/Hey, I'm at the store, do you need anything? JW/
/Sorry about that last text, forgot that you're dead. JW/
/Anyways, I think I'm going to keep texting you anyways. Sorry. Well, I don't suppose it matters to you. JW/
/That was a stupid text. You'd say it was unintelligent and dull. Sorry. JW/
/Went to my therapist again. She wasn't very helpful. How are you? JW/
/Again, sorry, I forgot that you're not going to be anything but dead. JW/
Another ping. Finally, he stopped in his endless pacing and looked towards his mobile where it rested on a table. Heaving out an irritated sigh at what could only be Mycroft's incessant messaging, he Sherlock broke his pattern and walked over to the phone. Turning it over in his hand and unlocking it, he felt his breath stop for a moment as he read the name the texts were from. It was not what he expected at all.
John. John was texting him.
For a moment, Sherlock felt a thrill of fear go through him. Did John know he was alive? He can't know. He'd be in danger.
But then, Sherlock read through the multiple texts. No, John definitely believed he was dead. Something in him pained as he thought about his friend sending texts to a supposedly dead man while going about his day. Surely he had other things to attend to? Sherlock wanted to reply. His fingers hovered over the virtual keyboard as he thought out what his response could be.
/I'm sorry. John, I'm alive. I'm sorry./
But he couldn't. If he did- if John knew too early, the laser sight of a rifle would be right back on his head.
/I found a different flat. Just moved out of Baker Street. There was too much of your stuff in it. Too much you. Sorry. JW/
/Mrs. Hudson said she'll leave your things, so don't worry. No one's going to touch your skull, or your microscope or mess up your sock index. JW/
Then device vibrated again in his hand. Sherlock cursed. Of course John would make it difficult for him as well. But this... John seemed to be worse off than he had imagined. One reply... that would be all it took.