Sherlock and I come home from the hospital that afternoon. I am glad to see him walking and acting normal- like nothing had happened two days ago.
I sit in my usual chair, and Sherlock sits across from me; his legs are crossed, and he is staring at a notebook. I just stare at him. The light is coming in slanted through the window and is illuminating his eyes, making them light blue. I don't mind that we aren't talking, it's calming in a way.
He takes a pencil from his pocket and adds something to the page, turning red doing so.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing." he replies.
"Let me see-"
"No."
"C'mon, Sher." I stand up. "Lemme see…"
"No, John." Sherlock shuts the notebook and stands up. He turns around to head for his room. I snatch the notebook from his hands. "John!"
"Sherlock, don't keep secrets from me."
"But-"
I open the notebook to find his calculations and deductions and notes on previous cases. I flip through them all to find a bookmarked page. At the top of the page there is one word in black pen that stands out from the others written in pencil.
John.
I scan the page. There are dates and times. Next to each one are-
"Oh my God…"
"John…"
Next to each date and time are explanations of what we have done. They are worded so vividly and detailed. Sherlock is an excellent writer, and doesn't leave out any detail. Everything we have said to each other, every kiss, every meaningful word are written there.
Suddenly I get angry. Very angry. Sherlock has invaded my privacy and done something… wrong. I can't explain it, but I can feel the anger boiling up inside me. 'What if someone sees this?'
"Sherlock, when did you have time to do this?"
"I while ago… I just-"
"No. No, it's fine."
"Are you mad?"
"No."
"You are, aren't you?"
"Sherlock." I pause, and take a deep breath in. "You think that this is all a game, don't you? You want to try out new ideas on me, like I'm some sort of guinea pig? Everything we have done… it was all an experiment?!"
"That's not what-"
"You put it in your 'experiment' notebook!"
"I-"
"What is this supposed to be?!"
"I was just-"
"These things are supposed to be private. What, are you just going to post these on your blog?"
"No, I would never-"
"Well I don't know whether you would or not!"
"John-"
"Why… why would you do this?"
"I just wanted to-"
"No. I just… I don't know what to do with you. I don't know what goes on in your head. I just…" My hands clench into fists.
"John, I-"
"Leave." I point to the door. I close my eyes.
"John, please-"
"Just go." I hear him moving around in the room. Then I hear him walking down the stairs and out the front door. I open my eyes to find him gone. I collapse in my chair and throw the notebook down. I put my hands over my face and breathe out heavily. I look out of the window, and feel empty inside.
I stand back up after a couple minutes and look at the cluttered table. There is a plain white piece of paper folded up with my name on it. It's in Sherlock's handwriting. I unfold it, and discover that it is a letter. I also realize, by the date, that he wrote it while he was still in the hospital- like he knew I was going to find out about the notebook today.
John,
If you are reading this letter, you will have seen my notebook. I would not have given this letter to you otherwise. You are probably cross with me, and I can understand why. I hope my future self explained this to you: I started writing it a while ago when I was planning to go out of the country and lead Moriarty's snipers away from you and everyone I hold most dear. When I left, I wanted to make sure I didn't forget the memories and special moments we had; so I decided to write them all down so I could take them with me. Instead of leaving, I got shot at Scotland Yard. I know you are upset about that, but I couldn't let you leave me. I was ready to die for you. Right now, I am in the hospital waiting to come home to you. I can't wait to see you, Love.
Please don't forget that I will always love you.
Sherlock
"Oh, my God… What have I done?" I drop the letter and stand still in shock and disgust at myself. 'I didn't even give him a chance to explain!' I think. 'I kept interrupting him!'
I bite my knuckle hard and taste blood. 'Good,' I think. 'I deserve that.' I look around frantically. Sherlock isn't here. 'What did he deduce from me? That I didn't love him anymore? That I hated him? Oh, God...'
"Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" I yell as I run down the stairs. I trip and fall down the last couple of stairs. I get up quickly and struggle to get out of the door.
I look around outside and Sherlock isn't anywhere to be seen. 'John, you bloody idiot!'
"SHERLOCK!" I yell. Tears run down my face, and I don't make an effort to hide them or wipe them away.
I decide to run down the street. I keep shouting his name over and over. I eventually make it to the park where we spent the night; which seems like an eternity ago.
I walk over to the biggest tree where I caught up to him that one night. I put my hand on it, and imagine Sherlock being there. I close my eyes, and start catching my breath. 'Where could he be?' I think, sadly. I look up and a see a figure standing on top of Bart's rooftop.
"Oh my God…" I whisper. 'It's Sherlock…'
I run as fast as I can to the building, which is a couple blocks away. I push the doors open and run up to the elevator. Seconds pass by like hours as I wait for the metal doors to open and take me to the rooftop. I tap my foot anxiously against the floor of the elevator; sweat starting to form on my forehead. My heart is pounding against my ribcage. I feel sick.
My phone scares me by buzzing against my leg. I take it out of my pocket and answer it.
"Hello?"
"John, thank God you answered! Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"
"Sherlock? On the roof?"
"Yep. I've got the whole team assembled outside. What the hell made him want to do this again?"
"It was me, Greg. I was an inconsiderate bastard."
"I assume you're already in there."
"Yeah, I'm going up to see him."
"Okay, talk to you later."
"Bye." I hang up, just as the elevator doors open. I step out onto the roof, and see Sherlock standing on the ledge. His arms are spread out wide. I run to him and wrap my arms around him, tightly. I pull him off the ledge, grabbing onto him with all my strength. I start crying again, unable to contain my shuddering sobs. Sherlock stands there in total silence. I pause my bawling to whisper a single word.
"Stay."
I feel Sherlock relax, and I relax my grip a little; just a little. I move backward, as far away from the edge as possible. I eventually stop crying and let go of him. He turns around, and I wipe the wet streaks from my face. My eyes are stinging and probably bright red. As Sherlock turns to face me, I see that he has been crying too; his eyes are red, and his face is wet. He swallows a couple times, and then whispers, "John…"
We crash together in a heated kiss. His arms wrap around me tightly, and I do the same. We are never going to let each other go again. Our hearts are frantically beating, and our lips are locked together- neither one of us wanting to separate them.
"I'm sorry… I am so, so sorry… I didn't mean anything I said… I'm sorry…" I repeat over and over, shakily.
I feel Sherlock's hands on the back of my neck pulling my face toward his. We kiss again, a little bit slower this time.
After a while, we stop and rest our foreheads together. My hand finds his, and I squeeze it lightly.
"John, I… I couldn't stand living in a world where you hated me… I just couldn't live with myself knowing that I had disgusted you…"
"You didn't, Sherlock… I just overreacted."
"Oh, John…"
"Sherlock… You scared me half to death."
"I'm sorry… Forgive me."
"Were you going to jump?"
"Yes."
"For real?"
"Yes…"
"I read your letter."
"Oh…"
"It made me realize how much of an idiot I was… well, am."
"John…"
"I can't live without you, Sherlock. I need you…"
We kiss again- this time I stand on tiptoe, and wrap my arms around his neck. Just as I do so, I feel a pair of hands rip me away from him. I open my eyes just in time to see Sherlock's horrified face.
"Sher-" I manage to get out before I am blindfolded, gagged, and have my arms tied behind my back. I can't see, I can't move, and I can't call out. I can only listen as I hear Sherlock being hit over and over again. I struggle against my captor, but he shoves me to the ground. I hear every single punch, and the sound makes me sick. I struggle to stand up, but then I am kicked hard in the stomach.
"John! JOHN! Don't hurt him!" Sherlock screams, and the sound hurts more than any form of torture. I hear Sherlock struggling, but it is no use. After several more kicks, I am knocked out cold.
