institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

It couldn't be him. Only it bloody well could. And what if it was? Did he hate him? Absolutely. Was he glad the idiot could possibly be alive? Sure as hell.

But it was too much to process. And it wasn't real. Maybe it could be but it wasn't. He was dead. John had seen him, had lifted an already cold wrist to find a pulse that wasn't there.

He hung up, face in his hands.

Mind readers, shapeshifters, technology altering kids... They could do this.

Sniffing, he picked up the phone and called back.

"If it's you, get of the roof. You owe me that much."

Sherlock stared down at his phone when he heard the line disconnect, and immediately tried to dial back. Being that phones are finicky creatures, his call bounces off of John's voicemail, and then when his phone rings, he's quick to pick it up again.

"Of course it's me, why wouldn't it be me?" the reply is definitely peeved, full of typical Sherlock grumpiness. Sherlock's brows furrow even harder in toward one another. "Come up here, John. The view is..." Gunshot. Moriarty crumpling to the ground, blood soaking his expensive suit. "The view is..." he pauses, pressing a hand to his face. Another deep, deep breath. He actually teeters a bit, but his teetering takes a step back.

"I... I'll come down," he murmurs, his voice sounding a bit more warbly than usual, and hits the end call button. He vanishes backwards off the rooftop, heading for the access door, down the ladder, down the rickety staircase and then back onto the grounds. He breaks out from the double doors, shoving them open impatiently. By the time he's back on the ground, he's regained his composure and his long strides bring him closer to the doctor.

There was uncertainty in that voice and it made John want to look up, want to see the vulnerability and feel like he was some fucking use after all. But then it was so unlike Sherlock and filled his mind with doubt once more.

He wanted to move. Go and hide in his office. His legs, however, weren't letting him. He'd bark at whatever little bastard student was doing this and then he'd find his way back.

How would he explain this one to Ella? He wouldn't, frankly.

Hearing footsteps approach, his felt his breath disappear.

Sherlock's mind pulled through every possibility, or at least all of the ones he could immediately think of. First, John didn't think it was him. Secondly, there were people here who could impersonate him, or at least impersonate other people. None of them would ever be remotely intelligent enough to come near to accurately portraying him, but John was emotional, and being emotional, seeing his dead friend might be stressful. Or so Sherlock sort of half-way thinks. There has to be a way to prove that he's real, that he's himself.

By the time he's made up his mind, he's standing in front of John, pulling off his coat. That he throws onto the bench next to the cane with a frown - the limp is back, apparently, and that displeases him more than anything.

His hands - white against the aubergine of his dress shirt, rise to unbutton the garment, the work quick. He pulls off his shirt, tossing it to the side as well. The fall, however it was supposed to happen, clearly didn't go as planned, and Sherlock despises himself for that. But he turns so John can see - bandages for cracked or broken ribs, severe bruising all across his chest and on his hip, abrasions marking his knuckles.

"There. That's proof enough, isn't it?"

John kept calmer than he thought possible at first. Only glancing at the coat, refusing to look up still. Could shifters copy clothes, would they remain the same when removed? He didn't know and he didn't care.

Under the horror and the confusion and the bile was a hot rage and it flew out of him when given 'proof' so casually. He didn't hold back this time. Screw Sherlock's damn face. Screw it if it was even a student. He lashed out, hitting again and again.

Sherlock has some training under his metaphorical belt, but John's sudden outburst catches him completely off guard. The first hit he takes in the face, square on, and it staggers him. When John flies at him again, Sherlock throws up his hands, and the first thing that comes to him is wing chun, so he rolls with it, since it doesn't require a whole mess of upper body movement save for the arms and hands. The flurry of blows gets half-heartedly deflected, most getting through to land on him, but then Sherlock has the chance to look into the fury on John's face and something inside of him cracks a little, just a tiny bit.

