So, can I just say that you guys are the sweetest? I've been getting really kind feedback from you and I just have to let you know that it's totally making my day. I've been walking around with a huge grin knowing you're so awesome. Thank you, thank you!

Quick note: Stuff's going to get a bit darker here but I promise the light at the end of the tunnel is coming. These two need a little drama to jump start their passion, don't you think? Poor Posy, I really should be a bit kinder to her...

Wednesday

It's been a couple weeks since my unforgettable Parisian date with Sherlock Holmes—er, I mean Jim Moriarty. Apparently I almost drowned and blew up at the same time. I knew I was ridiculous, but come on.

Since I was a bit busy dying, I haven't the faintest of what ended up happening on the yacht after I took the plunge. What I've been told, however, is that I kind of tricked the trick-master. Jim—or Moriarty as everyone refers to him around here—wasn't expecting that. Go figure. The distraction was enough to give Sherlock enough of a window to give Moriarty a nice wallop, although after a scuffle that ended up with most of his men apprehended, the little weasel managed to pop off.

During the mess, the vest bomb exploded, although at that point it was clear off me. It was close enough though to thrust me right against the boat, which resulted in a broken rib cage and some second degree burns. To look on the bright side, it also created an opportunity for me to be sighted and rescued by Lestrade's men.

My lungs were pumped, burns treated, rib cage patched, concussion diagnosed; yet although all the king's men were able to put me back together again I'm still in this crappy hospital bed being watched. Physically, I'm told I'm progressing quite nicely but I know I'm still here for psychological reasons.

John visits the most. I get a lot of Lestrade's people with questions, and Mrs. Hudson. I've had a few neighbors, but John is constantly popping in, and being nice, and making conversation, and bringing me chocolate.

Sherlock hasn't been in. Well, that's a lie. He did come in but I don't remember. Apparently I woke up and saw him and started screaming bloody murder. Since then he's stayed away, and I have to admit, I'm OK with that. I both want to see him and don't. I just don't feel ready yet to face him. The last time we were together I jumped off a boat with a bomb strapped to my chest. I think I need to come down from that a bit.

The irony is that I started this journal because I felt like a mental patient with the whole Sherlock non-relationship and now I'm keeping it because the hospital psychologist says it will help me recover. They say they're worried about my mental health since I suffered an intense trauma. I crack jokes to get them to relax but they only seem more concerned.

Oh, here comes another concerned party through the door now.

"Posy, how are you?" It's John, like clockwork, but this time he has a beautiful bouquet of flowers. "These are from Molly, over at Bart's," he puts them on the window ledge and takes his usual shabby chair by my bed.

"I'm fine...awake." I try to sound cheery because I am truly grateful to be awake. I've been sleeping more than the dead lately. I know it's great for recovery but I can't help but feel like I'm missing everything.

"They say you'll be out in no time, I may be tempted to say a couple days."

"That's great," I put my hand on top of John's, the elastic burn bandage contrasting with his tanned skin.

Pretty much the entire right side of my body got the brunt of the underwater explosion. My arm and neck the very worst of it. My face was also affected but luckily it wasn't as severe and they say that will heal normally. Unfortunately, I will have the scars on my arm and neck for the rest of my life. A nifty little reminder to always look at who's on the other side of the door before opening it.

"He really wants to see you."

John's mentioned this a few times since I've been here and I feel the same way every time: frightened. And after everything that's happened, frightened isn't a feeling I want to experience for a long time.

"Maybe when I get home, I just feel out of sorts here."

"Posy, you feel out of sorts because you've been through hell and have yet to talk about it."

I give John a warning look. "I've answered all the questions the police have asked, I haven't hid anything—"

"I mean really talking about it, how you feel, it's important to open up or it'll just build up."

I open my mouth to reply but the words seem to be stuck in my throat. I exhale and let them go, I don't have the strength to argue.

"I think it would be a good idea for him to take you home in a couple days."

John is pushing me, like any good doctor should, but I'm still resenting him for it. "I thought you were taking me. Are you sick of me already, John?"

He smiles—tightly—"You know that's not true." He's not done, he's still got more pushing in him. "I think it would be a good idea for you to stay at Baker street until everything's back to normal."

"I want to go home. I want to go to my house, it will be worse if I don't."

"I know, and I understand, but you need supervision for a while, that's all."

"Why? I'm fine. Everybody here has agreed. I don't understand why I'm being chastised for carrying on."

"You are doing extremely well, but they don't think you've….they're afraid you might…"

John is unable to finish his thoughts and I understand what he's trying to say.

