"I hope you're listening carefully to this John"

"No, I don't... I don't understand, Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's voice came withered and rattly, and for the first time Sherlock couldn't bring himself to point out that John already knew the answers to his own questions.

"This is it John, this is my note"

He heard a dead silence on the other end of the phone as he watched his only friend, his best friend stop stunned in his tracks ten floors down in the middle of the road. Sherlock could have sworn that even from ontop of that building, he could hear John's heart stop for a second.

"W-what?" John said, as the truth hit him and Sherlock actually felt his heart tensing in his chest, a lump rising tightly in his throat as breathing became difficult.

Funny really, with what was about to happen, that the birds still flew, gliding over London, the cars still drove around, ordinary people still went about their everyday musings, completely oblivious to what had occured in the last twenty four hours, and what was about to occur.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a split second, feeling the gentle brushing of the wind against his face, the tickle of cold on his skin as he drew in a deep, shaky breath and a tear dripped from his closed eyelids simple, irrelevant and yet incredibly important, like a crimson jewel bleeding from his heart.

"Goodbye John" he managed to say solidly, before throwing the phone sideways, eyes still closed, and held his arms out like an eagle, swallowing one last time, refusing to let his muscles get the better of him.

And then Sherlock Holmes dropped.

But in a warped, beautiful way, Sherlock didn't really commit suicide because he didn't jump.

Even as he died, Sherlock Holmes had fallen with grace.