a/n: sorry this has taken so long. I'm sorry to keep you all in suspense. But sometimes it has to be done. Haha. I hope this can make up for my cliffhanger, and hopefully it'll make it all better. Thanks for reading and supporting. You're all very nice people.

...

Sherlock was pacing outside of the flat. All of the windows were closed and the door was locked. And he'd managed to forget his key. And Mycroft wouldn't give him his. Something deep inside that Sherlock was ignoring was screaming at him that it was because he'd upset him. But his brother didn't get upset, especially not by him.

John, on the other hand, was definitely upset. Sherlock had been reading the blog posts. He wanted to get in touch but he didn't dare risk it with what he had to do. He didn't want to put John in danger again. And, deep down, he knew that once he did he had a chance of John locking him out of his life completely.

Sherlock stopped pacing and sat down on the curb across and under the window. He looked up at the window again and sighed.

…..

John was freaking out. He knew he was. But his phone had stopped ringing somewhere in the middle of the panic attack and he couldn't manage to get up off the floor because his limbs felt like lead. Well, all of them but his legs, which felt like jelly. But at least he could breathe now.

He didn't dare look at his phone and check the missed calls again. He didn't even know where his phone was. It was lying across the room somewhere, but he'd thrown it after the colour had drained from his face and he'd started shaking, but before he'd collapsed to the ground and started hyperventilating.

Because, actually, he'd given up. It was months since he'd written that last blog and even more since he'd started and he'd been through every emotion known to man in that time relating to Sherlock's death and he wasn't willing to have himself messed with because someone was ringing him from Sherlock's phone and trying to freak him out.

Sherlock was dead and that was that.

…..

Sherlock couldn't really understand why the place where his heart was was hurting as he sat on the pavement waiting for John to open the bloody curtains and look down on him. He didn't know what he was going to do when he saw him. He knew about emotional reunions, but surely neither of them were the emotional type. In fact, they'd both openly scorned at family members and lovers running towards each other in stations and airports, crying and hugging. He was just hoping things could go back to normal without too many awkward questions and that John would at least let him inside the house so he didn't need to lurk at the windows like Kathy from Wuthering Heights. He wondered if singing would help his case in any way. Decided it probably wouldn't.

His phone beeped in his hand and he jumped straight to it, thinking it was John. He was irritated to find it was simply his brother.

Leave John alone.
MH

Sherlock scowled at the phone, and then at the CCTV camera, pulling his legs up in an open act of defiance.

Sherlock, I mean it. He's just coming to terms with things. Do you want to give him a heart attack? He's under enough stress as it is.
MH

Sherlock snorted, wondering if his brother knew that he himself was probably having a heart attack at that present moment. Why else would his heart be hurting so much? Mycroft wouldn't care anyway.

You're the one likely to have a heart attack.
SH

Sherlock, don't be petulant. If any of our problems are likely to cause medical conditions it's surely yours over mine.
MH

Sherlock scowled at the phone and considered throwing it away, but then how would John get back to him once he finally decided to return his calls?

I think I am, actually.
SH

Oh, no, Sherlock. That's guilt.
MH

I don't feel guilt.
SH

That is a lie and we both know it.
MH

Sherlock knew Mycroft would have no sympathy for him. He never had.

He'll come around, Sherlock. Just give him time. And come home. Sitting on the curb outside his house isn't doing you any favours.
MH

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was such a bastard. And he couldn't even hate him for it anymore.

He stared at the screen for a while, and decided to try one more thing before he gave up and returned home to Mycroft and his mother with his tail between his legs to get told off for upsetting dearest John.

Luckily, he hadn't changed the wifi password, even after all of this time. Not the locks, his phone number or the wifi. Surely, even if it was subliminally, he was leaving Sherlock ways to get back to him. He smiled, and clicked "comment."

John was considering getting up and making a cup of tea when his laptop beeped and an email appeared in the corner of the screen letting him know 'Sherlock Holmes' had commented on his last blog post.

Once he'd controlled his breathing again, a wave of anger passed over him. Surely whoever this person was they didn't deserve to get away with breaking him all over again. The bastard probably worked for Moriaty. And he was probably having a jolly old laugh to himself at John cowering in the middle of his living room because he was being haunted by his best friend.

