Dear Journal,

I'm using you so much now compared to when I first got you. This is risky writing in you, what I'm about to jot down. I'll try to be as vague about this as possible, for my sake and anyone else's who happens to read this.

Something's happened, something I've never done before. Life is changing for me. Dad and Mary are expecting, and I was recruited back to Baker Street for a case. Of course, the case wasn't one I was expecting. I was expecting a murder or a complex burglary, or even a terrorist threat. What's going on right now is hard to explain.

Sometimes I wonder if this is real. Sometimes I wonder if I pinch myself hard enough 'will this disappear?' I knew the marriage would have an effect on Sherlock, but to change him this drastically? I can't figure up a good explanation aside from that he is simply becoming more human.

This is all going to have to end soon. This can't go on forever, despite how much I like this. I'll have to be back home in Maryland. I know there will be a time when Dad and Mary will finally announce to the world they're having a baby. Hopefully by then I'll have worked through my weird reaction and settle for a more mature response. Lately, I haven't been thinking about my half-sibling.

I sometimes go back and read Dad's blog, to read up on the cases. Now I understand why I'm never mentioned. It's for my safety in case, God forbid, a new villain decided to look into leverage against my dad and/or Sherlock. I wouldn't want the attention anyway, reporters stalking me and asking me about my dad or my life. I don't know how those two handled it—or still handle it, I guess. Maybe they're just used to it.

I know it's silly, what I'm about to put down, but, I'm scared that it will happen. That Moriarty will somehow come back. I know it sounds impossible since he shot himself, but hey, Sherlock fell off a rooftop and he managed to save himself. I can't rule out the slim possibility of Moriarty returning. I can't rule out the possibility either that his connections are spying on me like he probably asked them to. He could have easily passed the killing-me torch to one of his allies. They could be plotting my death right now...

A little paranoid, I looked towards the closed door, expecting Moriarty to come strolling in like he owned the place. I expected to hear his damned ringtone. I looked to the windows to expect someone peeking inside, dressed in all black and a ski mask, ready to burst in and either murder me or abduct me.

Why am I focusing on him? He's dead. That's what I'd believed about Sherlock too, but he came back after two years. What if Moriarty was waiting longer, if he was coming back at all?

I shut my journal, tossing it to the other edge of the couch. I jumped up, stretching. The noises of London seeped through the closed windows, as did sunlight. I could hear the clock ticking in my head. My time in London was running out.

I went to one of the windows, ducking behind a thin curtain. I watched the streets, the sidewalks, and the sky. St. Bart's hospital, for some unknown reason, came to mind. My head ached as events of The Fall were coming back, mainly focusing on the last moment I'd thought I'd ever see Sherlock Holmes alive.

All you had to do was look down, and you would have known. Fear had prevented me from seeing how Sherlock had lived. Fear had kept me from the truth.

But what was the truth? Even if I got something from Sherlock, there was no guarantee that it would be true.

"He won't return. I can assure you he didn't send anyone out to assassinate you, either."

I spun around to see Sherlock lazily wrapped in a bed sheet, holding my journal. My eyes bugged. Why did I think to leave that lying around? I've got to start hiding it from him. I pounced on him, but he held the journal up high, just out of reach.

"That's personal," I said. "And it's too early to start this stuff with me."

"It's never too early."

"Give it back."

"Or what?"

"I'll rip off the sheet."

"Go ahead," he dared me. "Try to resist that sight."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've seen someone naked."

"That detail I could have lived without," he admitted. "But it'd be the first time you've seen me naked." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

I acted sly about it, slowly fingering Sherlock's lazy attire. He watched me intently, still holding my journal above his head.

"You won't do it," he growled.

"As if you can read my mind."

"You won't."

"Give me my journal and I won't tear it off," I bargained. "Don't tell me you're scared."

"I'm not, because I know you won't do it."

My mouth dropped open in amusement. "Do I hear a trace of fear in your voice?" I giggled. "You're lucky I'm not willing to humiliate you today."

"Good luck trying to do that in the future."

"Just give it to me," I repeated, jumping for my journal. "You're being a nosy bully." I should have sounded more serious than playful.

"You're being a whiny child." He smiled.

"I can't keep anything to myself with you around, can I?" I pouted.

"Nope."

"Like I said. Nosy."

"Yet you're still here, putting up with me."

"I've grown a tolerance for you. I must get that from my dad."

"You're ruining the moment by bringing him up."

