The wind whipped carelessly across the roof of the long abandoned building and wound its way underneath the pale skin of a boy no more than eight. It was not caressing like the breeze of an afternoon spent in the sun. It was not comforting like the gusts that came round to lift a small red kite higher and higher into an overhead ocean of blue. It was simply cold and brutal and chilled the small boy all the way to the bone.

He was standing carefully on the ledge, sometimes swaying in fluid motion with the battling current of air. He looked over his shined leather shoes and past the edge to look at the still ground. It stayed where it was, as did he, neither approaching another, but it was still a terrifying experience. Another bout of wind came in with a merciless gusto and this boy, nearly alone, couldn't help, but sniff his leaking nose and wipe away his falling tears.

"Sherly, you can't stand up there and snivel the entire time."

The small, raven haired boy turned his head slightly to the left as he heard the greasy voice of Jimmy taunt him once more. He didn't mean to start crying, but the building was so far from the ground and from all of My's physics books, Sherlock could tell that once he fell, the velocity, or whatever it's called, would be far too fast and he would have more than a scraped knee.

He moved one foot backwards from the threatening drop and quietly whimpered, "I don't want to jump, Jim."

The teenager moved close behind his back and hissed, "But no one wants you, Sherly. I mean, where is Johnny, hmm? I think if you look over there," Jim points to the right at a small playground, "I think you might just see him there. See him? He is swinging and playing with all the normal little boys and girls and he doesn't want you, Sherly. He doesn't want you."

Nodding, Sherlock stepped back to the ledge and peered hesitantly over it. He silently told his Mummy that he was sorry and John that he was going to miss him and Mycroft that he was still fat and John, once more, because he was the most important one, that he was his only friend.

One foot lifted off the front of the building's side and before he let gravity and science take hold, Sherlock heard Jim say, "The end."

And he fell. It was nothing like flying. The ground rushed at him, instead of the other way around. The wind was more callous and deafening as he continued to fall. It was petrifying. Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to one, two, and then there was nothing. For a split second, the wind stopped and the ground paused and the entire world was still as a high shriek pierced the cold morning air.

"Sherlock!"

John.

And then... The hold on time snapped and there was nothing, but the end.