"John!" roars Sherlock "John, stop!" The lanky frame of the detective goes sprawling as another hit connects, and he just stays on the ground, grimacing visibly (an admission of pain that John might find uncharacteristic as well if he's clear-headed enough to notice.) He stays down though, breathing heavily, his lip and nose bleeding profusely. He turns his head to spit blood out of his mouth, and hopes the doctor doesn't pursue him to the ground.

"Please!" Sherlock gasps, staring up at John with a mixture of pain and - is that fear? mingling in his sharp features.

For the first few moments he stands over Sherlock, ready to strike again, breathing heavily.

"Please?" he laughs, spitefully. "PLEASE?!"

How many times had he shouted and begged at Sherlock's grave. That very word, over and over until he was hoarse, waiting for his friend to magically reappear, reveal the trick to be something so simple, so clever. And here he was.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock doesn't cringe, it's not in his nature, but his eyes narrow a bit and he sort of scoots back a bit. He doesn't bother to get up. Not only will it hurt, it'll give John free range to start beating on him again, and Sherlock's in enough pain already as it is. He wipes the blood off of his face with the back of his hand, but his nose keeps bleeding.

Inhaling steadily, Sherlock centers himself, relying again on his collection of martial arts training to bring a certain measure of calm back to his being. This was not the reaction he'd expected, and his mind spins to play out scenarios, to track the path of John's behavior.

A realization strikes Sherlock, and his mouth drops open a little, his breath coming in rasps. He coughs, and his eyes scrunch shut as he does because that, of all things, just hurts He may heal quickly, but broken ribs aren't exactly inclined to heal as quickly as he would like them to.

"Sherlock Holmes!" bellows Sherlock at John. Or he tries. It comes out weakly. He tries again. "John, it's Sherlock! What is wrong with you!?"

"You're dead! I watched you j- I saw you... I saw you.... There was no pulse.... you were bleeding. I tried to save you," he finished weakly.

A part of his coming here was to harness the power he'd ignored all his life, a supposed power that had failed to save Sherlock's life. He needed proof that he'd done all that he could. That he couldn't have done more if he'd just accepted being what he was.

"Fine. Tell me something. Anything, give me proof. If you're here...you know it's not enough just looking like somebody."

"Ball, under the armpit," breathes the detective, spitting blood from his lips and still trying to stem the flow of his nosebleed. It's clearing up just a bit quicker than John knows it should.

Then, he gets up from the ground. Carefully. It's probably painful for John to watch, too, because the man is usually so lithe and catlike in his motions. The careful, uncomfortable act of getting up off the ground is an effort and it shows in Sherlock's face, still etched with pain and confusion.

"John Watson. Captain. Doctor, soldier. Sister named Harriet, who I incorrectly assumed was a man because she goes by Harry. Alcoholic. Recently divorced when I met you. Harry left Clara. We met in the lab at Saint Bart's. You use to tell me that I was amazing every time I make any sort of deduction though thankfully you've stopped that behavior. I once locked you in a laboratory and drugged you to test my theory of the use of psychotropic drugs to keep a young man in fear and silence so that he wouldn't reveal the murderer of his father. You offered Irene Adler a napkin when she walked into the room naked, and you set off the smoke alarms in her house. Jim Moriarty once wired you with explosives and you threw himself at him to make sure I'd stay alive. Is that enough or do I need to keep going?"

Typical Sherlock aggravation is creeping back into his tone, now that he's got most of the pain from his ribs and his face filed away.

John steps back and watches Sherlock get up. Although it does pain him a little, there's also satisfaction there. He watches and listens and still avoids eye contact until that last hint of annoyance. He looks Sherlock in the eyes with something dark and vicious still.

There's no way he could have thought of all those things around the students or long enough for any to catch on. Some could be researched, but not all and never given so fluidly.....

"Sit down." He points at the bench and retrieves his stick from the ground. Sherlock was lucky he'd dropped it or it would most certainly have worked as a weapon.

