I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I had to post this. It's too beautiful for me to ignore it. I hope you enjoy reading this, because this here is proof that Sherlock Holmes has a heart. And a very fragile one at that. Though outwardly, he is a drama queen who is sulking on the couch because I posted this. Honestly, Sherlock. Grow up.

This is Sherlock Holmes writing. John has gone to buy some groceries, insisting that I do something productive with my time, instead of muttering into the couch cushions about the terribly mundane state of criminal affairs. My ennui is, therefore, leading me here, to read these entries by John, and to add some of my own. I have been told that, when I do write about more than just the bare plot points of a case, I write rather beautifully, the words and imagery in the mind of reader appearing far more pleasing than what John's writing gives. So I shall attempt to exercise that skill of mine, of only to try and express my feelings. Forgive me if I sound emotional, but the matters are grave, and my future bleak.

His jovial nature is beginning to get on my nerves. He pretends that nothing is to happen, that every thing is the same, irrespective of the news. And it is difficult to bear with after a given point, for there is only so much I can mask, so much I can hide from my friend, without letting my inside self die a terrible death, feeding it the poisonous knowledge that every day we spend in normalcy is another day lost, which we could have spent with each other.

But no matter on that. One must not dwell upon the negative aspects of life, or the impending doom of death taking away everything that we love, cherish, and would protect, no matter the price of the protection. Or how, if the fates had been kinder, we could have spent more time. I would have greatly enjoyed studying John in detail, adding more to my memories about the way he holds his morning cup of tea, sitting in his chair and merely looking into the fireplace, lost in the depths of his.. Mind. Depths I cannot fathom, for he hides them well, projecting only a facet of his personality that every person can relate to. The kind doctor,the gallant gentleman, the knight in shining armor, the healer, the man with soothing words..

And then comes the other side. The army captain, the person used to being obeyed. A man with a mission. The doctor who kills. The loyalty of a lifetime, the knowledge that extended many more. A dangerous being, one who must not be trifled with.

Of course, there is a third aspect to him, one that not many see. Many forget, in fact, that he is also a person of deep, painful memories, of visions and sighs that assault his senses in his unguarded moments, testing the frailty of his mind. The ache of the lives lost in a meaningless battle, the man who does not wish to see even one more soul squandered. I recall the time when, during a case, I had suffered from near drowning. As I was told later, John had been frantic in reviving me, possessed almost, working the resuscitation techniques in a robotic manner, face completely neutral, before pulling me up by my coat lapels, and smacking me a few times across my face. He had begged, pleaded, ordered that I live, that I do not get to die under his hands, that he will not tolerate a repeat of the fall, before he started the CPR again. It explained the mystery of the broken ribs and the bruises on my cheeks, but as Lestrade recounts it, that day was the day everyone had felt John's fear, coursing raw and unfettered through his veins, and seen his willpower, of how he was able to stay conscious despite his own hypothermia setting in. It was sad that I was unable to witness it, for I wish I could have. I wish to see him then, completely at the mercy of his fear of death, not for himself, but for another, and then I wish to hold him close, soothe the fear away, promise him it will be.. Fine.

The fates are cruel, indeed, for I know now that I cannot do that. Cannot help him ease through the pain, for it will be within both of us, demolishing us bit by bit. And I cannot soothe him, tell him it will be fine, for I will be responsible mostly for that pain, the ache of departure from this world, and it would hurt him more, relentlessly. I can only stand by, hold a brave front, only for him, and hold him course, offer him comfort as the lords of death spreads his wings upon us, and separates us forever. Until we meet, probably, in another life, another time..

If this post sounds rather romanticized, I apologize. You may hold John at fault for this, for he is influencing me more so than I ever thought. And this is.. Unusual, that I be affected so much by it. But it is, for now, caring about John is my only disadvantage.

I know you will read this, John. I know you will probably come into my room after this, hug me despite my protests, and cry over what a sentimental fool I have become. You may not do that, for it will only serve to make everything worse than what it was. Until now, I can pretend, if only for you, that everything is.. Fine, even when it is not. But do anything out of the ordinary or predictable, and I will crumble, becoming dust in your capable hands, unable to rebuild myself again. And I would much rather prefer that it does not come to that.

I would prefer to be strong as ever. If only for you.