"You can't seriously think I'm going to kill myself?" It's so absurd I can't help laughing and as I do I can hear a bit of hysteria in the laugh. OK. Maybe I'm not back to 100%, but after surviving this whole thing I find it ludicrous people harbor the notion that I'm looking to go through it all again. I feel the morphine ebb a bit and pain begins to flicker throughout my body.

"I'm so tired of everyone treating me like I'm crazy because I did the only sane thing—which if I should be so bold—got us all out of this mess alive." The words are coming out more hostile and disjointed than intended.

A panicked look flashes in John's eyes and he takes another approach. "Even then, Moriarty is still out there, and I don't think he's too pleased with you, Posy. Until things sort themselves out, we all think—"

"Oh, I get it now. We. We means Sherlock, yes?"

"We means the hospital, and the police, and Sherlock, and I, yes. We care for you and feel responsible for what's happened."

"Only Sherlock should feel responsible." The words are cold and piercing and I cringe at them. I don't think I meant them...but then...maybe I do.

"He's a wreck." And then there was guilt. Guilt flooding through my veins thicker than blood. Guilt and anger and fear. Terrible.

"Fine, fine, fine. He'll take me to your flat and I'll stay there until things are normal. But I choose. I say when I'm ready to go and when I do you have to honor that."

John smiles, he's relieved. "Yes, I promise." He pats my hand and gets up to go.

"He's out there, isn't he?"

John looks uncomfortable, he's deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. He decides on truth. "Yes. He's been coming every day, just waiting out there."

"Hasn't he got a case? I'm sure he has better things to do than wait in the hospital lobby. Lord knows he always had something of urgent importance before I went on holiday…" Good God, why am I so grumpy? It's like I've lost my filter.

John takes back his seat. "He's barely spoken of it, but I know he thinks about the day you left. Posy, he is an arrogant, selfish bastard sometimes, but I think we forget he's just a man. He makes mistakes, just like the rest of us. And he's not any less sorry for them." With the sermon complete John stood and made his way to the door.

"Let him in then," I hear myself say before my brain processes the words. John looks back and I nod and the briefest smile flickers on his face before he turns to leave.

My stomach flip flops around as I wait for Sherlock to come through the door. I try to straighten my hair but my right arm hasn't got much range and I give up. The door creaks open and for a minute I'm back in the hotel suite. I can feel the brass handle in my hands as I'm struggling to close the door. My pulse elevates and I'm finding it difficult to breathe. Sherlock walks in slowly, apprehension on his face, but my eyes drift to his shiny black shoes and I'm back again at the door to my suite.

I can feel my left hand perspire and I know what's going to happen. As if in slow motion, his mouth forms my name but all I hear is the sound of his voice. It brings me back to the edge of the yacht, the cold ocean, the weight of the bomb on my chest, the fear. In order to keep from screaming I clamp my lips together, breathing deeply from my nose, a pathetic whimpering escaping from the depths of my throat.

Sherlock's brows come together, either in confusion or concern, I can't tell which. These terrible events are all linked by one thing—him. And in his presence they are all flooding back, vivid and alarmingly real, as if it was all happening again.

I can taste the tea from the plane, feel the silkiness of the dress, the tingling on my skin from the explosion. Biting my lower lip, I'm struggling to breathe, the struggle too similar to the sensation of water filling up my lungs.

Sherlock backs away, as if he's going to leave, but I try to keep my eyes on his, force myself to stay in the moment, batting away all the terrible feelings that are trying to pull me into the past. He understands and comes closer, lowering himself into John's seat.

I'm hyperventilating, shaking, sweating, basically the sexiest things you could possibly do when half of your body is already burned and bandaged. To top it off, the morphine is definitely all gone and I'm struggling against the very real, very explosive pain shooting throughout my body.

"It's not over, he's still out there, and he's going to be looking for ways to hurt you." Sherlock's voice is steady as if we were just sitting on the sofa, chatting over toast and tea. I rejoice that I can understand the words he's saying.

I will kill Jim Moriarty with my bare hands for making my most favorite sound in the world trigger such terrible thoughts.

"You need to calm down or they are going to come in here and sedate you. Calm down, Persephone."

And just like that, I do as I'm told. I attempt to regulate my breathing. I'm wincing from the pain, but Sherlock reaches over me to the I.V. and opens the line to the liquid relief. He says nothing, just watches, and I get myself together as the pain slowly begins to fade.

As the numbness takes hold I smile despite myself and put my hand over his. It's cold, like always. We don't say anything. For this brief moment it's just me and Sherlock and quiet. And I'm OK.