Just watched The Reichenbach Fall last night. Cue the psycho fangirl attack... Now.

Of course, an ending like that plus a crazy writer like me always equals angsty works of fanfiction. This can be taken as Johnlock romance or friendship, either is fine. I'm not even sure which this is, to be honest.

Disclaimer: Insert witty comment about how I don't own Sherlock here.

The world passes in a blur- no, not the world. Just a few people, but it's a crowd, and everything and everyone is pressing in around you. Did you hit your head when you fell? Falling, falling, then he- you hit the ground.

There's a body. There's a body lying on the ground. He looks like Sherlock. But it can't be. No, no, you were just talking to Sherlock. He can't be a body, he can't be-

You need to get close. You need to see, to find a pulse. You're a doctor, dammit!

"Let me through!"

And they do, the crowd- only a few people, but it's like everyone in London is standing between you and the body; the body because obviously it isn't Sherlock- parts, and you manage to grip the wrist, press two fingers to the cold flesh; your hands are shaking, trembling as you press harder, harder, because there has to be a pulse, there must be.

There's no pulse.

There's nothing there.

And the orderlies are swarming out of the hospital, lifting the body- you can see the face, it's his face, oh god it's his face- into a stretcher and wheeling him inside, but you know it's useless. There's nothing there.

And you shoo Mrs. Hudson away, because the world is collapsing inwards on top of you and you just need a moment of blessed peace and quiet, because even now you can hear him.

But you can't hear him, because he isn't there.

"One more miracle, Sherlock" you choke out. "For me. Don't... Don't be dead. Would you do that, just for me?" because Sherlock Holmes is invincible, is too smart and brilliant and amazing to let something like death slow him down.

But there's no response. There will never be a response, no cheeky reply or absentminded, dismissive wave- you hated it, you hated the waves and the disinterested nods and the 'look'. But you didn't, you didn't hate it, because at least if he waved or nodded or 'looked', then he was there.

There's nothing there, not anymore. Nothing but a black marble headstone and a bouquet of white lilies. No smirk, no 'observations', no voice explaining everything there is to know about the couple standing over the grave a few rows down.

No pulse.

There's nothing there.

I kinda went a bit italics crazy there, didn't I?

(Season three starts filming this month! Nooooo, it's too long to wait!)

Review, if you would be so kind.