Sherlock has always wanted more than he can have, wanted to be good and right and important, wanted to not drag the people he cares about into danger or damage them through his accidental and inevitable neglect. Sherlock thinks about John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly—Molly, who seems to be able to find nothing but compassion inside her for everyone and anyone, who cares that he gets it right, who has done nothing but help him, and whom he has discounted and ignored and forgotten, unforgivably, twice. The first time saved his life; the second may cost her hers, and she didn’t even get the opportunity to yell at him because he used up the last of her conditioner. Sherlock doesn’t want any of that. He wants it erased. He wants her home and safe, Lestrade home and safe, Mrs. Hudson home and safe, John home and safe, and himself being nowhere breaking nothing at all. Sherlock wants to stop being an expense for which other people pay.

the sensation of falling as you just hit sleep by greywash