I jolted awake and glanced around the room; ah, I never made it to bed. Or rather in bed; I rolled my head, cracking my neck in the process. My back was going to kill me today; with a sigh I climbed to my feet, attempting to stretch in the process. My head felt like it was going to split open—Harry, she was over and of course brought her own sort of beverage along.

I should know better then to accept anything she brings. I staggered downstairs and into the bathroom. Splashing cold water shocked me awake, or at least making me a bit more coherent. I rubbed my eyes, blinking and looking down at my hands I noticed ink blots in random places between my knuckles—oh good lord, please don't let me have said anything embarrassing!

With new vigor I raced back upstairs, fighting off the wave of nausea at the sudden burst of movement, freezing in my doorway, I noticed my journal spread open on the floor, not too far from where I woke up. The pen just a foot or so away; I made my way towards it and tentatively picked it up. Perching on the edge of my bed I looked down at the words I had written.

I couldn't help the chuckle that escaped me at the end—had I really done—said—that? To a man who, for all I know, could be a psychopath and really does get into my flat on a nightly basis to leave me these odd notes. What other explanation could there be? Surely my journal's not so special to hold some time traveling abilities—that's right unfair if that's the case.

I tossed the journal on the bed; he could've already read it for all I knew. Ripping it out wouldn't save my dignity; I've seen those near damning words. With another chuckle I climbed to my feet and headed towards my closet to gather my things for the day. It was my last day at the clinic and oddly enough, I'm not sad. I'm more relieved then anything.

A small buzz met my ears, it took me a moment to figure it out—I forgot to turn my phone off vibrate. I dashed across the room and dug under my pillow then promptly hit end; that was the fourth time 'NUMBER BLOCKED' has called me since yesterday.

-x-

With a last round of hugs and a sad smile on my face I finally left the clinic and begun walking home. It felt as if eyes were on me, but I ignored that feeling and continued on. I always enjoyed the nights where the sky was clear enough you could just make out the stars. They always intrigued me.

With a slight chuckle I recalled the jibes tossed my way the past few days; ever since that first note. I suppose I had been smiling a bit more, but could I really account it for the oddity that is this new, erm, friend? Acquaintance? Pen-pal? I'm not really sure what to call him; he hasn't told me his name. It's not important; of course his name is important!

Speaking of, I quickened my pace—surely he's written back by now. I nearly broke out in a slight jog the last two blocks home and nearly crashed into a couple as I rounded the corner. With a slight apology I kept going. I froze as I unlocked the door; here I was, acting like a school girl again, as if awaiting that phone call from that one special bloke. I couldn't quite make sense of this, but I was most definitely intrigued to find out why specifically the two of us had this sort of communication. I banged my head against the door before letting myself in.

Once in the sitting room I tossed my jacket onto the couch and kicked off my shoes and headed upstairs. I knew instantly he had replied, it was left open and placed neatly on the nightstand. I quickly climbed onto my bed, curling my legs beneath me and placing the journal on my lap; I blinked, I didn't recognize that handwriting.

While I find this little game between you and Sherlock absurd, I have let him have his fun. However, I will warn you—and only this once—to leave him be. While I cannot account for your ability to enter and leave his flat unnoticed, I will not allow you to toy with his mind any longer. John Watson is dead, he died while in Afghanistan. Shot right through the heart.

End this now; for if you do not, I promise I will find you and end you.

I bit my lip, my fists curling the edges of my journal—he's real dammit! He ran into me, flipping through to the page that was still turned down, right there in my own handwriting—he's real. I'm real and I'm not dead! I flipped back to the newest entry and let a slight smile show; I now knew his name—Sherlock. I trailed a finger over his name and pulled at the page marker only to notice the torn edge of a page, as if it was ripped out.

Anger rose within me once more at those words; who was this person to tell me what I could and couldn't do? I tossed the journal away, not caring that it slid down between the mattress and the headboard. I flopped down on my bed and glared up at the ceiling—this truly shouldn't be bothering me so much. It made absolutely no sense at all, though I suppose that's what kept me interested, the mystery behind it all.

I had three more days till I shipped out and the last thing I'll have to remember this flat by is that dreadful threat. Perhaps he had written me back and this person ripped it out, not wanting our communication to continue. My ringtone burst the silence I was shrouded in, causing me to jump slightly—'NUMBER UNKNOWN'. Finally being fed up I answered.

"Hello, Watson speaking?"

I heard a slight intake of breath and then the click of a hang up. I groaned and tossed the phone across the room, its thud to the floor didn't bother me. I stared up at the ceiling, my thoughts never ceasing—though one thing is for certain, I will prove that person wrong—I will not die.


Alright my dears, if you hadn't figure it out, this one is in John's POV and any guesses as to who wrote that lovely little letter? XD

There will be a difference in time with the next chapter-the boys finally meet! :D