Disclaimer: Don't own or profit - that honour belongs to Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC

John stood, hands in pockets, staring down at the spot on the pavement, and shuddered.

Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to convey some sense of – what? Comradeship? Shared angst? He wasn't even sure himself; all he knew was that he could feel the ex-army doctor's shoulders slumped with sadness and resignation.

Around them the rush of day to day life, people with minds on their destination, blindly sidestepping the mess on the flagstones.

"Eighteen months." John spoke softly, "eighteen months and it ends like this" his left hand, trembling slightly, raked through his hair.

Taking a deep breath, the police officer standing at his side opened his mouth to speak, but John held up a hand to silence him.

"Don't. Just…don't Greg. There's nothing you can say that will make this any better" tipping his head back he looked up to the roof of the building, trying to calculate the distance from there to the pavement.

"I'd say about seventy feet, give or take a foot. Do you know why he did it?" Lestrade wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.

"To test a theory of course!" Sherlock bounded up and looked at the remains of John's phone, shattered on the pavement.

John glared at him.

"Next time we use your phone, you great overgrown brat!"