You're gone again- here, present, but still…gone. You won't look at me, won't talk to me. What have I done this time? Was it even me? Really, I don't think you need anyone to drive you to this. You haven't sunk so low in a long, long time.

Three weeks without a case and this is what it's come to: you, the great Sherlock Holmes, sprawled out on my bed with your glass-colored eyes staring up and through the ceiling. I'm sure you can see beyond these walls. Positive of it. You see infinite numbers more than any other earthly man.

Sometimes I would like to be inside of your head. If it were up to me, that would be my permanent place of residence. I would crawl inside of you, live there and keep you warm. Keep you safe, make sure you're never lonely again. Ever. Because this is what happens when you're lonely.

I miss you when you're lonely. I'm positive that you don't miss me- you don't even know I'm here. But I am- I'm right by your side, looking down at you while you sweat and glare at the ceiling. Why are you so cross? What in God's name could you be so upset about?

I understand boredom, and I understand you but the combination of both variables is something I don't care to come across and, unfortunately, three weeks ago, I did. I am. We have come across it. We don't have a case, Sherlock, no, but it's no excuse to go and do this to yourself. To me.

For some reason I'm not particularly offended that you don't give a rat's backside about what I think or what I'm feeling. No, because that's the way I've known you from the start. I don't miss you being overly affectionate or anything of the like because it was never there. How can I miss something I've never had? I like you the way you are and that's that. I'll have you no other way.

However I will say that sometimes I imagine you differently, and it's nice. I imagine you doing the shopping with me (or at least writing a list instead of saying "John, you should know what I need by now or asking for things, my laptop in particular, instead of just snatching it up as you please. But then who would that man be? It definitely wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes.

You turn and look at me now and, God, Sherlock, you look miserable. Why do you do this to yourself? What in God's name kind of enjoyment do you take out of this? You cannot possibly feel good while looking like this, like death warmed over with your red-rimmed eyes and slick, shining skin.

My heart thuds hard in my chest when your hand falls across the bed toward me and I gingerly lower myself down on it's ege. Your palm is sweaty and too, too hot. You look like you should be made of ice, all angles and white skin and sharp eyes. Sometimes I forget you're human like the rest of us. I miss you. Come back.

I was bored, John.

Don't feed me that story this time, Sherlock. I've not seen you this bad before and I'm bloody terrified. I'm sad. I'm sad because you're lonely in that great mind of yours. I'm sad because your heart is somewhere in a jar far, far away from here and I can't find it. I can't have it. I want it.

Do you hate me?

No, you damn tosser, I don't hate you. How could I ever? When I tell you so a cynical smile tugs at one side of your face and I think to myself that it's one of my favorite smiles you've ever done. You should do it more often.

I'm sorry. I really, really am.

I tell you to shut up and you finally do, thank God. I cannot handle you apologizing to me. Yes, you should very well be seeking my forgiveness but not right now. Not when you look so pathetic and withered. If I hold your hand any tighter I'm certain that you'll crumble into a thousand pieces right in my palm and that would be a mess. The last thing I want is to clean up after you, after all.

'If you ever do this again,' I say to you, I'll leave.' I would. I can't handle this, Sherlock. I can't handle my heart breaking with every blink you send my way while you're in this godawful state. I don't want to watch you waste away anymore, Sherlock. This has gotten out of hand and I'm tired of worrying myself sick over you.

I love you. Oh, God, I love you more than anything or anyone I've ever met in this entire world and I really couldn't watch you die. This will kill you if you keep it up and I refuse to stand by and watch it happen.

Don't leave me.

I've never heard you sound so desperate since I met you all those months ago at St. Bart's. My stomach knots up and I feel, Sherlock, like I'm going to cry. Like I've let you down, like I've hurt you. Right now you are so, so precious to me. So fragile in this state and all I want to do is cradle you in my arms until I've softly shaken out every bit of the demon running through your veins, clouding your mind.

'I wont', I tell you and that's the truth.

Inspired by this song.

Thanks to everyone who's kind words have encouraged me to write more! I'm considering turning this into a full chapter fic but may need a bit of a push! Any prompts or ideas as to where I could take this from here?