He was entirely unsatisfied with the outcome of that confrontation and so took it out on the flat. He hurled things at the wall, vaguely wishing he had a gun to shoot. John probably had a gun. John. His arm went limp to his side and he slid down onto his chair, head in his hands. Why was this so hard? Ordinary every day people could do it and they were morons! Even Anderson could have negotiated this situation with ease. Sherlock bristled at the thought, sticking out his tongue as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted to be right so badly but was terrified of being wrong. Sherlock had never been terrified in his life. He decided, quite definitely that he did not like it.
3 weeks later
Sherlock had just tied off the tourniquet and was about to plunge the needle into his vein when he heard it. The click clack flap of the mail slot. That meant mail. Mail meant John. John! He ripped the dressing gown cord off his arm and threw the syringe aside, hurtling down the stairs to the front door. He met Mrs. Hudson on the way, who was full of ooey gooey cheerfulness (as she always was) but breezed right past her, seizing the envelopes at the door and racing back upstairs.
"Sherlock some of those are mine!" she cried, but he had her on mute and didn't hear a word. She huffed in annoyance as the door slammed closed. It was no use trying for them now.
Sherlock tossed aside the one addressed to Mrs. Hudson, swearing in frustration until he got to that wonderful brown envelope with his name on it. It was only the thought of tearing the letter inside that made him reach for a letter opener and not just rip the bloody thing in half. With shaking hands, he broke the seal, pulled the paper free, unfolded it and began to read.
Dear Sherlock
I haven't received anything from you. Usually your letters are like clockwork. Did it get lost in the mail or have you stopped writing. Please don't stop. I really enjoy your letters. Was it because I asked for a picture? If it is you don't have to send me one. It's really no problem. Did my comments about feelings offend you? I'm sorry I really didn't mean it. Maybe you've just been too busy and I'm making an arse of myself. I hope not, and yet at the same time, really hope so. Please write back Sherlock. Please.
John Watson
He'd missed him. He wanted him to write back. Really, really wanted him to. He'd hurt John, made him worry. He had to fix this. Suck it up Sherlock! Be brave! He seized up a pen, threw himself onto his desk and began to write. Furiously.