A/N: For Chloe: happy birthday, darling. I know it's late...but hush, it's here now, and that's all that matters! (Which, coincidentally, is what I hope John says when Sherlock comes back.) I hope it makes sense!

(Using prompt #38 - rhythm from the OTP Boot Camp Challenge in the BBC Sherlock Fanfiction Challenges forum, which you should all check out.)

...and rise...

Your bedsit is cold. It's small and bare and basic, with its four walls and its creaking floorboards, and the only furniture is that desk in the corner with your gun in the drawer and your empty, empty bed that sometimes feels as if it shivers along with you.

Until Mike Stamford and "You're the second person to say that to me today," and "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street," and then you are sitting in the warmth of a strange and cluttered room that already feels like home and everything is so, so surreal.

"You're a doctor," he says suddenly. "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

The room is spinning and you remember the loneliness, the stillness, the stagnant life of your bedsit; it is so far away now.

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh god, yes."

...and fall...

His hands are warm and soft on your skin, and his lips taste like desperation and confusion but it's okay, it's all okay; it's better than okay. It's Sherlock.

It's so delicate, everything is so damn fragile here, like this thing you have between you might just shatter at a sharp breath, or crumble under a heavy sigh.

You are almost holding your breath, and he stutters when he speaks, something you never thought you'd see.

"John. I – I don't know – I don't place much stock in sentiment. You know that. But – "

And you nod, smile, run your fingertips over the back of his knuckles because it doesn't matter, because you already know, and you're still here.

"I love you, Sherlock," you whisper.

There is a beat of silence. Relief floods his eyes and a smile blossoms on his lips and he says, "And I you."

And you lie together, watching the early morning sunlight roll of each other's backs as it streams through the bedroom window, and trying to remember how to breathe.

...and rise...

There are moments when everything seems to go on forever, and you are the centre of the universe, both of you.

Lestrade needs help with case after case and you are always there, always following along patiently, and Sherlock is on fire. He is elated, a joy and vibrancy in his sharp eyes that you rarely ever see, and you can't help but smile at his back as he walks with that swing in his hips, victory in the spring of his step.

For a while, it seems as if he is unstoppable, unreachable, infallible. It seems as if he is clawing at life and everything is breaking down and building up and going and going and going and it's never going to stop.

(Until, all at once, the whole world does.)

...and fall...

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," he says, as if you could do anything else at all, and then he is jumping, leaping, falling, arms flailing about and your heart is suddenly the lump in your throat and everything is so surreal again, but so very, very real, so utterly confusing and mindbogglingly clear and Sherlock is falling and –

There is thud, a scream, the echo of his name in your ears, and all you can think is he's lying, he's lying, he's lying and you're trying to run to him, you needto be there, but you are knocked off your feet and you thump to the ground and the silhouette of his fallen body is still behind your eyelids and Sherlock.

When you finally crawl to his side, the blood is too red and your fingers are shaking too much to even take his pulse, but you don't need to.

It's Sherlock, your Sherlock, blood splattered and broken and - and - defeated.

And he has fallen so, so far.