You Saved Me

Disclaimer: Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

Summary: Takes place sometime after TFP. Sherlock is recklessly running around on a roof making deductions when he slips and almost falls off. John catches him just in time. Both of them have flashbacks, but to very different events. Hurt/comfort, angst. Platonic love confessions. One-Shot.

A/N: Okay y'all, I haven't written for Sherlock in a little while (I haven't written in general for a while, I've been busy with my summer job and my job applications now that I've graduated from college) but I just watched The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It, and there was a scene that inspired me. I'm not going to spoil the movie for anyone who hasn't seen it, other than to say that I think Ed and Lorraine are just the most adorable married couple I have ever seen in the media and there was a scene in the movie that made me think of Sherlock and John and the premise of this story. But I digress, enjoy!

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You Saved Me

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John was, as usual, annoyed with Sherlock.

It had been a few months since everything went down with Sherlock's long-lost sister, Eurus, and things were finally going back to normal (well, their normal, anyway). The flat had been put back together, the way it was supposed to be, with barely a hint at the bomb damage that it had suffered a few months prior. John had moved back into the Baker Street flat, thanking his lucky stars that there were actually two spare bedrooms on the top floor (one for him and one for Rosie, when she was old enough), and repeatedly thanking Mrs. Hudson for flat-out refusing to up his rent for the extra room.

They had even started working cases again, now that the pair had overcome some of the trauma of the events at Sherrinford and Musgrave. This was the precise reason why John was currently annoyed with Sherlock.

They were working a murder case for Lestrade. Somehow, his methods still unknown to everyone but him, Sherlock had deduced that the man had been killed by a sniper from the roof of a nearby, 15-story building. He had taken off running, John pounding off behind him, as Lestrade swore and started barking into his radio.

Sherlock and John had made it to the roof in almost record time, banging through the door and onto a bare concrete floor with a very short wall surrounding the edge. John would guess that it was only around two feet high, which meant that it would be very easy to trip and fall over the edge.

Sherlock was strutting around the roof quickly, looking for clues and rattling off deductions about where the sniper set up his rifle and how he had gotten away unnoticed.

"Sherlock, will you please be careful? This roof isn't safe." John commented, following Sherlock around closely, knowing how clueless he could he when he was deducing.

"Hm? Oh I'll be fine, John, don't worry." Sherlock answered, not turning around.

"I'm gonna worry anytime you're on a rooftop, mate..." John muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear him. He wasn't sure if that was intentional or not.

Sherlock made to turn around and answer when his shoe slipped in a puddle. He stepped back to try to correct himself, but tripped against the low wall. John seemed to watch in slow motion as Sherlock tipped over the edge of the roof, his arms cartwheeling.

"Sherlock!" he screamed. He lunged forward and desperately grabbed for one of Sherlock's flailing arms. He grabbed the sleeve of his friend's iconic Belstaff, but it ripped in his hand. Panic gripping his chest, John's grabbed for any purchase he could find. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but didn't pay it any mind. He frantically gripping Sherlock's hand as it started to slip through his, thanking anyone who would listen that neither of them were wearing gloves that day.