You end up alone

After all that you've done, all that you paid for

Did you get what you wanted?

You loaded a gun with all you were made of

When you're alone

People don't think you know what you're made of

...

Oh, holding out hope for you

Holding out hope, holding out hope for you

"Let You Go", The Chainsmokers feat. Great Good Fine OK

Take a look past the innocence

Take a step back to yesterday

When life would move slower, we would never grow up

All we knew: that love was for when we're older

Anything could happen, secretly imagine

They could never tear us apart

Too young to fall

...

This is our story

That we could take back someday

Our lonely glory

That we could take back, they say

This is our story

That we could take back someday

Our hope, if only

We could take back someday

"Our Story", Mako

For a single moment, nothing moved.

The wind had stopped howling, the clouds had stopped floating past, the water had stopped splashing, forming a little funnel around Sherlock's entry point. For a single moment, John couldn't move.

Then that moment passed.

"SHERLOCK!"

The freezing spray blew into John's face, and he sputtered before running as fast as he could to the water's edge. He paused before entering. "I need to call 999," he whispered. But his body took over.

"You are NOT going to leave me after that," he murmured, yanking his shoes off and wading into the river. The current was sluggish, mostly because it was nighttime, but also because of how fucking cold it was. John swore several times, really loudly, as his feet started to go numb.

The doctor in John's head began to do some nasty calculating. The Bridge was around nine meters above the river, and Sherlock had jumped from it, accelerating 9.8 meters per second. Sherlock had fallen for only a couple seconds, crashing into hypothermic water, having been going pretty fast before. "SHITE." John awkwardly shuffled forward, reaching out with one hand to feel around for a body.

"I'm going to KILL you when I find you," the blogger said, laughing almost too long afterward. It really wasn't funny. Sherlock was in danger, again. "No, I won't. But you NEED to stop DOING this to me. You do."

John had some trouble thinking. His mind was still a bit disconnected, past memories to present memories. One thing stood out his scrambled thoughts, though.

He had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. And he wasn't about to let him go (again). Ever.

Everything burned: his legs, his hands, his head. Moriarty was an sadistic, psychotic ass, but he was so hatefully right about the burning. "That man had NO IDEA I would burn with you, did he? Moriarty NEVER knew that." John's voice hadn't gotten any quieter since he first yelled Sherlock's name. He knew he would scream his lungs out if it got the detective back to him.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!" John frantically attempted to go deeper, diving under the murky, icy water for just one second to try and find him. "YOU CAN'T!" He coughed a few times before returning to his search, hands barely able to move.

The doctor grew tired too quickly, with too much of the disgusting, silt-filled liquid in his throat and no sign of the consulting detective. John's vision, already impeded by the dark, began to haze over, blurring and flickering in and out. "Darling, where are you?" he cried. "I can't find you anywhere." The water rushed past noisily, as if to purposely hinder him.

John's body swayed a little, his legs wanting to give out. Freezing numbness could only last so long without hurting someone. "Sherlock," he called weakly. "Now would be a good time. Imissyou. I...miss you." The Thames kept flowing, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight. "I LOVE YOU!"

Suddenly, as if some listening god had answered his prayer, John noticed a flash of dark hair and green fabric. Sherlock is wearing that shirt he wore on our first date, John remembered slowly. "Holy fuck," he breathed. "Sherlock!"

He grabbed for the detective, not caring exactly what he was grabbing. His only conscious thoughts surrounded getting his (er...) boyfriend (fiancé?) out of the freezing river as fast as he possibly could. This was one of the many problems with being in an army posted to Afghanistan: John had quite a bit of experience with heat. Cold? Not so much.

"Don't worry. I'll get you help," the doctor said to the inert body floating next to him, fighting his way through the current. "I'll take care of you."

Sherlock didn't answer, but John didn't expect him to. With a heave of impressive strength considering how little John could move his arms, he pulled Sherlock onto the dry sand. The genius was still beautiful, even with his blue lips and too pale skin.

He knelt down and pressed an ear to the detective's chest, looking for a heartbeat. However used he was to Sherlock's erratic heartbeat, it didn't prepare him for not hearing one at all. "Damn it, you are not going to leave me like this. It's unfair and awful." John began chest compressions, counting out twenty-five in quick succession before listening for a heartbeat again. Nothing. He opened Sherlock's mouth and kissed him, blowing two great gusts of air into his lungs. Sherlock's heart didn't even flutter.

Two more sets of CPR later, John's hands were getting cramped. He cursed as he leaned back down to his detective's chest, listening. "One more time," he whispered, voice cracking. "Just for me. Just...stop it. Stop this." One last time, John opened Sherlock's mouth and breathed for him, longer than he had before, silently begging Sherlock with his mouth to wake up. It turned into more of a kiss the last few seconds, a goodbye kiss, but John refused to think that.

After a little while, the doctor had to pull away. For a very long moment, he himself couldn't breathe. Everything was so heavy, like someone had dropped three injured men on his shoulders. His lungs weren't even freezing anymore; they seemed to be collapsing in on themselves. He huffed and tried to intake air, but it was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of it.