The taller man averts his gaze almost immediately when John stares into his eyes, looking down at his feet, the grass, the sky - anything but the doctor's face, actually. He settles for John's left shoulder.

Sherlock has never sat down so quickly in his life. The blood on his lips has mostly finished coagulating, but his nose has a nasty reddish cast to it, and there will most certainly be a black eye later. There's a flicker of fear in his eyes as John picks up the cane, and he actually presses back into the bench, inhaling sharply.

He says absolutely nothing.

Assuming the flinch was some far too late sign guilt, John merely propped the stick up at the end of the bench. Sherlock looked better than he ought to and John was still a little unwilling when it came to the reason he himself was here. He wouldn't heal Sherlock. At least not yet.

He sat down.

"If you're not you...." he huffs, angrily.

"Really.... really.... sort of hate you right now."

Sherlock just stares at the ground in front of him. He goes to carefully pick up his shirt from the bench, shifting over to pick up his coat. He starts to pull on his shirt, but sort of forgets to finish the process, leaving it open to expose the bruising and the bandages.

He still doesn't say anything, but he looks cautiously over to John, as if the man might start beating him again. It's rather like scolding a child, and Sherlock just lets his hands lay idle in his lap.

It takes him a second, but he rummages in his coat pocket, and just hands John something - it's a ticket. From the Chinese circus where Sherlock had so rudely interrupted the doctor's date. It's rumpled, clearly been washed, sat upon, stuffed somewhere, collected somewhere else, but it's full of a pocket where Sherlock keeps most of everything.

"What about this?" he asks, rather softly. "Is this enough?"

He looks away because, damn it, men don't cry. He just holds the ticket and nods, face turned towards the school buildings. That had been a bloody awful date. But an incredible night. Seeing Sherlock in action. He was a lunatic. John doesn't turn back until he's collected himself again.

"Limp's back. Your fault this time."

Sherlock actually reaches out to touch John's shoulder, however briefly, and when his hand makes contact, he jerks it away and attempts to stand up. It doesn't work - his ribs are preventing him from any quick movements, and he just sort of settles back against the bench.

"We both know that'll go away. It really -was- brilliant though, John. How I lived through it. Molly was invaluable for once in her life. I wish I could have told you sooner, but..." he pauses. Does he really want to get into this now? Sending out leads to hunt down Moriarty's pawns from the hospital?

"... How long has it been?" he asks, as if the thought just occurred to him. His brows furrow in concern, and he attempts to look John in the face. "Wait. John. How long have you been on your own?"

What was that? He almost jumps. Was that a comforting gesture? A sign of humanity? John gives him a purposefully sceptical look before giving a grimace and shaking his head.

"Don't wanna hear it. Not right now. And Molly is constantly invaluable to you. Who else would let a deranged sociopath into a morgue with a riding crop?"

Shaking his head again to turn Sherlock away from his questioning, he eyes the bandages.

"I'm a doctor, you know. And a pretty good on at that."

"John, answer the question," Sherlock remarks curtly, reaching out to grab John's arm to keep him from touching the bandages. "How long has it been? Weeks? A few months? A year? It's important."

A pause.

"Anyone would let me into a morgue with a riding crop, that's just common sense," Sherlock frowns faintly at John. "I needing to see the pattern-..." and he just waves a hand, because John already knows and there's really no point in going on about it.

Sherlock releases John's arm to button his shirt peevishly. "I'm fine." He's really, really not.

"Months. Why? You should know. Then again, I guess you did hit your head pretty hard."

He sucks in a breath, feeling himself go a little light headed at the joke. He'd seen terrible things, but it was different when it was your friend. A friend like Sherlock.

"As I said, I'm a pretty good doctor so I know you're not."

Looking sidelong at him, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock just averts his eyes, letting his hands drop down and mutters. "You left the flat. Mrs. Hudson was positively beside herself, you know. She was a wreck when I came back for the Stradivarius." Which he's left on the roof, but no matter, he'll go get it later, and the spot on the roof is in eyeshot from the bench.

