SoonSoonSoonSoonSoonSoonSoonSoon. The mantra was going on and on, no matter any and all attempts to silence it. Repetition... Dull. Tedious. Predictable. But unfortunately, at the moment it was also incessant. Home. HomeHomeSoonHomeSoonSoonHomeJo- Oh for Christ's Sake! I blame John. He's the reason I'm so damnably excited. Almost 2 years. 1 year 10 months, 4 days and a 3 hours to be more exact. Almost 2 years of relying on bugs and inferior quality surveillance videos, trying to look after my blogger, even when he couldn't even know that I was alive. But soon. I could see him again soon. JohnJohnSafeHomeSoonSafeJohnJohnHomeSoonSoonSoonSafeHomeJohn. I'm nearly home. 2 damn years of blood and searching and hiding and fear. Alway fear. Damn irrational on some occasions when my mind knows my safe house really is safe but my body simply refuses to bow to logic. It's been alarmingly frequent these last months. Always, always fear.

Fear for John, for Lestrade, for Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Despite my knowledge that they should be safe, my brain was on a constant, frustratingly repetitive circle of fear. Fear that I would be discovered. That all my hard work would be for naught. Ended with three gunshots, and the corpses of my three only friends. Four if you counted Molly as a friend, and she would be killed should I be discovered. The only ones I really trusted would be gone. And while I may have been alone and friendless before that by no means implies that I wish to be so again.

And fear that by the time I got back, it would be too late. That John would be too damaged. Or maybe even that he would move on from me, as so many others have done, and as I'd always knew he would one day. I know, in a way, what my 'death' did to John. I'm not an idiot, and I've been keeping an eye on him of course, as best as able. I knew that due to his bleeding heart and his damn sentiment, he would be affected. What I didn't expect was the normality he became very proficient in portraying to the outside world. Even in the flat he only showed the expected range of emotions for a few months.

At first I simply assumed - God I hate assuming, but in this case I had no choice, there was a distinctive lack of available data, or any way to get it - that he simply didn't care for me as much as I'd expected. But then I quickly realised. He was different. Less authentically friendly in his seemingly normal and cheerful greetings towards his friends, even those that had no connection to me. The normal light in his eyes was gone, replaced by cold calculations and assessments of the world. He was analysing friends and family, everyone and everything really, searching for exits and entrances, searching for hidden weapons and signs of deceit.

John was undercover, and most likely, killing. That was the only thing that would explain the sense of purpose, but also the sense of coldness in his actions. Though he wasn't killing civilians, no. He hadn't snapped nearly that much, and with his level of sanity and feelings he'd be far more guilty. So I deduced. Not civilian. He's not gone back to the military due to the fact that he hasn't left the country and no officials have had any contact with him. So the logical conclusion was, he had to be killing criminals. Due to the fact that the coldness was ongoing, for months, large amounts of criminals. Due to the large amount of maps and newspapers from around the world now covering the walls of the flat, a global scale organisation. Due to the sheer determination, his grudge is personal. Add that all up, and what do you get; John was hunting down Moriarty's web. He was killing them. Obvious.

Aiding me even now, though he didn't know it. My blogger, loyal even to a corpse. Sentiment. But this time, I suppose I don't mind all that much. I confirmed with my fat arse of a brother. He still tried to hide it from me. Usually he's not nearly this idiotic. I blame Anderson, his influence must be growing. Infecting all people of reasonable intelligence in London. I can only hope that John is immune. I really should have realised from the moment I noticed my targets vanishing and reappearing dead, but I simply suspected Mycroft's involvement, not John's as well. Mycroft was trying to hide how broken my friend? Nope... John's not just a friend, he's more than that. Fuck... The only word that can accurately sum up and describe John appears to be fucking John. Wonderful. What's the point of having a Mind Palace if you can't use it to be... Brilliant, Sherlock, you are simply a genius of the utmost proportions. Obvious really. He's my John.

I should never have left him. He was never meant to have the same amount of blood on his hands that has always resided on mine. He was always supposed to be protected, as much as possible. At any cost. Even my life. And look what good that did. It should never have been necessary. Damn Moriarty to the lowest pit of whatever Hell is cruelest. If only he was still alive, I could do to him what he threatened to have done to so many others. I could ssssssskin him. Strip him of his flesh and watch him scream for forcing me to harm my John like this. But no. Instead I had to watch John regain his limp, even worse than when we first met. I have to listen to him scream in the middle of the fucking night. For me. Always for me. And damn my heart, but I care for far too much to be able to bear his pain. And damn his heart for making him feel this pain. He's John, for fuck's sake. John. I should never have left. And yes, I do realise how useless and illogical such a sentiment is at this point. Unfortunately, it's an irrepressible and an indiminishable thought.

It shall all be over soon however. My John and I will be back together in 221B, and all will be as it should. And I shall be able to ask, should I choose to do so. Should I succumb to my rather alarming need to know. Did he mean it? I keep hearing him say that he loves me. At my grave, in the middle of the night in his dreams. But... this isn't possible. He cannot love me. He's not supposed to love me. I love him, of course. Obvious. But he's supposed to date multiple women before eventually finding the supposed One and settling down with his own practice or something, he was never supposed to love a broken down piece of machinery like me. And I can't... no one loves me. No one, in my whole life, no matter how much I loved them. My parents tried, they're good, if fairly ordinary people, and as such, they truly did try. But how is an somewhat ordinary couple supposed to love such a precocious and intelligent child? They can't, not really.

I set my shoulders, and come to a decision. I'll allow it all to return to how it was. No more, no less. Friends. Best friends. More than that, but never lovers, no, never that far. I cannot risk losing John. Never mind my shriveled up old heart, it'll cope. Caring is not an advantage. It never has been, never will be. My love is the best proof in the world of that. And I may not be able to stop caring, but I can minimize the damage. He need not know how truly broken I am. Maimed far beyond the scars on my skin.

Soon, my John. I'm coming home to you soon.

That's all for tonight folks! Hope you had a good time! Here's my new edited version, I decided I liked this chapter more than I originally thought, so yeah, just basically fixed it up a tad bit. Anyway, thank you so much for reading, it means the world, and if you find it in you to find some little thing in the chapter you'd like me to change, PM me and let me know. Once again, what I do with the characters comes from my own head, the characters themselves do not. They are due to ACD and BBC One. Ta, and see you in the next chapter!

Next Chapter: The Intruder