. I promise."

"And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade? They will cope far more easily, but Mrs. Hudson at least could do with some watching."

"You don't need to worry about them. Just worry about not getting truly hurt or actually.. you know… dead."

"I've used you badly, again. It seems I always do," he said softly.

She reached out cautiously and placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched under her touch but did not pull away and she did not withdraw her hand. She met his eyes calmly. "I will admit you have treated me harshly in the past, but I do not believe you were being intentionally cruel. That is why I never complained. What you are asking me to do now is necessary and I am happy to do it. I am glad you trust me. So don't worry about it. It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock studied her carefully. She was not the shy, timid Molly he had thought he had known. She did not stutter or fawn over him a she used to. She was being strong because he needed her to be, and because deep down she had been that way all along.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said with a small smile. He rose swiftly from his chair and placed a kiss on her cheek before he swept out of the room to place a call to his brother. He decided he quite liked the new Molly Hooper, one tried by fire, and may even trust John to her care.

Please review to tell me what you think! All constructive criticism is welcome!

Next chapter... Lestrade!