When John returned home he didn't have the slightest idea of how he was feeling. Because, maybe, he was feeling nothing at all. Or, on the other side, maybe because he was feeling everything at the same time: the joy, the fulfilment, the hurt, the pain. For Sherlock had told John he liked him, for Sherlock had told him he was a man of worth, for Sherlock had told him he wasn't the right man for him, for Sherlock had indeed refused his feelings for him. How could one go through such different stages of sentiments in the blink of an evening, John didn't know. Until now. Because he was going through them like a freight train at maximum speed.

He was barely able to crawl to bed. Sleep would have been such a welcomed friend in his state, but, obviously, it didn't come at all. He spent the night like a mass of shivering flesh, unable to do anything else but sobbing in the darkness or waving his fist in the air, angry with Sherlock. No, not with Sherlock. With himself. He hadn't had the courage to speak up his mind against the stupid things that had come from Sherlock's mouth. He had lost the chance to rebut Sherlock's last words with his ones. He should have told Sherlock that what he was feeling for him had already accepted every side of Sherlock's personality. He should have reassured him that he wouldn't have let him alone, that he would have never ever got tired of him, that he would have always been by his side. Instead he had stayed silent, speechless before the young man's heavy, bitter words.

He loathed himself for that.

But what could he do now? Sherlock had already made up his mind about the whole situation, but John? He couldn't just let it go. He wasn't the one who could just forget he loved someone. Especially not after all he had gone through to admit it. Especially when he was sure that nobody would have ever been able to substitute Sherlock in his heart.

The thing he feared the most was that Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to see him again. And that was an idea that he couldn't even bear to think. He felt like he was going to lose Sherlock for a second time: first it had been a bullet that almost had taken the young man away from him, now it was the same young man who was dragging himself away from John. And John, as usual, was helpless.

The next morning he was pacing to and fro in his flat, unable to decide whether to go to the hospital or not. He desperately wanted to go, but he didn't know if Sherlock would have welcomed him or sent him away. And the second chance scared him to death. In the end he stepped out and headed for the building.

It didn't take him the usual forty minutes to arrive, because there had been a car accident on the bus route he usually took to get to the hospital. For this reason, the passengers of the bus had been asked to choose alternative means of transport and John had to take the underground, which, in that case, was the most inconvenient way to reach the place where Sherlock was, since the stop was thirty minutes of walk away from it. All this brought John to be massively late.

He had usually reached the hospital by nine, maximum nine-thirty, since Sherlock hospitalisation. Now it was almost a quarter past ten. And what made him more nervous was the fact that he still didn't know how Sherlock would have reacted at his sight. A rather bad way to start the day, thought John as he climbed the steps to the third floor.

When he arrived, he immediately spotted Lestrade in the middle of the corridor. The DI looked at him like he was some sort of a miracle on Earth, eyes literally glittering.

"Oh, thank god, here you are!", the policeman said.

"What's that?", asked John, more than puzzled by the odd welcome.

"Sherlock is going crazy! You haven't shown up at nine as usual and I tried to keep him company, but he just started to shout that he didn't want any company, but John! And, believe me, he's a nightmare! And I've never been happier to see someone in my whole life than you at the moment!", and he patted John's shoulder.

John gave a more than astonished look at the DI. Had Sherlock already forgotten their previous night conversation? Had he decided to behave like nothing had happened or he had something else in mind? The only way to know that was to enter the room. And John did. For, even if everything had somewhat changed, he still wanted to be near the young man. No matter what.

"John!", was the more than happy welcome of Sherlock "I thought you wouldn't have come!"

John would have wanted to answer that he had thought that too, but kept silent.

"Lestrade provides an awful company!"

John half-smiled.

"Does that mean that I provide you with a better one?", he stated half bitterly, half amused.

"Well, you're not as boring as him.", Sherlock answered, certain.

"Kind as always.", John wearily replied.

Whatever game Sherlock was playing, John was really unwilling to play along this time. He huffed, took off his coat and sat on the chair. Neither Sherlock nor him spoke for a while after that small conversation. John ruminated about what to say or to do, but came up with nothing worthy. He felt emptied of words, of thoughts. He did want to say something, he did want to do something. Yet he did nothing. He waited for a while, then tried to speak. He swallowed and started.

