Sherlock tosses the phone aside. He shifts the weight on his feet.
Left… right… left.
This is it. This is the solution; the solution to the final problem. He looks down at the small blur that is John. He blinks away tears.
He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes. He steps forward onto nothing. The world slips from beneath him and he falls.
He falls through time and life and breath and memory. A distant scream reaches his ears. His name. John is calling for him. He opens his eyes at the last moment to meet the concrete rushing towards him.
A pair of icy blue eyes crack open and look about. They know their surroundings; pupils dilate in recognition.
Sherlock lifts his head slowly, neck stiff. His gaze wanders down his own arm. With trembling fingers he runs his hand down his pale forearm, reaching his wrist and pulling weakly against the strap that holds the I.V. in his vein. It falls to the floor with a quiet tap that seems loud in the silence.
He lets his head fall back against the familiar chair. A heavy sigh escapes his lips as hot tears stream out of the corners of his eyes, falling across his temples. His eyes scan over the ceiling where words had been scratched repeatedly.
"It’s only a dream."
The setting sun shines through the curtains; orange, bright, illuminating the gently floating dust that wanders through the flat. Sherlock bends over the coffee table, fingering a small metal cube. It’s only… a dream, he whispers to himself. He tries to believe it.
Dust flies out of the pages of the phone book as Sherlock skims through the pages.
Watson, Jim. Watson, Amy. Watson, Phil.
"Damn it," he curses, slamming the book shut, turning on his heel. Why did he expect him to be real? It was only a dream. Just a dream.