Well, no. He wasn't going to stand for it. So John made a cup of tea (but still didn't open the curtains) and then sat down, ignoring his shaky hands, and opened his blog.

He stared at the comment for a few minutes, his hands hovering over the keypad, and then started to type.

….

Sherlock was just readying himself to leave when his phone beeped. He'd hoped for a phone call, his voice being more likely to convince John than words on a screen, but he'd take whatever he could. He shifted his weight on the by now very uncomfortable pavement and went back to the blog page.

….

30th July: Private Entry

Comments

Sherlock Holmes
3rd September

John, I'm sorry. Please answer your phone.

John Watson
3
rd September

Who is this?

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

Sherlock.

John Watson
3
rd September

Stop playing silly buggers, Sherlock's dead. Although I am impressed you managed to crack his password.

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

What can I do to convince you it's me?

John Watson
3
rd September

Tell me the password? Oh, wait, no. Because you already know it to get in here. Silly me.

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

How about I tell you something only you would know?

John Watson
3
rd September

Go on, amuse me.

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

John, you're amazing, you're fantastic. You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!

John Watson
3
rd September

Then what?

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

Then you said "cheers". Then "what?" You also chastised me on the same trip for apologising a moment before and then ruining it.

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

I also told you that you were my only friend.

John Watson
3
rd September

I don't know how you've gotten this information, but it isn't funny.

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

Because I lived it with you. Please, answer your phone. Or at least look out of the window.

John Watson
3
rd September

Which window?

Sherlock Holmes
3
rd September

Kitchen.

John was wrestling with himself, trying to bury the hope that was inching his feet towards the window with each passing second. Most of his brain was telling him not to go, because if he did, he'd be shot or something. The rest of him was battling to run outside in his bare feet just to see if it was true.

His phone began to ring again, and he tracked it down to the corner of the room. It was a good job the thing was robust, otherwise the screen would have shattered into pieces and he wouldn't be able to see the caller ID. It definitely said Sherlock Holmes.

…..

Sherlock knew the next ring meant answerphone and he was halfway through a gigantic sigh when the ringing stopped and instead of the recorded message he was hit with silence and breathing. He tried to cut off the sigh, but it wasn't easy, and there was an awkward few seconds of breathing before John's weary voice said.

"Okay, stop messing with me. Who are you and what do you want?"

Sherlock's mouth went dry and his heart was hurting again with the thought that John genuinely believed it couldn't be him.

"John. Go to the window."

…..

John actually felt his heart stop and he panicked for a couple of seconds that he was going to die of heart failure before he coaxed it back into beating at twice the rate it was before. His hands were shaking so much he thought he was going to drop the phone and his mouth had gone completely dry because no one else had Sherlock's voice and that was definitely it.

"John, please."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"A- I- Okay."

He managed to get his feet to move to the window and he jerkily pulled back the curtains to see Sherlock stood below him on the pavement over the road. Definitely Sherlock. Not like the body who he was convinced there was something wrong with other than the broken bones. Definitely Sherlock.

"Can I come up?"
"Uh. Yes. I suppose so."
"Will you open the door."
"Forgot your keys again?"
"Something like that."

John walked almost in a dream, still with the phone pressed to his ear, down the stairs and to the door where his fingers fumbled with the latch and he was glad Mrs Hudson wasn't in because if this was an imposter and he was about to be bludgeoned to death he didn't want her to get killed to. Poor, lovely Mrs Hudson would have to find his bloodied body because he was an idiot who just couldn't let go of that one shred of hope he had left.

The door swung open and it was definitely Sherlock, and he was smiling the stupid smile that he always did around John and no one else. And he was stuck to the floor, his hand superglued to the door. And then Sherlock opened his mouth and John did the only thing that felt appropriate to do in a time like this.

He punched him in the nose, heard the bones crack, watched the blood pour down onto his perfect white shirt and when he looked back up at him with a shocked and upset expression, hand clutched to his nose, John frowned and said,

"You are the biggest bastard in history for doing this to me!"

Sherlock paused for a moment, his shirt turning redder and redder, and then muttered,

"What, even worse than Hitler?"

John narrowed his eyes and shook his head, before throwing a tissue in the general direction of Sherlock's face.

"Stop dripping everywhere."

John turned and walked back into the house, and since he didn't slam the door Sherlock assumed he could follow him up.