"Listen, Sherlock,", he said, faking calmness "about yesterday…"

Sherlock looked at him in an odd way, then interrupted.

"John, please, can we not talk about that now? I just want to forget I'm in a hospital at the moment. Can you do that for me, please?", he asked, almost pleadingly.

John would have loved to answer that no, he couldn't. He would have loved to answer that he wanted to talk about what had happened. He would have loved to explain to Sherlock what he had in mind. Yet he found himself nodding at the question and gave up.

They spent the next days in useless and trivial conversations, chatting about the weather, football (and John was rather sure that Sherlock hated football), the news on TV. They watched TV programmes, of which the young man hated everything, played the usual games. When the doctor gave Sherlock the permission to walk, John helped him in his first steps. He was still rather weak, but managed to be able to walk properly again in no time. The doctors complimented him. But the conversation John had wished to eventually happen never did. He tried to forget about it and just cheer Sherlock up, but he found it difficult and most of the times he could see the palpable tension in the room. Nevertheless he did nothing to upset Sherlock's recovering mood. He didn't feel good, but Sherlock did. And, after all, he persuaded (or tried to) himself that it was all that counted.

One week later Sherlock was finally dismissed. Actually, the doctors had suggested that Sherlock should have waited other three-four days, but the young man made such a fuss that Mycroft had to calm him down and assure the doctors that he would have been fine.

John accompanied Sherlock to the car that was waiting for him with Mycroft inside. They looked into each other's eyes for the first time after the 'accident'. John saw glimpses of melancholy through the aquamarine and he was sure that the young man noticed the tears gathering at the corner of his. It was probably the last time they would have been so close. John felt his stomach twist and his heart ache. They shook hands and, as soon as Sherlock got into the car, John sensed a warm salty tear streaming down his face.

When he got home, he desperately tried to not think about it. He ate lunch and tried to not think about it. He went shopping and tried to not think about it. He watched TV and tried to not think about it. He ate dinner and tried to not think about it. He went to sleep and tried to not think about it. Pointlessly. The thought never left him for a second.

It was midday of the following day and John was trying to eat a sandwich, when his mobile buzzed on the table. He distractedly picked it up, already prepared to gnaw whoever was writing to him when he was feeling in such a miserable condition. But as he saw the name on the screen, his heart and brain failed to work properly. Sherlock. He totally hadn't expected it.

Thank you, John. –SH.

That was all. He put the mobile down. Seconds later it buzzed again. Sherlock, again.

Thanks to you the hospital time hasn't been that bad. –SH.

He put it down one more time, only to see it buzz again.

I've thought about how well I felt near you, in these days. –SH.

And? And? John's heart skipped many and one beats.

And I need to think about it, John.

Be patient, please. –SH.

Think about what? What did he have to think about? Why not talk about it face to face? Why was it always so damn complicated with Sherlock? John couldn't stand it anymore. He called Sherlock, but was welcomed by the young man's voicemail message.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

He closed the call and furiously tapped a message.

What do you mean with that? – John.

As it had already happened a million of times, the answer never came.

When the next morning came, he should have gone back to university. He had taken a two week leave to stay near Sherlock at the hospital and taking another one hadn't really been in his plans. But he couldn't cope with teaching in such a state. He called Mike and hoped for him to be understanding.

He had, obviously, made up a story, saying to his old friend that his sister wasn't feeling well and that he had to help her. Mike, who knew John's sister past problems, had simply accepted his request. Even this time, Mike didn't complain. He wished John's sister to be better soon and told John a dozen of times that he shouldn't apologise, that everyone had got their problems sometimes. If only Mike knew of what problems he was talking about! Nevertheless, John had the odd idea that Mike suspected something. He didn't know the reason why, for it was not that the simultaneous absence of a professor and a student was unusual (especially if the student was Sherlock Holmes, the man that barely remembered to attend the lessons).

Moreover, the university had been given a different version of Laura Collins's death, which didn't involve either John or Sherlock. Lestrade had said that it was for the best, both for the university's reputation and because the police wanted to keep it secret to finally dismantle her drug traffic for good. So, officially, Laura Collins had died in an unlucky accident, falling down the stairs in her grandmother's house.

And this was the version everyone knew, Mike included. Yet John was still thinking that he suspected something, but said nothing. And John was immensely grateful for that.

