The buzzing from my phone is getting rather irritating. I would set it on silent, but I'm a bit worried that it could be a call from work, or someone else. But it never usually is: it's always the same message. The exact same message that I've received every day for over three weeks. For twenty two days, actually. And I haven't replied to a single one, and don't intend to.

The persistent humming is now very distracting, so I shuffle over to the end of the couch and pick it up. Begrudgingly, I click on the "open text" option to reveal, lo and behold, the text identical to the other twenty or so in my inbox...

John,

Please. I am so sorry. Let me explain?

-SH

I give it a quick read, then press delete and toss my phone to the side with a stony expression. After a while, it gets a lot easier to delete them. After the first one, I was so paralysed with shock that I wasn't sure how to respond. I thought perhaps it was a sick joke, so I didn't let it get to me.

The next day, it arrived again. This time, I got a bit worried. I showed it to Mycroft, who looked as though I'd shown him a text from his deceased great-grandmother. He had only just come to terms with his brother's death; I had never really come to terms with it. Never the less, we both knew that this text meant something was up. Why would anyone play this kind of joke three years after someone has died? He immediately sent it in for tracking- the results showed that they had been sent from a small, seedy hotel near Mayfair. Mycroft sent some of his men in to discover what we all thought was impossible.

They returned with the news that a tired, rather worse-for-wear Sherlock Holmes was laying on his bed, asking to see John Watson. Mycroft's eyes filled with tears of happiness, and he turned to me, beaming.

"John! Did you hear that?"

I nodded, lips thin and eyes closed. When I opened them, I could see panic on Mycroft's face.

"You are going to go, John?"

I shook my head.

But that was three weeks ago, and although Sherlock has been reacquainted with most of our friends, I refuse to let him into this flat. No explanation he has will ever be good enough. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft...they all beg me to go see him. They tell me he's not the same without me. But all they are doing is pouring salt on already deep wounds.

I could go, you know. I could run to him and cry "Sherlock!" and tell him that everything will be perfect and that nothing matters except that we're together, but that isn't me. That isn't anyone, except people who live in a perfect world. So, yeah, that isn't anyone.

I don't want to seem ungrateful. If it was under any other circumstances, I would feel overwhelmingly lucky. But showing up unannounced after three years, and getting our friends to talk him up to me... I don't know. I just can't think about it too much.

I hear another beep from my phone. That's odd; as consistent as Sherlock is, he never sends me more than one a day. Curious, I press open.

John,

I know that this sickens you, but I am asking you not as Sherlock's brother, but as someone who cares for the both of you- please come.

-MH

I scoff, deleting it quicker than the others. Mycroft had welcomed his brother back with open arms, and from what I've heard, shown his more affection than he ever had before. He visited every day, bringing Sherlock food, clothes, money. Whatever he needed. He also offered to upgrade his accommodation, but Sherlock had insisted on staying at the hotel until he saw me. Mycroft, although disapproving that I am giving Sherlock the cold shoulder, is still on speaking terms with me, and gives me updates whenever he can. He also implores me to accompany him. Every single time.

I rub my eyes, ready for a rest, when Mrs Hudson raps on my door.

"John! Please. He's worse today! No matter what we say to him...he just want to see you." Her voice sounds so helpless and terrified that I answer the door. As I open it, I see her face streaked with tears. She looks so vulnerable; it hurts my heart a little.

"Please." Her voice breaks on that one word.

I give her a half-smile, and against everything I have stood for in these past weeks; I don't agree to visiting, but I agree to reply.

I type about ten possible messages; most of them seem either too pathetic or too harsh. I finally find one.

Sherlock,

I will consider it. But first you have to give me a while.

-JW

Within thirty seconds, I receive the reply.

John,

That is all I ask for.

-SH