Her lungs burned, the Doctor was shouting after her, trying to catch up. His legs were long but she had a set destination, and a fiery purpose that could be thwarted by no one.

“Amy this may not be the right timestream!” shouted the bowtie clad man, she ignored him.

“I don’t care! He has to know me, you said we meet somewhere in every timestream!” she shouted behind her, bowling over a small group of people but expertly dodging the little dog.

“Amy please we need to be delicate about this-,”

“I don’t want to be delicate!” Amelia Pond halted, whirling around to shout. The Doctor almost collided painfully with her, stopping just in time to brush noses with his companion. “You-you said we knew each other in every stream.” she huffed, attempting to catch her breath.

His face looked grim. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

She looked near tears, turning abruptly to run again, he sighed before picking up his pace. “Seeing him cannot disappoint, Doctor!”

“Amy-,” he shut his mouth as she turned the corner and he had to pray for mercy as his boots skid over the ice on the sidewalk. London was treacherous this time of year. 

There was the descending time for a companion, when they begin to realize just how dearly they must pay for being allowed to flit in and out of time and space on a whim. When they regret, it’s too late. 

Rory had been dead, two years, no return this time, no more miracles. She had cried, oh how she had cried. No eating. He could count each and every rib, so he did the only humane thing he could stand, he erased her memory.

Amy hadn’t even fought it, she had sagged into his arms when he but his long fingers to her temples. “Just make it okay.” she murmured, closing her eyes. 

Then, there was no more sadness, she had forgotten, horrified that she was so deathly thin. Health radiated off of her in waves. Then, on a quick visit to earth she had run into him. Quite by accident and through no design of his own.

The Doctor couldn’t hold it against her, after all, she didn’t even know who Rory was, let alone what he had meant to her. He watched her, the way her eyes lit up when he walked into a room. 

When he finally caught up to Amy, she was pounding frantically on the door, the letters 221B in brass lettering. There were loud footfalls but no sounds of the door being unlocked. The Pond frowned, knocking harder. 

“Amy,” the Doctor said lowly, she didn’t acknowledge him. 

Then the sound of the knob turning brought both to high alert, the big black gateway swung open to reveal a confused looking John Watson.

“H-Hello, can I help you?” he asked, eyebrows lowered over his face. 

“Yes, I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes!” she said breathlessly. 

John’s face flushed red and his hands clenched. “Is this some kind of joke?!” he hissed.

“What?” the Doctor said, pulling lightly on Amy’s jumper so she was forced to back away from the small man. 

“Oh don’t tell me you don’t know,” he spat. “Just fuck off then!” Watson went to slam the door, but Amelia put her foot in the way.

“Don’t know what?! I’m sorry but what are we missing here?!” her eyes were narrowed, scottish accent running rampant. 

The army doctor hesitated, looking at her for a second. “Sherlock Holmes is dead.” he said quietly. 

Amy’s posture went rigid. “No, no no no. You see,” she looked a little hysterical. “He was alive, I saw him last week. We went to-to-,”

“He threw himself off a building.” John Watson assured her. “No if you’ll excuse me.” this time she let the door click closed.

The Doctor felt his heart wrench, looking at Amelia stagger to the curb to sit down. “Dead…”

“Amy it’s not the correct time-,”

“No but that means it happens in our timestream too!” she said, the realization sinking it. “Doctor we have to save him!”

“We can’t save him Amy, his death… it needs to happen.”

Amy stood, looking at him, her face had a determined set to it. “We have to save him in my timestream. He can’t die, not-not now Doctor.” 

———

The wind on top of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital was cold. Sherlock’s skin grew gooseflesh as he shivered against the windchill. 

“Good-bye John.” he murmured, casting the phone aside.

“No- SHERLOCK!” the army doctor’s voice didn’t sound right. But the Holmes couldn’t really be sure, the wind whipping around his ears could’ve distorted the noise. He closed his eyes and fell. 

Impact, he braced for it, ready to die, for the others to live. 

“SHERLOCK!” no, that wasn’t John’s voice… that definitely wasn’t John’s voice. Lips… hm, those weren’t John’s lips either. They felt wet, salty? No, tears.

He opened his eyes a crack. Ginger hair cloaked his face. 

“You can’t die on me you big idiot.” came the voice again along with a sharp smack to the face. Sherlock scrunched his features up as the sting smarted across his cheek. 

“Amy?” 

“Who else?”