A/N: This is set after A Scandal in Belgravia and is totally inspired by that episode.

Oh, just in case, I should probably warn you that this is slash.

Also, please, do review if you like it.

Beta:OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

John felt stupid, sending texts that he knew were not going to be received. Somehow it felt like it was the only thing left for him now. Was it ever going to change?

Messages to Anyone

John felt hopeless. During his time living with Sherlock Holmes he had been in many difficult situations, but this was something new, something terrifyingly different. He had never imagined that something like this could happen to a man like Sherlock, never expected…

Things had changed after that. Not drastically, but still noticeably for John.

The most distinct change: Sherlock stopped using his phone. Even for John it took some time to realize. It was in the evening, two weeks after the fiasco that was Irene Adler, when John returned home, tired and in a bad mood.

"Sherlock," he called out, looking around the empty room. "Sherlock!"

"Here," came the muffled voice from the kitchen.

"You didn't answer my text." John accused from the threshold, leaning on the doorframe to regard his flat mate. Sherlock was sitting behind the table, hands clasped before him, looking too innocent not to be causing some irreparable damage to their flat.

"Your text?" Sherlock frowned. It was a diversionary tactic, probably designed in order to not let John notice a burnt hole in the carpet right behind the chair he was sitting on. John allowed him this, pressing the more bothering matter instead.

"Yes, I sent you a text. Lestrade called me, said you weren't answering your phone."

"Oh, I was…busy." He wasn't looking at John as he said that.

John frowned, but let it slide, this time. He was too tired to play his mind games.

It happened again, two days later.

"Text? What text?" Sherlock asked, confused when John mentioned it.

That's when the doctor realized that something wasn't right. There were only two options he could think of. Sherlock had lost his phone, because there was no case and the possibility of it being stolen was very low. Or he was simply not answering it. Both options confused John; it was Sherlock Holmes and he simply could not function without his phone.

So John sent a new text.

Are you messing with me? JW

That was all John could come up with, but he decided it was worth a try.

He did not get an answer.

Because if you are, it's not funny. JW

There was no answer to that as well. John wasn't surprised, just slightly disappointed.

The feeling grew when he noticed Sherlock sitting in the doctor's favorite armchair with his back to the door, his fingers flying over the keys of a large black and golden phone. Her phone.

The mystery was so simple. He just replaced his own phone with the one that belonged to that woman. Somehow John felt like he was being replaced as well. He suppressed the feeling, calling himself stupid for thinking that.

But his mind was restless. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, those brilliant people. There was no place for the simple army doctor John Watson, was there?

He was always hesitant; reluctant to approach Sherlock in that way, always remembering his words from their first time at Angelo's. 'Married to my work' he said and John remembered. Well, that probably just proved that he wasn't the right person for the great Sherlock Holmes. Was the only thing left for him to accept that and get over this stupid crush?

I feel really stupid for doing this. JW

And he did. Texting to a forgotten phone? He must have been feeling particularly lonely that day.

Today Lestrade is more annoying than ever. Is that your fault? JW

That one John sent by the force of habit. He probably should not have felt so disappointed when no reply came.

Another week passed, another girlfriend dumped him because he was more interested in his flat mate than in her, another case cracked by said flat mate. Everything was just the way it used to be, but John felt like his life was duller now. Sherlock barely talked to him these days, too engrossed in his new toy and the possibilities it opened for him. So many secrets in that phone. At least that's what John preferred to tell himself. The other reason was too disturbing to think about.

One more day and John felt desperate for another person's company. He spent the whole evening chatting over tea with Mrs. Hudson and, even though he loved the old woman dearly, it still didn't fill his need for socialization. He called Mike and went out to the pub with him, but the cheery demeanor of his school friend did nothing to lift his spirits. He texted Lestrade, but the DI was too preoccupied with work to have an idle chat with John. He even called Mycroft at one point, but the older Holmes seemed distant and not in his usual way; John didn't risk asking what was bothering the other man.

So, one boring lonely evening he found himself sending text to a forgotten phone.

I am bored. JW

A moment later:

That sounds more like a thing you'd say. JW

He smiled at the screen of his own phone as the message was sent.

Actually you did say it today. Twice. JW

But I think that was solely out of habit. JW

He laughed to himself quietly and put the phone away. After turning off the lamp on his bedside table John went to sleep.

Next day he was texting again.

Just wondering, what's your favorite color? JW

If you actually have one. JW

I mean, everyone does. JW

John stared in puzzlement at his sent texts. Truly random thoughts came to his mind when he had nothing better to do. And why did he bother putting a signature, he wondered to himself. He regarded his phone for a moment and then sent another text.

And why do I bother putting a signature? It's not like anyone else will text on this phone.

Satisfied, he nodded to himself and went along with his daily routine of going to work and being immensely bored.

There was a new case; one which Sherlock did not solve in less than two hours. It took him three days of running around London, John in tow, to get to the heart of the mystery. For those three days John felt like things were going back to the way they used to be. But no, not really. Because even if John was right there, just a step behind his friend as always, he wasn't sure that Sherlock noticed that.

So by the evening of the third day, case closed and criminal left in Lestrade's care, John slumped in his favorite chair, exhausted beyond measure, and picked up his phone. Sherlock was stretched on the sofa, eyes staring at the ceiling mindlessly and hands playing with the black and golden phone held between his fingers, completely ignorant to his friend's presence.

