I enjoyed writing first-person from Sherlock's perspective the other day, so today we've got some John to help me deal with my pre-Reichenbach angst feelings. Read at your own discretion.
It's been almost three years since you left. Two years, eleven months, sixteen days. Not that I'm counting, or anything.
Nearly three years since you just up and fucking vanished. As if you erasing yourself physically could ever erase you from me psychologically. I have my scars as a reminder. Scars on my body, scars on my brain. Dare I say it, scars on my heart.
Was it my fault then, Sherlock? For taking so bloody buggering long to figure out what you were to me – what I was to you. Your first friend. Your only friend. You said so much that day, hidden under all your ramblings. So much more than friend means to most people.
I shouldn't have brushed you off, I know that now. Maybe if I'd been more honest with you, and more importantly, with myself, you'd have taken me with you – wherever you are. I'd go with you, you know. In a second. I've never been able to stay away from you, not since that first night. It seems so long ago now. Has it really been less than five years?
I know you're not really gone. It's not denial. I can feel it, deep in my bones. I would know if this infernal connection between us had been severed. Just come home, you insufferable bastard.