The crack at humor gets a tired, worn smirk from Sherlock. "I'm fine, John, honestly, stop fussing."

The question about why he's come to the Institute? That one goes unanswered. Sherlock fidgets with the buttons on his sleeves. "Nice campus, isn't it?" The attempt at small talk is a bad one, and Sherlock doesn't do human well.

"Yes, I'm quite aware. She was becoming unbearable." He's not as good as Sherlock as coming off cruel, but the truth was that the Dr told him to leave and it seemed a promising option. Until he moved in with Harry. Thank god for Xavier, really.

"You're not fine. You'd never been fine."

He gives his friend a firm look. "Sherlock. You know what this place is, don't you?"

"Yes, John. It's a school, and I'm the librarian," Sherlock retorts tersely. "I'm the bleeding Librarian, alright?" He really doesn't want to get into the actual reason he came here - tailing his best friend make sure none of the noise from London came looking for him.

With the same sort of exasperation, he strips off his shirt and flings it aside - and then remembers that he has, in fact, no less than two broken ribs and a few more that are cracked. Looking over at John with a blend of patience and annoyance, Sherlock slumps against the bench carefully.

"I'm always fine," he insists stubbornly, looking out toward the grounds.

"And what's your mutant gene, being a massive smartarse? I don't know why I never saw it before. I knew this sort of thing existed."

He wanted to say freak, but it reminds him too much of home and he's not sure Sherlock would appreciate the name.

"Right. You're not allowed to laugh. Close your eyes or something," he says, impatiently, bringing his hands closer to Sherlock's ribs.

"I heal faster than I should," Sherlock grumbles. "If I didn't there's probably no way I would have survived off the roof. I can also..." he sighs faintly, and reaches over to press a hand against John's head, no warning, no nothing. But then there's the image of him standing on the roof, only it's Sherlock looking down at John, rather than the other way around.

Then, John is introduced rather rudely to Sherlock's mind. There's the whirl of thoughts, impossibly fast, the view of John down on the ground, and Sherlock's heart (is it even possible?) aching for the man, feeling, as much as he can, that this is his responsibility, and he has to do anything, anything at all to keep John safe, not just John, but Mrs. Hudson and all of the rest of them. Helplessness, blinding fury that he's been bested by the man laying dead behind him. Panic - things hadn't gone the way they should have, Sherlock didn't count on Moriarty putting a bullet in his head - yes, he would have had to died, but the rest of the plan would have been easier. Moriarty's death sealed it all. There's no other way, there's no way out at all except to jump, to die himself. He's prepared. Blood packs, the ball under his arm, he knows how to fall, he's thought about it a hundred times before this moment- but... Sherlock looks down and fear rises in him. The echo of John's voice in his mind being played back at the man, distorted through a warp of analysis and memory.

Sherlock removes his hand and exhales shortly, closing his eyes against the world around him. He's has taken a beating. Not just from John. The places where John's wailed on him are more pronounced, purple and angry across his pale skin. There are a number of older bruises though, like someone took a brick in a sock to him or something. The wounds aren't just from falling off the roof, obviously. Sherlock's been in a fight. Several, and none of them have gone well for him.

Frowning, he almost tries to dodge the hand, not sure what Sherlock's up to. But then it connects and there are visions and feelings, far too many feelings and far too vivid and he feels guilt and horror and a horrible feeling of numb, terror and injustice that he's been beaten. Beaten by Moriarty, dead on the ground. And John can see himself and feel something more and....

When it breaks, he twists away, almost retching, hand on his chest, catching his breath.

It was too much, his hairs are on end, his mind trying to come down and belong to him again. And only him.

"What the HELL.... that...." He lets out a long breath. "What the hell was that?" he gasps.

Dude y u do this.

I'm a bad man.

you're a mean one, mr holmes. omg he does look like the grinch.

yes, but less green.

and more mean (screw grammar I'm rhyming)

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