The Phone, a sherlock fanfic

A.N.: This is the first post-Fall fic I've written. Warning: there are feels!

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.

The phone was sitting in an unassuming drawer in Mycroft's desk.

Every so often, there would be a vibration from the phone. At the start, it would go off several times a day. As time went on, the frequency with which the phone received texts decreased, but even at those times when it was most ignored, there would still be at least one text a week.

The phone was a coping mechanism. Sherlock had acquired it at the first opportunity after he fell, and given it to Mycroft to look after. The number had been saved in the detective's contacts as 'John', and the doctor's real number had been deleted.

The texts started coming through almost straight away.

I miss you. - SH

I'm sorry. - SH

I'm in the south of France. Would it be too cheesy to tell you that I wish you were here? - SH

I got one of them. I'm getting nearer. - SH

I dreamed about home last night. - SH

I want to come home. - SH

I saw someone today who looked just like you. I almost went up to talk to him. But he turned around and he wasn't you. - SH

I'm looking at the stars. We're both under the same sky. Can you see them too? - SH

I've got another one. Would you be proud of me? - SH

You never reply. Why don't you reply? - SH

John, please reply. - SH

The texts went on and on, and - as per requested - Mycroft read every single one. It was a year after the fall when the phone in his own pocket buzzed.