John never used to be afraid of heights. He didn’t used to be afraid of much of anything, to be honest. Now, God help him, walking under tall buildings makes his breath get tighter. He dreams about falling all the time - sometimes as himself, sometimes as Sherlock, sometimes watching either from the street. He—or Sherlock—never hits the pavement, but he doesn’t need to hit the pavement to feel it.
Every once in a while, he dreams he’s up on the roof with Sherlock, watching another, more naive version of himself on the street pleading into his mobile. The version of him that knows what comes next walks up behind his friend, locks his arms around him, and holds tight, breathing in the smell of London in that wool coat and letting his weight pull them both down from the ledge. He doesn’t let go.
His bed feels particularly cold after those dreams.