That same morning, two hours later, John picked up his mobile and called Sherlock's number again. He didn't know what he was doing, but he followed his instinct.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"Hello, ahem, Sherlock. I don't know why I am talking to your voicemail instead than with you directly, but at the moment I don't see any other available possibility. First of all: it's been a pleasure spending the time with you at the hospital. I'm glad that I've been able to make your staying there more bearable and I'm happy that you appreciated my company…"

The voicemail beeped the end of the time allowed to leave a message. John called back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"…because I wanted you to be happy and I did my best to help you. And I have other things to say. Still I don't know why I'm talking to a voicemail. But this is your decision, and it's the only way I can say what I should have said during that infamous conversation."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"You have said that you have been fascinated by me the first time we met. I'm still asking myself how a brilliant, clever, intelligent man like you could have been fascinated by me. A boring, as you stated many times, professor. I, Sherlock, was the one who has been literally struck by you. Intrigued, captivated even."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"Before my eyes there stood a bright young man. A bit arrogant and insufferable, but brighter than anyone I've ever known in my life. I was drawn by you, like a moth to a flame. When you invited me to the crime scene I…am still sorry for that, but I didn't know what to do. I had just had one of the most thrilling experiences of my life and…"

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"…all I could say was that stupid sentence about me being your professor. But at the time I was confused. I was supposed to be an educator and, instead, I got overly excited about a homicide. Because you were brilliant. Because you made a horrible thing interesting with your cleverness. And I felt wrong. For my behaviour didn't fit the role of the teacher."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"And when I didn't see you the next weeks, it felt weird. It didn't feel right. And I couldn't understand why. I tried to persuade myself that I didn't need a dangerous life after Afghanistan and that what I had done by coming with you was wrong, but I was stupid…It had been great and I was denying it. And you told me that. I can't deny I like solving cases and I love dangerous things. But I do mainly because there's you."

Beep.

John stopped for a second, putting down his mobile. He still didn't know what he was doing with all those messages in the voicemail. He didn't even know if Sherlock would have listened to them. He moved for a while in the flat, telling himself that he was doing a stupid thing. Yet he picked up the phone once again.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"And that's why I always came with you. I'm only sorry that it took me a lot of time to realise that the fascination wasn't just fascination. It was attraction. And what else it could have been? If I think about it now, I'd smack myself for having been so blind. When you kissed me, I had still walls of rules and moral values that were telling me it was wrong…"

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"…and I followed them. I secured myself behind them, without noticing the truth. I rejected you because it was what I was supposed to do, because I was stupid enough to not recognise that I felt the same. Plus, Sherlock, it isn't easy to understand what is going on in your mind, so I was confused too, but then…"

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"…then you disappeared for two weeks and I was at a loss. Stupidly enough I didn't recognise the signs of affection even then. I sent you messages because I was worried, without realising that I was worried because I…liked you. I liked you and the idea that you could have been hurt, that I could have lost you…scared me to death. And I didn't understand. Idiot me."

Beep.

John closed the last call and exhaled heavily. It wouldn't have worked. It was midday and he cooked some pasta to eat for lunch. In the afternoon he went for a walk, trying to cope with Sherlock's words echoing in his ears: 'I like you too', 'This is wrong', 'I need to think about it, John.'. The last sentence the only thing that gave John a little sparkle of hope. What hope? He didn't have any. Yet he clang onto it desperately.

At five he returned home and, despite his doubts, he picked up his phone once more.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"Still me. I guess you're getting bored of my messages. And probably your voicemail will refuse to hear my voice sooner or later. I realise that I should give you the time to think. But…it seems I can't stop calling you. After almost two weeks in which I've seen you every hour of the day I…miss you. Even if we didn't talk much lately. I still do."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"Do you know when I realised that I liked you? When I heard you play the violin, Sherlock. I swear that never…never in my whole life I have been so moved by a piece of music. It was like being in heaven on Earth. And I realised I wanted to kiss you, to hear the music of your soul through me by that kiss…"

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"…that day everything I had built around me crumbled. Sherlock, you, you have been able not only to make me fall for you, you've been able to make me understand myself, my feelings. It was a liberation, a sensation of things coming anew. And it was thanks to you. I had doubts about what to do. I have still doubts, but there was and there is no doubt in the fact that I love you."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"No doubt…not a single one. And I'm sorry to have been mad at you that day, I was confused about my feelings, about what you were or weren't feeling about me. And I got angry with you for that reason. Everything I said back then was just my anger speaking. Not me, I swear. I swear I've never really thought things like those. Never. I was just…angry and confused. Forgive me."

