Sherlock had been receiving texts from John since a couple of days after his death. And each time, he drafted a reply. He wrote text messages to John, but didn't send them. He couldn't let him know. Not yet.
Come back. (I would like nothing better than to return this very moment.)
Staying away was more difficult than he'd anticipated.
I don't know what I'm doing anymore. (Living. Surviving. Almost more than I can say for myself.)
Nothing feels real. It's like I'm walking through a fog; everything is blurry. (John.)
The silence over the next few days made Sherlock uncomfortable, but then:
You're a bastard. ([Technically, no.] I know. I am sorry.)
No, I know you're not. (That fit my response well enough. I find myself hoping that is truly how you feel. Let go of me, John. Convince yourself I [am] was a fraud and move on.)
Sherlock tried to convince himself that John was moving on.
Why? (John. [It was for you.] I couldn't let you die.)
They'll never convince me you were a fraud. (Please try, John. It would make your life so much easier.)
I don't want to go into work. (Carry on, my friend. [My only friend.])
I hate you. ([I do, too.] I am sorry.)
I don't really hate you. (You would be justified in holding ill feelings towards me.)
The lack of messages over the next four days began to concern Sherlock; although had been watching John enough that he knew nothing catastrophic had happened, he began to wonder if he had missed something.
Spoke with Greg today. I shouted a bit. I really think he regrets what happened. (He did what he had to do. Do try not to blame him.)
Sherlock found himself with his head in his hands, feeling claustrophobic with emotion.
Mycroft is a git. (I am well aware of this.)
I never really understood your relationship with your brother. (Neither did I.)
It was time. He needed to talk to Mycroft.