You would be surprised at how difficult it was to decide to look up flights back to America. I'd procrastinated for reasons I couldn't understand. I blamed being lazy as the reason, but I knew it was deeper than that—I just wasn't in the mood to waste my time and energy on finding the cause.

There was also another issue: money. How was I going to pay for a ride home? I was pretty sure seats weren't cheap, unless I was looking in all the wrong places. That was plausible; I never dug too deep for anything.

I sat on my usual perch, seeing the sun set on the walls. I blew out air through my nostrils. I snatched my journal, looking at my last—and only—entry. I remembered that day well, because it hadn't been so long ago. Two weeks ago, if you wanted to be precise.

I was tempted to rip out the page and crumble it, but I decided to let it live. I tapped the pen on my chin for a full minute before I started writing.

Dear Journal,

I wonder how different life would be if I hadn't given into peer pressure. I wonder if, instead of writing this, I would be back home in Maryland. I wonder if I would have found someone by this time and got over my fear of dating.

Speaking of choices, this is only the second time I've written in you. I should have written more, I had so much frustration in the past two weeks. Silence doesn't bode well with me, it drives me insane.

I feel like I haven't crawled out of the post-Fall pit just yet, but I haven't fallen deeper. I've stayed in the same place, sort of. I guess John has too. I wouldn't know where his head is at, being that we aren't talking right now.

I am an idiot. The day I save John's life, and I let slip Sherlock's theory. He instantly denies it and basically calls me stupid for believing the theory. He never flat-out said that I was dumb, but I knew that's what he had been getting at.

I've been in London for so long that I almost forget what Maryland looks like and what Amanda and the girls look like. The sad part is, I can go on Facebook and stare at their photos online, but I don't.

Amanda isn't sure she believes the theory either. I'd told her not long after the incident happened. I'm glad I've got a good friend who listens.

Though I'm pissed with John, I haven't stopped keeping an eye on him. Just because things are...what's the word I'm looking for?...tense between us doesn't mean that I'll stop caring about him. He and I have gone through so much together.

We both are strong, considering we're still here. I think I'm stronger than him right now, and that's sad considering he was an army doctor and has seen things I can't begin to imagine. Well, I have seen dead bodies, and I'm sure he's seen plenty of those in his lifetime.

In a way, this is liberating, but also tiring. My eyes feel strained because I'm so concentrated on writing, and I don't blink that much. My hand is also hurting once again. I think I'll eventually build immunity to the pain that comes with writing. I know I used to have it; I had it when in school.

I wonder how Mrs. Hudson is doing. I should probably call her sometime and check in. I know she's alright; she's a tough woman. I see such strength in her tiny frame that the thought makes me laugh. I'll miss her when I leave for home...whenever that is.

I was about to write more, but John's footsteps distracted me, pulling me out of my train of thought. I grimaced, clamping the journal shut. I curled into a tight ball, wishing I was wrapped up in a blanket. I watched John as he went into the small kitchen, where I had a clear view of him. He'd been out a lot more often than he had been since The Fall initially happened. I could thank my big mouth for that one.

After all, John didn't want to be in the same area as a girl who claimed she was his daughter all because his dead best friend told her that.

I pulled out my iPod from my pocket, poking in the ear buds. I kept the volume extremely low in case John talked to me. I didn't have high hopes of that happening. I think the last time he and I actually said words to each other was when he asked me to help him with dinner. Even that had been tense.

As the music played low in my ears, my mind drifted back to the mysterious case of my biological father. I was still sticking with Sherlock's theory, as some part of me had to believe he was right. Though he and I hadn't been close—insert fingers wrapped around each other here—I still trusted him somehow. It was hard to explain why I had trusted in a man like Sherlock Holmes.

I rubbed two fingers together out of boredom. I watched them look as though they were playing a mini violin. I wonder if anything has been touched since John and I left. I pursed my lips, doubting it. We had been the last ones to be in that apartment, but there was a chance Mrs. Hudson could have popped in after we'd left.

If it were up to me, I would leave the apartment and everything in it the way it was. It preserved him. It was proof that a man like him had actually existed. What was also proof, especially to me, was the bruise that was long gone from my forehead.

My eyelids were drooping. A grim smile played on my lips as I tried to remember things of the apartment that reminded me of him: the skull on the mantel of the fireplace; the untidiness; the bulleted wall; the wonderful music he played on his violin, the yellow smiley...

My heart beat painfully in my chest. I missed him. Things seemed so...normal now that he was gone. It was weird, to be accustomed to staying inside all day compared to going out. Absently, I twisted dark brown hair around my pointer finger. Hmm...was it time for a color change?

I watched the walls colored with sunset. Was it worth going out tonight? If so, where? Would I even enjoy airing out? Would events of The Fall be too much for me the moment I stepped out into the world?

I closed my eyes, clenching my fists. There was no stopping it now. This happened from time to time. I'd get thinking about that day, then things would come back to me, and there would be nothing I could do to stop them. Some parts were in slow motion, torturing me, while other parts were skimmed over.

I always watched as though I was a ghost, transparent. No matter what I did, no matter what I said, I couldn't change what happened. I could see myself visiting Moriarty when he was locked up, before his trial. I recollected how he warned me to get out of London while I still could, to especially keep away from Sherlock Holmes.

If I had known what was to come, I would have listened to Moriarty's warning.

