A/N: I was blown away by the response on the last chapter. You are awesome! I know you all want to read Sherlock's reply, but… well… yeah… sorry…

Thank you Pipsis for being an awesome beta!

No words

"Only write to me, write to me, I love to see the hop and skip and sudden starts of your ink."
― A.S. Byatt, Possession

20th September

Why did I write all that stuff to him? Why did I not write it down here? I mean, that's what you're here for after all. That's what a journal is for: to write down your feelings and thoughts, because they are mostly so foolish that it is better no one else reads them. I should have at least waited until the next morning until throwing the letter into the dust bin in front of Bart's. But no, instead I threw caution and common sense in the wind and went there in the middle of the night to post the damn letter. I don't know what has gotten into me to write what I wrote, yet alone send it. It's not like I think Sherlock would lose sleep on me feeling sad and lonely. God, and it cannot be undone! But maybe the letter did not reach him? He said he was travelling around in Belgium. Maybe the letter was not delivered in time and he was already somewhere else? Oh, who am I fooling? The letters have always found him so far, no matter where he was – even in the depths (or in this case heights) of the Himalayas.

The reason why I am acting so psycho about it is that I did not receive a letter in over two months. I know the intervals between the letters have often been up to a month, but it has never taken him this long to get back before. Finally, I have managed to scare him off. I have to admit it took me longer than I thought it would. But I knew that day would come. Latest when he would return to London, he would treat me like before the fall. I knew that he would act as if we had never become... what? Pen pals? I always knew he would probably never acknowledge that we had interesting conversations. But I did not expect him to stop writing letters altogether. Just like that. I really thought we were past that stage and had established a certain level of trust.

I had the impression that Sherlock opened up a bit. I wonder if Sherlock ever read The Catcher in the Rye when he was a teen, and when he came across "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody" he came to the conclusion that this was the message of the book and from that moment onwards would become the motto of his life. But in some rare statements in his letters some cracks would show in his armour and he would tell me something.

Sherlock said he did not understand why people should talk about their feelings, because it did not change anything. He complained about psychiatrists forcing their patients to talk about what they felt, and it sounded suspiciously as if Sherlock was talking from experience. And he probably did. I don't know what his childhood, his teens or college years were like, but I can imagine that it was not easy for him being... different. And with his past of being a drug addict he must have had his fair share of psychiatrists. I sometimes wonder if Sherlock has always been like that – sure he was always exceptionally intelligent – or if there had been a point in his life when he turned into a man that decided to be detached from his feelings? What had caused it? Did someone hurt him?

Sometimes I wonder if he's really ignorant of other people's feelings, or just pretends to be? Like when I asked him out for coffee: Did he really not know what I meant, or was it just his way of gently letting me down? Okay, it may not have been gentle, but maybe he thought it was? Why do I still find excuses for him? Since when does Sherlock actually care about my feelings? Wasn't it even crueller of him to refuse me like that if he knew that I was actually asking him out? He's always known that I was attracted to him. It was plainly obvious. But at Christmas he honestly did not seem to have a clue. He was taken aback in earnest when he saw that the present was for no one else but him. And he told me he was sorry, even twice. And he would not have done it had he not cared, would he?

I realized that not once did he ask about John in his letters. He only mentioned him when he was talking about the Christmas party; and in his last letter. He talked about Mrs Hudson, Anderson or Greg, but he never talked about John. He did not complain about me telling him about his friend, but he would not comment on it. I guess it is because it pains him too much to think, or even speak about him. John is probably the person he misses the most. Even if he said that his skull Billy was the best listener, John will always be his best friend. And he would not have let John into his flat – and life – if Billy would have been enough for him. Everyone needs human company, even Sherlock Holmes.

I've got the feeling that since this whole letter-thing started, all I do is wait; sit and wait for the next letter to arrive. I constantly think about how many days I should wait until I write back, so that it would not look pathetic (like I had been waiting for the letter, anticipating it). He should not think that. But it's probably useless, because he is Sherlock Holmes, after all. And especially after my last letter he knows. Hell, I told him I missed him! But since Sherlock Holmes and I have become some weird sort of pen pals, I feel like my life is on line.

Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone? Well, then imagine how it feels to be staring at your mailbox! The constant torture of waiting for your mobile to indicate a new text or call is nothing compared to the fatal disappointment that hits you when you find your mailbox empty. You've been building up hope the whole day that when you'll finally get home, maybe a letter will be awaiting you. And when you'll open the box and find nothing but emptiness, you feel the same way inside. But over the course of an endless seeming night you build up hope again, only to have it destroyed again in the light of dawn. You hate every bill that you mistake for THE letter and try not to get your hopes up every time you spot some letter in the mail. And then, one glorious day, there's the white envelope that you've been anticipating. You can hardly wait to get upstairs into your flat to read it. Your heart beats faster and your hands are gripping the paper tighter than necessary. While reading, you already form answers and comments, fearing that you'll forget them until you're finished reading the letter. And after this few blissful moments another kind of torture begins: You have to fight the urge to write back instantly. Because A: Under no circumstances you'd want to appear desperate and like you've been waiting for his letter (which you have) and B: Because once you've finished writing your response the waiting will start all over again.

Sherlock said I tended to fall for men who were either bad for me, beyond my reach, unavailable or needed to be saved. But to which category does he belong to? Probably to all four. That's the special thing about him. With him I get the whole package, the whole deal of hopelessness. Does he even realize that he has described himself? Maybe he does, because he once said, "Why would you have fallen for me then?" I know Sherlock does not want to be saved. And I know I cannot save him. He can only save himself. But that does not mean that he does not need help doing it and that I cannot try to be there for him. And that's probably the only one of all those categories I could actually have an impact on. Maybe...

Of course I can't help but wonder: Will he be back one day? And if, then what? What will happen then? Will it be back to the way it was before? Will he continue to solve crimes with John and use me if convenient? Will it be as if nothing had happened between us? I mean, nothing has happened, but then why does it feel like it has? Will he continue to talk about private stuff? Will it be different between us? How will I find out that he is back? Will he tell me beforehand? Will he suddenly be standing in my living room in his signature coat? Or will I read about his magical resurrection in the papers, and on the next day he will waltz into my morgue and demand some body parts? That's probably the most likely scenario. And of course the one I prefer the least.

But maybe I will never hear from him again. I should not have dumped all my doubts and fears onto him. He can barely cope with his own emotions. And then comes Dr Molly Hooper and harasses him with her emotional rollercoaster ride as well. I really had the impression that Sherlock had somehow started to open up a bit and tell me something about himself and his feelings (like when he told me how frustrating it was in Amsterdam). And now I have ruined everything, just because I felt a bit down on a Sunday evening. I am such a pathetic fool! Well done, Ms Hooper!