Beep.

He dried a tear.

He ate the dinner without being hungry at all, then he set himself to go to sleep. But first he made a last call. He expected the usual monotonous voice, but this time Sherlock's phone rang. John closed the call immediately, heart racing and hands sweating. It took him some minutes to regain his composure. Maybe Sherlock wanted to talk with him now. He called back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

Damn. Damn. Damn. He abode by what he had thought to say before that ring.

"Just wanted to say goodnight. I hope you're ok. I…still miss you."

When he woke up, he had a shower, a small breakfast and picked up his phone one more time.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"Good morning, Sherlock. It's a…sunny day here in London, if you aren't in London and might want to know that. And if you actually are in London, well, it's a sunny day nevertheless. I haven't slept well, but I hope you have…I still don't know why I am talking to your voicemail. I must have gone mad."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"When you spoke, you talked about the kiss we shared. The one I thought it was the seal of our mutual attraction and that, instead, became my nightmare. I…it has been the most meaningful thing to me. And Sherlock…I don't know how I can make you understand it, but…while I understand your reasons I need you to listen to me now. As I've listened to you that evening."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"When Lestrade called me to inform me you had disappeared, I desired to punch him in the face, because already four days had passed. And I felt helpless. I couldn't bear to lose you. And you…got even shot. And I thought I could really lose you. And I can't bear the thought of it. Sherlock, I can't live without you. No matter if you think you're not the right person for me, because I know…"

Beep.

Damn. Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"…I know that you are the right person for me. There can be no other who could take your place. There exist no other as clever, as intelligent, as brilliant, as…gorgeous as you. You might consider yourself arrogant, egocentric, unable to understand sentiment. But you are just Sherlock to me, the man I love. The man I'm willing to die for."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"And I don't care whatever the other people may think about you. I don't really fucking care. Because, for me, you're everything that counts. Everything. I can repeat it to the infinite and beyond. You're the person I want. I won't get tired of you. How could I? How could you even think about it? I once said that you are impossible. I still support that thought. You're impossibly perfect."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"And I don't even know how can you like someone like me. Me! John Watson, a nobody. But a nobody that beside you feels great, but without you…I feel lost. And Sherlock: I mean it. Every single word. I mean it. Please, come back. I love you. I love every single thing about you. Even if you can't believe it…give me the possibility to prove it to you. Please, Sherlock."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"Let me show you the qualities you have. Let me be by your side. Let me love you. Please. Whatever will happen in the future, I won't ever regret my love for you. It's a plea, a prayer, a promise. I will never ever regret it. Because staying with you it's not a waste of time. Just this time, Sherlock…believe me. I think that's all."

Beep.

Call back.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.

"No, sorry. There's one more thing: I love you."

John closed the last call and got up. It was only ten a.m. . He ate a very light lunch, then started to watch some TV, without really following what was happening on the screen. Nothing happened. He was almost falling asleep when his mobile phone buzzed. He picked it up so quickly that, in the end, it fell on the floor with a bang.

"Shit!"

He took it in the hands one more time. It had switched off and John furiously switched it back on. Two new messages. Sherlock. He wasn't ready to read them. He wasn't really ready to read them. Yet he did.

I've listened to all your messages. –SH.

And I thought about it. –SH.

John held his breath. Was that all? He hadn't even the time to think about it that the phone buzzed again.

What about a dinner together this evening? –SH.

If John hadn't been sitting on the armchair, he swore that he would have probably fainted down on the floor. Hands shaking, but with an amused smile on his face he answered.

Starving! – John.

Where to? –John.

Angelo's. 22 Northumberland Street. Eight p.m. –SH.

Ok. – John.

John's heart started to race at the mere thought of it. He was going out with Sherlock. And, even if he had still doubts, it seemed to him that it was a meeting that strictly resembled a date. His heart danced a waltz at the idea. The phone buzzed one more time.

22 messages in the voicemail. Yes, you've definitely gone mad. –SH.

Arrogant, impossible git. His arrogant, impossible, perfect git. His Sherlock. John smiled brighter.