But, then he could breathe again.

Sherlock jerkily half-sat up, spitting out river water and coughing. John sighed loudly, laughing a little bit. "Is that you, John?" he asked shakily, reaching a hand up to the doctor's heart. "You saved me."

"Yes, I did, you ruddy bastard." John held the hand to his chest. "Did you expect I wouldn't?"

"I'm a natural cynic, in addition, I caused a great deal of trouble." Sherlock shrugged. "People don't come back for me on principle."

John glared at him. "Let's start with this: WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!"

The detective's mask fell far, farther than John had ever seen it go. "Your memories were gone, and in order to get them back, I had to recreate them. It was the easiest way to do it, but not for me." Sherlock paused. "The mind isn't as stable as everyone thinks it is, and yours is no different. Your mind had to begin and remain intact, and so, I fixed it the way it was made."

John shook his head. "You didn't have to almost kill yourself. There were other ways."

"But if there wasn't?" Sherlock smirked darkly. "I refused to live without you a long time ago, and if you didn't save me, I figured I didn't need to be saved."

John's face heated up in fury. "Let me get this straight. You hate yourself so much that you were willing to kill yourself to make sure I could survive alone, you egocentric, narcissistic, selfish arsehole!"

"What about my methods makes me selfish, my dear doctor?" Sherlock asked scathingly. "I almost died for you!"

"You didn't think about my feelings at all! Did it cross your amazing, brilliant mind that I want to be with you no matter what kind of utterly crazy things you do and how much you believe I don't?" John stopped, looking away. "Don't want to be with you, that is. I do."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, which looked kind of difficult to accomplish on the sand. "I'm selfish for not considering your feelings? Is that all this was about?" The detective flushed slightly. "You called me names because you still love me?"

John huffed. "You fucking scared me. And pissed me off. And made me find your body in a disgusting river during wintertime. And yes," John said, "I'm aware it's not technically winter yet." He leaned down to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "But through all of that, and by all of that I mean everything, I still care about you more than anything. So there."

The two of them didn't move for a long time, or maybe just felt like a long time. Sherlock's hand was over John's heart, and John's hand was placed over the top of that. John half-laid on top of Sherlock, and Sherlock had his lips mere millimeters away from John's neck. The detective could feel his love's pulse just a little. ThuThump. ThuThump. ThuThump. John was so strong all the time, he thought. Strong and soft and brilliant and wonderful. And Sherlock didn't deserve him. Not one bit.

Harry picked up her phone groaning, "Yeah?" into it. She had just woken up, since it was 12 in the bloody morning.

"Hello, Harriet."

"Sherlock?" Harry sat up in bed. Clara shifted to make a few wild gestures asking about the call. Harry shook her head, she had no idea.

"Yes. This is completely off the record, but I reattempted the jump from London Bridge and survived, only thanks to your brother. Don't tell anyone I tried it again, please? John wants me to stay out of the papers for once."

"Holy mother of Jesus! Sherlock Holmes, you tried to fucking kill yourself again?! Really? Why in the bleeding hell was that necessary? Tell me the whole fucking story or I send Lestrade and Irene after you!" Clara's eyes grew wide beside Harry.

Harry could feel Sherlock rolling his eyes through the phone. "I had to recreate John's memories, remember? That included the unfortunate circumstances of my suicide." He paused. "I have...a question. If you think you can answer it, that is." The sound of fidgeting came through. "I mean, you don't have any obligation to answer me, it's not that important. But I'd really like to know what you think. Maybe. If it's alright-"

"Sherlock, honey, you can ask us anything," Clara cut in, taking the mobile from her wife. Something was clearly wrong, even an idiot could see it.

The detective sighed. "Well, John saved me. But afterward, he didn't touch me very much, and he said he cared about me. Do you think...John won't want to marry me anymore because he had to save me?" Clara's mouth fell open. "I've always been a burden to him, so it makes sense that after this he'll leave. What do you think?"

Harry yanked the phone out of Clara's hand. "What the hell do you mean? Johnny loves you no matter what crazy-ass things you do!"

"But what if he doesn't? I've made such a mess, Harriet. John has quite a right to go."

Clara took the mobile back. "From what I've seen, John loves and wants to marry you just as much as you do. And if you're so worried about it, ask him yourself! We can only give advice; he can give you answers. Please, don't make the mistake of thinking you aren't loved. Harry and I did, and the only reason we're together now is because we talked it out."

"You more than talked it out," Sherlock interrupted. "You had many, many physical interludes throughout that particular conversation."

"So maybe that's what you should do," Harry added, ignoring who held the phone and putting him on speaker. "Have some amazing sex, and work out your issues that way."

"I'm not doing that!" Sherlock said indignantly.

"You don't have to," Clara soothed, glaring a little at her wife. "Just talk to him. John is understanding by nature. It'll be fine."