Breaking the silence seemed unnecessary. John's vivid imagination made up a picture of Sherlock glancing at him with boredom and then looking away. So, instead of talking, he texted.

You were brilliant today. JW

John sent the text away and left the room.

The next day there were more texts.

There is something wrong with Mycroft. JW

Mrs. Hudson is not going to be happy with that hole in the wall, you know? JW

Lestrade's being too quiet lately. Is he hiding something? JW

Another government secret everyone but me is aware of? JW

I hate that melody, you know. Could you stop playing it all the time? JW

It was the middle of the night and the flat was absolutely quiet. No music, but for that John was thankful – that mournful melody was getting on his nerves, no sound of Sherlock softly pacing in his room or the sound of TV shows he was watching when he could not fall asleep. It was peaceful, but John couldn't find any willpower to enjoy it. During the night when there was no one around he could distract himself with talking to, John felt like the new distance between himself and Sherlock was going to separate them for good.

Sherlock, that eccentric man, his flat mate, his friend, the man who broke into pieces the daily dullness of his life, the man John respected, the man John treasured, the man John loved…Yes, probably, loved.

Turning in his bed John reached for his phone.

I miss you. JW

More days and more texts later John realized one important thing. It made his heart stammer and his cheeks burn with embarrassment. In that moment he felt so stupid and so angry at himself for not noticing it earlier.

His fingers moved over the keys of his phone, deleting the message he was writing with ferocity.

Writing messages, sending texts that never got answered...He was too similar to her. Just like that woman…

He glanced at the screen, anger dissipating as quickly as it came.

He typed in another message. Pressed send. And put his phone away. That was enough.

Sherlock jerked and opened his eyes; he was coming to his senses quickly. After looking around he came to a conclusion that he had fallen asleep on the couch, again. Not an unusual occurrence in itself, but it did feel strange not to have John nagging at him as soon as he woke up.

Sherlock glanced around the room but it was empty. He tried to sit up and felt something small fall into his lap. It was a phone, the one that belonged to Irene Adler and also the one he had been studying for more than a month already. There were so many secrets and mysteries in one small device. It was enough to keep him entertained for a relatively long time.

If anyone asked him Sherlock would claim that he kept the phone sorely for those reasons. But he wasn't going to lie to himself, especially when he knew that he wasn't really fooling anyone; Mycroft and John knew about his unexpected attraction to Miss Adler. The excitement of meeting a person, a beautiful woman, equal to him was overwhelming. He let this infatuation cloud his judgment.

Sherlock put away her phone and stood up. Stretching, he glanced around again, wondering where John went.

It was only in the evening when Sherlock realized that something was off. He walked around the flat, peeked inside his flat mate's room, but it was empty, then he talked to Mrs. Hudson who seemed pleasantly surprised when he knocked on her door. It made him wonder if he underestimated his own fascination with that phone and the woman it belonged to. How distant did he become while his mind was preoccupied with those thoughts?

Sherlock frowned to himself, but then shrugged. It was better to ask John that question.

Two hours later and he was getting bored. Very, very bored.

In a desperate attempt to dispel his boredom, Sherlock ventured going to his own room; the mess that greeted him there wasn't very entertaining, but on the bedside table he noticed something that was. His phone.

There were faint thumps of footsteps and a click of the door being opened and then closed – John had returned home. While he set the phone to charge and turned it on, Sherlock listened carefully to the sounds his friend made as he moved around their flat. It was wonderfully familiar and in some sense calming. After returning from the world of his own mind Sherlock found himself missing John's company.

His eyes were on the phone screen, watching as it lit up with a greeting message, but his mind was on other things. Such as making fun of John for another dramatic name for his latest blog entry.

A notification that he had 52 new texts came as a surprise. He looked through them quickly, first amused and then puzzled. His interest grew with each new message. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that John had moved upstairs to his bedroom.

He was standing absolutely still, only his fingers moving over the touchscreen of the phone, his heart beating in his throat by the time he reached the last texts.

I miss you. JW

I love you. John

Before his mind caught up with his actions Sherlock was already typing a reply. When it was sent he threw the phone on the desk and rushed upstairs.

John's door was open. The doctor was standing in the middle of the small room, phone in one hand. His eyes on the screen, he was frowning at the incoming text. Sherlock's footsteps alerted him to the presence of the other man and he looked up.

"Sherlock?" John's tone was questioning but without the straightforwardness with which he always addressed the consulting detective. He seemed hesitant, expecting something but not daring to assume too much.

Sherlock, suddenly feeling nervous, just nodded to him, prompting with his eyes alone to read the text. John looked back at his phone.

"Sherlock," he breathed out, tearing his eyes from the simple words weighted with so much meaning.

Sherlock stepped into the room, daring to smile slightly as he stopped a foot away from John. He nodded, silently confirming his words. The doctor answered with a smile of his own, still uncertain. Sherlock wiped it off by leaning down and kissing his friend.

Finally allowing himself to relax, John leaned into him, responding, shyly at first but gaining more confidence as seconds tickled past. He broke the kiss, a full beaming smile gracing his lips, and moved for another kiss.

Not paying much thought to it any more, John threw the phone on his bed. On the screen Sherlock's text still claimed for everyone to see:

I love you too, John. SH