Time jumped, bringing me to the day that started the chain reaction of bad things. I watched bitterly as Moriarty and I had that talk in 221B, him threatening to deal with me once Sherlock was dealt with.

The memory jumped, skimming the stuff that barely affected me. I was now at the point where I was watching me trail Sherlock, though he obviously knew he was being followed. We were changing onto a new flight of stairs when he stopped me. Our lips moved but no words came out, but I knew exactly when Sherlock had told me he thought John was my father. The look on my face spoke volumes.

I shouted at myself to get up not long after Sherlock knocked me unconscious. I still held a grudge against him for that despite him departing the world of the living.

I continued to vehemently press my unconscious form awake as I watched Sherlock continue onwards to the rooftop of St. Bart's. The memory jumped again, bringing me to the moment that forever haunted me. No, it was not when the gunshot rang out as I was making a beeline for the rooftop.

It was what shortly followed that gunshot.

I'd just gotten the door open, and I saw Sherlock perched dangerously on a ledge. I screamed his name; he gave me one last look and then fell.

"No!" I shouted, popping my eyes open. I panted, rubbing my face. I glanced down to see my ear buds had broken free; they were sprawled along my body. I hated when this happened.

"It's happened again, hasn't it?"

I looked up wearily to see John watching me with careful eyes from the kitchen. "It's been, what, two weeks?"

"People can only go for so long with silence." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I need help with dinner."

"Do you even know what to make?" I asked this casually.

"I was going to leave that up to you."

My eyes bugged. I wasn't sure what to do for dinner since I was put on the spot. "Do you want to get something out?" I suggested. "It could be easier, and it could possibly save our place from burning down." My laugh was forced.

"Did you actually want to go out, or order something?"

I shrugged again. "It's up to you."

John pursed his lips for a moment. "Get a jumper or something. I think the air might be good for us."

"A jumper?" I tilted my head to the side. I faintly recognized the British term. "Oh! Sweatshirt. Sorry." I blushed. "I wasn't born a Brit, remember? I'm an American."

* * *

It was a good change to get out of our place for the night.

People assumed we were dating—seriously, what was with that?—because they had this look in their eyes when they thought they saw something adorable. I wasn't buying into the whole dating thing, especially not when there was a chance that John was my dad.

If Sherlock really was right that day, then I was actually a British girl by blood. If his theory was right, then did that mean my mom was British too? Was I born in London? Whoa, let's figure out a way to confirm his theory first before jumping to those questions.

John and I settled for an Italian restaurant. Any place would do fine with me so long as I got to eat before I went to bed.

Soft music was playing in the restaurant, lightening my mood. John and I sat awkwardly at the table once we placed our orders. He had his hands clasped on the table, I glanced around the restaurant. I could see for the most part friends out to eat and a few couples.

"So..." I broke the silence at our table, focusing on John. "How are things going with your therapist?"

John hesitated. "Good." I raised an eyebrow suspiciously at him. "Okay, maybe not as good as you think."

"That's sounds more like it." I threw a playful smile at him. Wow, I couldn't remember the last time I'd smiled for a good reason.

"Does writing help you?"

I nodded slowly. "It beats sitting around and staring into space, or sleeping."

"You're still not sleeping well?"

"No. I'm sure you aren't."

"I'm not," he agreed. "Have you been...you know...seeing things?"

"Not for a while," I admitted. "My issue is the nightmares." I twirled the straw in my drink around with my finger. I watched the drink swirl around, watched the ice collide with each other.

"Listen, Rachel..." I pulled my eyes up to meet his. Green and brown. I would've believed Sherlock's theory a tad bit more if John and I had shared an eye color. It would be something small, but it would hold great significance if it were true. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Oh?" My heart beat fast in my chest.

John swallowed. "Remember..." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes to look at me. I smiled at him sympathetically. "Remember that day you found me...?"

I nodded, needing no further explanation.

"Well...that wasn't my first time trying."

My lips parted in astonishment, my eyes were bugging like I was seeing an alien in front of me. I tried to think back to all the possible times he could have tried.

John sat across from me, looking at me guiltily. I was sputtering for breath, like a fish out of water. I couldn't speak; I didn't know what to say. What I did manage out was a squeaky "thank you" to the waiter who brought us our food.

Suddenly, I wasn't all that hungry.

My fingers found their way to my fork. "You...You'd tried more than once?" I kept my voice low, just in case we had eavesdroppers nearby.

John nodded solemnly. "As you can clearly see, I didn't go through with it." I wasn't laughing. "Okay, maybe that was a bit insensitive."

"Just a bit," I deadpanned. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You deserve to know." He shrugged. "I would have told you sooner, but you didn't look like you wanted to talk to me at the time."

"You haven't tried again, have you?"

"No, I haven't." I relaxed a little bit. "And you'll be happy to know I don't have any intentions on trying again."

I squinted in his direction. "Are you lying to me?"

"No. It's a serious issue, so I wouldn't try and trick you."

I nodded slowly, still skeptical of John. My stomach reminded me there was a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of my face, waiting to be touched.

Ending the conversation on that awkward note, John and I ate in silence. My mind was running at top speed, full of thoughts. I tried to keep it blank by focusing on eating.

I felt better, seeing the wedge between John and me slowly shrink. I hoped it would be gone forever.