I laughed. "What moment?"

Temporarily, I forgot the journal, or the fact that Sherlock had read the latest entry. He pulled me to him, capturing me in a kissing fest. These weren't hungry, lustful kisses, mind you. These were chaste and long. Tingles shot up my spine.

"Today is an in day for you?" I asked.

"No, Rachel, I'm going out like this for a case."

I hit him lightly on the shoulder. "Smartass."

"I can see it'll be another in day for you too."

"Actually, I was thinking about going out for some air. You can handle being without me for a little while, can't you?" My fingers tousled his already-mussed hair.

"I'm not clingy. Of course I can."

"But no shooting walls out of boredom."

"You can't stop me from doing that, Rachel."

I sighed. "I can't stop you from doing anything."

"Are you going to talk to them about it?"

Despite the very vagueness of the question, I understood what he meant. "What? Oh, no, I'm not ready for that. I just want to get out."

"It's because I'm driving you insane, isn't it?"

"In which sense?" I crooned.

"Easy there."

"Relax." I smiled sheepishly. "I won't be gone the entire day."

"Of course you won't, you don't know your way around London. You're more likely to get lost or abducted than stay out late."

"Gee, thanks for that compliment." I scowled.

"You're a born English woman, yet you don't know your own country."

"I was adopted when I was really young, Sherlock. I'm sure you'd already deduced that about me when you first met me. I haven't hung around long enough to know England, let alone London. And stop talking; I want to get out soon."

"Then leave me and get ready."

I tried. "It's difficult when you're still holding me."

"Maybe I don't want you to leave just yet." He burrowed his face into my neck.

I kneaded his hair gently with my fingers, resting my head against his. I'd never seen Sherlock so human, so vulnerable before. I was kind of used to it now, but somehow a part of me was still in awe by the newness of it.

How Sherlock and I went from strangers to this didn't cease to amaze me. How did this happen?

The world may never know.

* * *

Here I am, back again.

The door to the rooftop remained unlocked after I'd broken into it with a hairpin. I laughed dryly, remembering hearing Sherlock's call to Dad through the door. I remembered how frantic I was searching for the hairpin, which I'd dropped in the worst time.

I pushed it open, exposing myself to the place where The Fall happened. The rooftop was bare. Moriarty's body was gone, but I was sure there was a very faded puddle where the blood had spilt from his head. I tried to not picture his corpse and moved towards the center of the rooftop. The view from up here was actually pretty nice.

All I had to do was look down, and I would have seen how he did it. I still wasn't sure if even that was true, but it was worth a look.

Tenderly, I walked towards the ledge. I peered over and down it, yanking my head back up after seeing the scary height. I scanned the rooftop.

Sherlock couldn't have had any help from up here, as I would have seen it when turning around to head back out of St. Bart's. The help had to be on the ground. There had to have been something there to catch his fall.

That explains one part, but how does it explain the body? I now wondered if Molly had played a part in the fake suicide.

I dared myself to look over the ledge again. It was a straight shot down, so something had to have been put there for him to fall on. A huge mattress maybe or a net. But Dad had seen him fall. I looked to realize that there was a building that, if Dad had been standing in a certain place, would have blocked Sherlock from him after a certain time.

There were so many factors that I was still missing. What did Dad really see lying on the pavement? Was it really Sherlock fitted to look dead? What happened after he was caught by whatever he had waiting for him on the pavement?

I tested what parts of my theory I had put together out, watching. I saw myself bursting through the door, seeing Sherlock perched on the ledge. Moriarty's still body was unnoticed to me at the time. I could see Sherlock fall forward. My eyes fell to the pavement. I winced as I pictured the consulting detective flailing his limbs about. I could also picture what cushion he had waiting for him down on the pavement.

I placed my dad somewhere where he'd only see Sherlock fall part of the way. I focused back on Sherlock. What was next? He would have gotten off. But if Dad was running to him, he would have needed to see a body. Would someone have taken Sherlock's place temporarily until Dad's view was obscured again?

I grabbed my head. Too many questions that still needed answers. Too many variables. Endless possibilities. I had the answer as to why Sherlock did it; I had bits and pieces of my theory as to how he did it. Maybe I can ask Dad what he saw that day. Maybe that could fill out my theory more.

People worldwide had ridiculous ideas as to how he survived. Nobody would really know the truth except Sherlock and those that were involved with the plan.

They would probably take the secret with them to the grave.