"I don't believe you, but I'll take your advice." Sherlock sounded only slightly more hopeful than when the call began. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, love. Anytime." Clara hung up, but not before turning the speakerphone off.

"That man needs to get laid," Harry muttered, curling around Clara once more. "Seriously."

Sherlock set his mobile down on the table. John was in the shower, having stated immediately when they got back to the flat that he needed to get clean at all costs. Sherlock didn't blame him; his fiancé (?) wasn't as used to getting dirty on cases as he was. He smirked when he remembered the pig's blood all over him before the Baskerville case. The trident was fun as well.

"Focus, William," he murmured.

Sherlock knew that there was a good chance John would leave him for a while after this. It was one of the reasons he'd formulated the experiment after all, so that he would be free of the hurt his actions caused the doctor that in turn hurt himself. Apparently, that plan had gone up in flames. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the kitchen countertop, waiting for John to come back. Clara was right, he had to confront John about his perceived observations.

John was actually not showering at all. He had the water running, but hadn't stepped in, watching the steam fog up the mirror. Sherlock Holmes, the man he'd fallen in love with (twice), had attempted suicide (again) to help John (again), and didn't think he deserved to stay with John, even though they both had insisted how much they loved the other a hell of a lot of times. He was angry at Sherlock, and sad, and really wanted to kiss his fiancé, hard. A shower would actually help.

He stepped behind the curtain, sighing in happiness as the water washed away the silt and other more disgusting things dumped into the Thames. That river had a serious need for cleanliness, or some new laws or something. Jesus. John found the soap and lathered it in his hand, sliding some of it over his shoulders.

A knock sounded on the door, hesitant and nervous. "Can I come in?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course." John didn't even think about his answer.

He heard Sherlock shuffle into the room and sit on the chair by the sink. "Do you need to get cleaned up?" John asked, reaching for the shampoo bottle.

"Most likely. I had something I had to ask you about before then." Sherlock paused. "Do you still love me? As in, do you still want to marry me? I understand perfectly if you don't, I am not anyone's ideal choice in mate."

John dropped the shampoo bottle on his foot. "Shit," he said loudly, bending down to pick it up. "Sherlock, you are an idiot."

Sherlock started to protest, but John cut him off. "Don't deny it. That will only piss me off further. Sherlock, I fell for you twice, asked you to marry me, and participated in a memory reconstruction that just confirmed how much I loved you before this whole thing happened. Through all of that, you don't think I love you? I almost want to strangle you, or punch you in the face, or kiss you senseless."

The detective didn't speak. "You still want me? In all seriousness?"

John huffed. "I want to see your face, actually. Perhaps to punch you, but I want to see you." His shampoo had washed out, bubbles swishing down the drain.

Sherlock rustled his coat for a few seconds, but John didn't know why until the shower curtain opened, the detective stepping fully clothed into the stream of water. He was wearing the t-shirt and jeans again, John couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before, and the water quickly suctioned the shirt to his skin. John licked his lips as he stared at his fiancé. Damn, that man had him wrapped around his little finger.

"I was going to just ask you to peek your head in, but I'm finding this view much better," the doctor whispered, running his hands over Sherlock's sides and hips. That t-shirt was thinner but just as revealing as glass, accentuating all the scars John had kissed, all the past injuries John had catalogued, all the things that differentiated this man from everyone else. Sherlock's normally curly hair was plastered to his skull, and his eyes were glowing brightly. His jeans were darkening with water, his feet were bare, and his hands were just as careful. Beautiful. "I want to kiss you, Sherlock."

"I want that too." Sherlock moved forward and pressed his lips to John's, sliding his fingers down his love's chest, hearing John intake a sharp breath as he goes farther. "I want you, John Hamish Watson. Please?"

"Okay."

The wedding ceremony wasn't anything to write home about, John remembered with a smile. The only people there were Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry and Clara, and Irene. He and Sherlock had wanted to elope, but their landlady wouldn't have it. So, a vaguely public ceremony it was.

Sherlock had just kissed John's ring, and John kissed his, and the whole thing was over after the presiding whatever guy had pronounced them husbands. John had grinned at Sherlock, and Sherlock had grinned back. There really wasn't any need for words.

"Mr. Holmes?" John turned around.

"Yes, Mr. Watson?"

Sherlock set a cup of tea in front of him. "Do you think we could have been together without the ordeals we went through? All the pretending and all the unhappiness?"

"You forgot the angst and two attempted suicides," John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "Could we have done it?"

John kissed his husband on the forehead. "It's us. We would have made it no matter what."

Wait for me, I swear I'll find you

Climbing every wall that hides you

I know we were meant for something better

"Something Better", Audien feat. Lady Antebellum

There. I've done it. I have a bunch of people that helped, including elsarenard, Greenbookworm3, FizzingWhizzbee204, Becca, everyone that favorited, followed, reviewed, or otherwise contributed. And GretaJohnsen, who thought this story was good enough to submit to a fanfiction contest. Y'all are amazing! As always, read + review!