I never meant it to go this far, I promise. And I don't want you to blame yourself, even though it is entirely your fault. I should probably regret it, but I don't. How could I regret the one thing that brought you back to me?
John sighs and throws down his pen, angry at the page and himself. How could words fail him now? He'd been planning this speech, and others like it, for weeks. Months. He had the right words in the right order. His words. He was ready to speak, but there was nobody to listen. And now that there was...
He takes up his pen again and rips off the top sheet of the notepad they've provided him with. Sturdy white pages. Regimental lines. 31 lines a side, a red lined margin and hole punched. It had been a 250 sheet notepad two hours ago, but John reckons the current sheet count to be around the 226 mark.
And he still hasn't written a word worth reading.
Sherlock, I -
He pulls the pen away from the sheet again and winces. Don't use his name, he tells himself. You don't deserve such a luxury. 225.
I'm sorry. Well, I'm not, but I am. I just want to -
No! He rips off yet another sheet. Screws it up tight, his strong soldier's hands curling into fists. He stands, paces around the small room - the room he refuses to call 'his'. Deep breaths. Scuffed feet. He returns to the page. 224.
I did it. Of course you've already figured that out by now, haven't you?
He literally screams this time. Throws the entire notepad into the corner of the room. His right hand curls even more tightly around the pen and the pain satisfies him. He stops screaming. Looks at his hands. He's cut himself with the pen, and the red of his blood is mixing with black ink. The tainted blood of a tainted man. More deep breaths. More scuffed feet. 223.
They're dead, Sherlock.
He crosses out his name.
They're dead because -
He pauses. Why? What reason can he give without sounding like the psychopath he is? He taps the pen against his chin, wipes his cut hand on his jeans, and starts again. 222.
Bad things happen to -
He laughs out loud. What a cop-out. He cradles his head in his hands and the metallic taste of blood rests on his lips. It's tangy and sweet all at the same time, and then he knows. He knows what he has to write. What will make it all clear. He takes up the pen. 221.
Because they said you liked the clever ones.
He leaves it at that. Smiles. Stares at his bloody and shaking hand. Digs two fingers deep into his cut and signs the letter with his finger print.
A bloody finger print.
That's how they caught him, you see. A bloody finger print at a bloody murder scene.
They're dead, Sherlock.
He adds this underneath his finger print.
They're dead, Sherlock, because I knew you weren't. How else was I supposed to make you come back?